My insides these days are not as consistent as the Brussels weather, which has consistently been overcast and lightly drizzling all week. We had a storm last night and for the first time since I’ve been back from Dublin last Sunday the clouds parted, this afternoon. A peekaboo (above) just in time before leaving for Ljubljana and Prague. But I am going through a divorce and my guts and everything under my ribcage feels like they are changing places: “Oop, this is my stop. Oh, no wait, not this one. Yours? Excuse me. Can you hand me my bag. Thank you. Sorry, wrong bag… Tha… Sir? Sir, that one. No, the red, pulsing one! Wait, stop! Come back with that!!!”

Where are you? Will I find you behind the scarves or the hanging meat? Will I find you for sale when I find you? A knife in you, barely beating or high, about to crash? Cleaned, drying on a rack, waiting for the midnight bustle to calm? You will be playing with children, maybe, hopefully not as the ball, but as one of them again. You are also rolling by the curb, mixed with the wastewater and lost money(which you should pocket because we could use it). Oh, sacred thing, like Jesus among the prostitutes, collectors, and dealers. And when I find you will you forgive me? Even if I can promise you nothing… Alle, alle! Go for your walks in the woods. Go for your cries in the woods. Pass the teenagers drunk and the police sober. Pass the ruins of gamblers and tents of clowns. Go find the dirt and the trees that eat signs. Sit there. For me, us. I will will try to remember to drop my shoulders, relax my ribs for when you are ready. When this house is empty of legions and ready again for you. It will happen. Trust me, don’t trust me. It will happen.

I somehow feel like all my history is coming to my door but not in the nostalgic way which I’m used to. In ways that are more like the T-1000! Rejoining after you’ve cut it in half, now a spike for a hand! It’s not evil like that, but my history is also me. The crumb trail I am leaving behind, the link to who I am, is more like seeds than roots, it seems. I see people I love root-forming. Children, husbands, wives, dogs, houses, yards, philosophies, chickens, retirement plans, children, traditions, children, doctorates, children, timeshares, children, children, children, children, children, children. I guess they are seeds, too, but children need parent-roots to grow in between. Unlike the seed I leave behind. My poetry, my dance, my music, my stories and thoughts. I was trying to cultivate a garden. One that had seen a storm. One that had roots. I go out with friends for drinks now. I travel the world. I hold no schedule. I perform. I rest. I start over. None of these things bad, I just feel tired sometimes. But there is also singing and the sun did peek out today. Speaking of drinking, time for some! Don’t worry, mom.