{ the meaning of wolves. }

take to spirit kindly, beasts
the trees call to us the same
our refuge is God-given.

the wilderness in which spirit has been lost
for many years, it bleeds out an empty wound within
and spirit was anointed
gathered
up in arms
and placed beside myself.
no adjustment comes with ease.
there are apparitions among these stoney fields
would love to see a spirit vanquished
at human alters
and likely lap the blood from beneath.
they have done this to me.
on the nightly at times
when blood was all the vapors seemed to bear.
but confusions are a bore
this gift was never meant to be so complex
the heart will ache
but only as much as is allowed.

breath wishes to shed its humanity
the way it drinks. and eats smoke.
any delusion of grandeur
and simply be a breeze
through out the earth.
before, all i had managed
was the long exhale
that shepards into sleeping.

the wolves found spirit there
sometimes, great in size
in cherry blossom gardens
they kept watch through tall grasses
and the foxtails
napping beside me in the sun.

but there are other blackened wolves
with skin pulled tight
along thin bone they bark and rave
guided by wicked phantoms wishing harm

even in wake
spirit met many attempted wolves
clever and boastful.
they cannot seek the soil as we do.
dead and in the dirt
i will grow into efflorescence
the land will lift me up.
and the poor and angry wolves
falter in the fields.
so sorry and seeking what can't be found.


there were no victims. if you are going to play this game, you should have known ahead of time that only the solid survive. you are only as weak as you allow. the trick is, no one can manage on their own strength. and there is a Greater Power.

i go through my days feeling more and more detached from just about everything going on. sometimes i don't even see or hear what's happening around me. i don't even feel its presence. upon noticing it, i am apathetically disgusted. when people call me on the phone, i switch to a more amiable self. but have grown tired of this alteration. in spirit, i am completely separated from the world, and rarely do i wish to join into its fancies. there have been times of course, in which i wish to present myself as "put together." wearing clothes and looking sharp. but these episodes are short lived. very rarely do i wish to speak with anyone. because it seems the vast majority have squelched their souls to such a degree that they only manifest themselves as talking meat. i know the spirit resides. but no one wants to speak of such things. and were i to do so, the notion of arrogance might be delivered. or stupidity.

in the heat and cold of these days i prefer my silences. allowing eyes to sweep the awesome vegetation, and devour the wonders provided by dirt. to smell my own scent and sleep in the sun with a belly full of fruit. my heart is not hard, maybe selective, but it seems inappropriate of me to be so. compassion and empathy are altruistic treasures. forever i have radiated these splendors like the stars at night, and remain in such a state. but this is a lonely epoch. not at all in the mournful ways, just silent. and finding comport in a living God. and seeking direction.

the hope living within me is infinite and infallible. my desires are prepared of holy stone. or carved from a righteous wood. but i am not the honer of these sacraments. although my wish is to perfect them. down to the art of living. wrapping them in peace and justice. touched delicately by the wrought hands of divinity. i sing along with patience, and bask in her simple pleasantries. my resting pillow is the hand of God. and my dreams befall the descendants of Boaz. plucking at my heart strings, like an all too distant harp.

friend, i will meet you in the woods. in the forest, where all is quiet, and still.
.
.
.

{potter wasp.}

scariest thing ever.

{huh?}

batman is best. oh gourd. it sure is good.

i need some time alone kids. my head is full. as is my stomach. i think i'm mostly tired and dehydrated. it's hard to keep up the health plan i've been on since coming home. i hadn't been drinking for a while. or eating anything but fruit. now i'm drinking and eating lots of chicken. i feel exhausted. emotionally and physically. and mostly just altogether strange about everything. i love my family a whole lot. that is about the only thing i know for sure. and i hope i do enough for them. tomorrow i'm going to paint a cabin. now i'm going to eat some chicken. and go to bed.

{think about life.}

have i mentioned lately that i love portland? because i do.

i just got home. in ohio. at my folks house. my grama got sick, so i came home to take care of her for a few weeks. i was really excited to get here. still am. i flew all day. down to atlanta, up to detroit. but coming home is always emotionally tumultuous and discouraging. the person you have become is somehow slighted by the person you were all through growing up. until you left. and made a new self. these city streets cause me to regress as an individual. it is truly exhausting and false.

i love my family. they are who i came to be with. to give my heart to. i will call ohio "home" until i die. but right now, i'm really in love with portland, and i miss it. i miss my bike. but i think this break will be nice. i can go back west with a new sense of commitment to a city i enjoy. i needed this.

{stuff and things.}

thinking about space.

ice cream for breakfast.

some kitty.

i just watched be kind rewind. and that film is totally sweet. i suppose i can understand why no one really mentioned much about it after it came out. i mean, heaven forbid michel gondry direct a major production that's not some seemingly intense by means of good writing love story that every girl and boy all over the usa feels connected to, like it's totally a story about their relationship with their boy/girlfriend. be kind rewind was amazing. and i think there was a lot of creative camera work involved. long take single shot stuff like the lucas with the lid off video from 1994 which looks like this:



why am i telling you this?!? i don't know... but i will talk to you about this later!!! okay! stop asking me. i'm rambling, like a, rambley thing, that rambles. right now i'm so full of pizza i don't know what to do. i drank two whiskeys on an empty stomach around 6 o'clock. it's now midnight thirty. and i am sober, as i have been for some time, but man. i'm SO thirsty, but there's no room in my belly for water, and that pizza was so salty... if someone were to stab me in the gut right now, God forbid, it would be like one of those nature shows, where they cut open the shark and all kinds of license plates and mufflers and lawn chairs. they'd say, "looks like this one's been around the block." whatever that means, and i wouldn't even be able to ask, or defend myself, because i'd be dead and split open on the deck of some barge. or hanging from some hook... i need to stop talking about this, because i'm house sitting, and already remotely freaked out as it is. i wish i could call someone to hang out with me. hey someone, i'd say. come hang out with me. ok! they'd say. and we'd watch the never-ending story. or ed wood. or alice in wonderland. i already watched eagle vs shark. it stinks. just like i thought it would. disappointed. alright. i just realized why i feel so terrible, apart from the reasons prior mentioned. it's because i'm exhausted. sleep before i start to worry about zombie attacks. this house would leave me defenseless against their postmortem super strength... but only if they were 28 days later zombies. but EVEn if they were night of the living dead zombies, i'd still pretty much be screwed. no escape for little megan. just me and these cats. and they don't look like fighters.

{also this.}

i've never seen footloose. but i saw both of these scenes within a few weeks of one another. and they made me laugh a lot. and i like to laugh, turns out.





the fall strikes me as stupid. and the movie kind of blows too, but the dance is great.

{bowie.}

so this made me happy. in addition to the fact that i already love david bowie.







you get the idea. it's hilarious!!!

i don't remember where i was, probably in cleveland working at the coffee shop, where we often spat on and on about music and crazy music desert island scenarios and ridiculously minute facts about bands and really that was all we talked about, music, which was totally great and i miss it, (because from what i can tell, most people i work with/know in general presently, with the exception of my boss, listen to horrible music all the time.) but someone, when asked whether or not they would have david bowie's babies, responded with a resounding "no." i thought it was crazy talk. i would totally have his kids. and i don't typically say that outright. ICE CREAM TRUCK!!!

{ oscar wilde. }

i didn't edit this post. so it's all garbled. but this story made me cry when i read it to a four year old. it's very well written. i love it.


She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'
'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'
'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'
'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'
'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
< 2 >

'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.
'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
But the Tree shook its head.
'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
But the Tree shook its head.
'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
But the Tree shook its head.
'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'
< 3 >

'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?'
'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'
'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'
'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'
'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
< 4 >

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got lip, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'
< 5 >

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.
< 6 >

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'
But the girl frowned.
'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'
'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.