My friend Mark emailed me last week. “Aren’t we about due for an Unfurling?” he asked. “Damnit, Mark!” I responded. I was hoping no one had noticed. I’ve been clenched up, sealed off. Like a car fan on the recirculate setting — no fresh air coming in, no flow. Every thought I think, a counter-thought stands ready to dismantle it. I can’t get any traction, any forward motion. I’m just recycling my own air in my own bubble, even as it grows more and more toxic.
I'll meet you in the low tide
I'll meet you in the low tide
I'll meet you in the low tide
My friend Mark emailed me last week. “Aren’t we about due for an Unfurling?” he asked. “Damnit, Mark!” I responded. I was hoping no one had noticed. I’ve been clenched up, sealed off. Like a car fan on the recirculate setting — no fresh air coming in, no flow. Every thought I think, a counter-thought stands ready to dismantle it. I can’t get any traction, any forward motion. I’m just recycling my own air in my own bubble, even as it grows more and more toxic.