nomads


what is it to be a writer but to live in a constant state of overwhelm? an ebbing, flowing wave of it; a relentless burdening of the senses; an inability to gaze out through a rain streaked window without noticing the torrents of story blurring across the asphalt below; the incapacity to look at trees without hearing even the subtlest tones of a voice it seems only you can grant it. 

the storyteller is a stranger in an even dazzlingly stranger world. we are nomads, at home nowhere; we are restless and churning and ever changing course, like tides and stars. 

we stand outside looking in, holding the space time continuum in our two hands like a glittering, balled up veil, wondering - whispering. we turn the world round and it spins us in equal measure, but we can't make sense of it; we understand nothing, but we feel so much sometimes we can barely move beneath the weight of it all. 

we tread lightly - silently, and yet behind our eyes all is ablaze. everything is hot, and cold, heavy and light, and pulling us apart at the seams to shake out the stardust inside of us. that's what's happening when our eyes appear hollow - when you ask if we heard what you just said from across the table. 

we pause, we close our eyes and take a deep breath - we stumble through all the rooms of our minds so filled to bursting with everything - everything we've yet to find words to flesh out. 

"just lost in thought" we say. 

we really want to say: "just lost."

we watch where we step, aware of the underground springs seemingly always beneath us, from where all sensations and breath and story flow, lifting us, carrying us, pulling us under and tossing us until our senses have been mislaid. until we are numb; intoxicated by a world we try to articulate with all the passion and urgency one tries to describe a lover; as if all the world is missing out on the wildfire we can feel inside us - as if we alone can redeem humankind from the absence of these consuming flames - this revelry.

and yet, so often all we can speak is an ecstatic language native only to us. no one else can see the icebergs beneath the turbulence - an entire world wrapped away in the depths of us. 

only us. 

the ground erupts with our every step, gushing with words; soaking us with a mystery few can understand - few can see. we don't understand it either, but we know that it's there. 

we feel it on the wind; we dance in its arms. 

___________

i'm back from my trip off grid!! i'm so so happy to be back in vermont making new things to share with you guys - my sweet, gifted friends. i'm not really sure what the piece above is, but i wrote it on the very rainy drive home. it felt great to let the words just pour out of my skull without knowing where they came from or where they were going.

anyway, enough about me - tell me how you're doing! how's your life and projects and dreams doing? i would love to hear all about it. 

stay stoked,
kate