4:26

I am trying too hard to finish the second draft of the novel before it is ready. I feel pregnant and my stomach is tearing at the stretch marks -- the ideas come, I wave their smoke down into my cells and wait for them to become saturated, finally pumping through my body. I am impatient. I know the emotion of a new theory but not its details and I stay awake at night running my fingers over threads that have not been stitched, losing rest over the excitement of a potential gown.

I sit, I breathe, I ignore my lover and create new ones. I read, I clean, I buy beautiful clothes. I meditate and feel frustrated with the instructions from a book given to me by a friend because I do not relate to my body in terms of solar plexus and opening the abdomen which seem alien and not blown from the place where words and relation share the same architecture. I am bored with the pictures of waterfalls because they are solid and do not have the music of true water, pebbly splash wave; I want to concentrate on the pleasure of orange and blue, men with acne scars, soft velvet pulsating fur. My anxiety is ratting the veins in my toes.

My desire to create is so strong and last night during dinner with friends I counted the hairs on their heads so I could write to each strand later and afterwards I fell in my bed and watched a documentary of the "destructive acts of god" floods and hurricanes which are nothing more than cries from a cracking earth. Pollution poetry.

I imagine rivers were once sweet. Air puffed pink lungs and deer wore silver crowns. Strange and wonderful to be alive when boys put coca cola cans on their altars and our gods wear lipstick. We are still ultimately human.

I want to read Van Gogh's oils made from the ovary of a Madonna. I want to write with the same colors, have my letters be in constant, organic motion.

I am watching as all shades of time blend into my own.