For future reference

No one knows how far the land extends. It is a glac­ier with a dozen bloody feet. A silent hymn to the closet ghosts, a bridge into the closet, the door open­ing like a dam in the night, the word­less down­stairs neigh­bor, a flut­ter in the morn­ing sun­light, a changeling tree, always prun­ing itself. The land does not reject our efforts to name it; it is unaware of them. The land remem­bers by form­ing itself, plac­ing cir­cum­stance in seeds and cocoon­ing them under its tongue. The land’s mouth is its womb. The land grows its mem­o­ries straight toward the sky: we call them trees and brush, and do not know how to read them. When…

I can think of no better guiding question

A few weeks ago Joe’s big brother Julio says to me, Do you think you’d be a dif­fer­ent per­son if you’d grown up in a dif­fer­ent house? & I just stopped and glared at him. He’s never said any­thing like that to me before or since. And it’s one of the smartest, most nuanced ques­tions I’ve been asked in a dog’s age. Fuck­ing lucid. Some­times I just want to have sex with other people’s ideas.

Something else, if you're curious

In the coal of the night, a for­est grows in the hall­way between the child and the par­ents. This is the house as it thinks. This is the house fur­row­ing its brain for the dreams of the chil­dren. This is the house redeem­ing. Bro­ken open at the top of the stairs and with­out remorse offer­ing its world to the child. The house is an organ­ism. The house trav­els. The house packs the children’s bags and turns them inside out to the world. The house must be for­given this. It could not know bet­ter. The house is all flex within itself. It is Leviathan, sprung from the earth to save us from the water in the…