She said that we should be mindful of words that tumble fast from our mouths.  The questions we ask. The wishes we beg to be granted. The needs we cry out to be met.

She says to be fully ready, because once we put our desires out into the energy force, our intentions are heard. So they better be damn solid.

She smudges us with palo santo and drops oils on our palms, inviting us to believe in healing.

Gratitude for the ways in which our manifested questions show up as if to say, well, here I am, are you brave enough?.




There is a space in between the folds in my fingers and yours.  Those mind puzzles at the lake house can only fit a certain way, as so it seems to be with the way yours fold over and around my palm, as if you cover empty canyons of my questions with a solid form of your own..


the unknown predators around them.

There is a newness to this thing we are creating. I’m not certain that that will ever go away. This is enough. This is more that enough that any human soul could ask of her life, of her days, of her breath and of her collection of warmth that surrounds.

We cook dinners and we talk of history and of the days that came before and of temptations and of the ease and of being whole.

I sleep heavy next to your body, in every bed. I sleep in colours of swirling dreams and I wake with the energy that is grown in all of the hours of missing your voice while you’ve been asleep

Maybe it is the hazy humidity of Texas

Or the laziness and ease in understanding that I understand nothing




/It is strange when we get far from a situation it becomes at once very clear and at twice very far, the nearsightedness of space makes everything shimmer and glow. I listen to a podcast and she tells me, it is the distance and the imagination we are able to keep in terms of our lovers that keep us in love. It is the ability to continually see them anew, and on their own all at once.

Our familiarity to one another is the very thing that faults us. We too soon forget who they are, and then forget who we are. Until we are just strangers in the same boat. To be forever intrigued by the mystery lying next to you, is one of the greatest things we can do for ourselves./ Rose Blaque

“You gotta have rocks in yer brain to like rocks”


On making this life;

Stealing popcorn shrimp off bus plates in the sunset light of the riverwalk

mezcal on the deck of the old 1933 bar.

-“Where ya’ll from?” …


His tiger eye beads from his vacation home in Bali are a stark contrast from his watch on the other wrist.

He doesn’t understand things. “What does one bring in a backpack?”


New bar. “Kitchen open still?”

“Yea it’s right over there” *Points to an almost empty vending machine*

Leave that sin in San Antone… and don’t forget to not forget the Alamo.


Happiness can be so simple if we breathe.

“Hey, wanna put a bunch of stuff on our backs and walk a long time?” Yep.

Dirty butts and diaper rash and big views and blankets of twinkling stars and celestial tumbleweeds of heavy new ideas.

Sun river road drives and Chaco blisters and downhill waddles that make my stomach ache from laughing and blue bird company and black bear encounters and broken tent pole and windy eyes and hot spring shivers and Tehana ghost wails. With you.

Big motel bed and and spinning on the white desert rocks in the heat of midnight in our dusty fancy clothes and and lsd talks and graveyard walks. Never take it for granted.

“you know they’ve burned witches at the stake for less”


Saw our future selves in the form of a tacoma truck outside of the starlight Theatre. Mezcal rejected drink makes a fine birthday margarita and patio eavesdropping of unsolicited ping ponging beliefs. It’s all the same if you tilt your ear and squint.

The manifested hopeful form of the old couple walk slowly down the porch steps and he patiently wipes his sunglasses from the perfectly dialed, running truck.

She adjusts her rainbow shawl over a purple dress and shuffles her moon socks over to talk of movement and progress and protesting mediocrity with some young parents.

He lets her pull herself into the passenger cab side by the hand strap he has probably installed with love.

Morning. Motel.

We talk of selfish moments and sometimes question intentions. Manipulating realities and then coming back to the center with wiser hearts.We squeeze the hurt through in our motel bed and drink it out of shot glasses in ghost town bars and grey scale Marfa.

It all comes back to love.

Miles of dirt roads and beers and guitars string songs and bumpy blistering laughs and symbiotic psychosis.

I love you I love you I love you. Happy birthday.

-Cass T. Royale



On TheRush

“Mostly what I think about lately is you standing in the kitchen or outside of the shower or dancing in the living room, and my laughing bouncing around while the records turn and wondering what I might have to do in order to stay.”-Rose Blaque

We sat under patio lights of a rocky parking lot bar where they eat piles of juicy red crawfish and the grease from the food here runs down my smile toward my chin where you in inevitably will wipe it with your napkin, or lick it, with that grin, hiding under your dark mustache.

You will rock back and forth on the bench and smile wide and your eyes will twinkle and we may order some well whiskey shots or tequila if we are feeling like the night wants to stretch her legs. We will talk circles of the things we care about and about stories we have not lived together and about all of the stories that we want to tuck into this book.

We will drive slowly through the historic parts of town that you will say you wish they didn’t change and the white oaks will lean over the streets to bow in the easy way of all things here.

I will want to sit in the sun in any way possible and you will oblige and maybe feel tinge of annoyance. We will go for short burst of runs to the bridge and I will ache and huff and then be lighter

our hearts will hurt and question and go to dark corners at times but we will know that they are flooded with ripples of light

I am learning about realistic expectations and we talk about matters of  importance like where will we go and what will we do and how can we be better

and all I can think about is the patch that I have not begun for you yet, and of steal your face black flag pin and where it was lost

and the countless sighs that fill my happy heavy lungs


On staying feral

Lately it seems that I cannot tell if I am happy or sad. It’s if my heart is full up of moments where the smiles distract the chaos. There is so much to love.

and to be truly  alive is to be flung into the chaos.

A light and bubbly beer buzz can colour a palette rosy with a new perspective.

Or is it the calculated melancholy of chosen lyrics?

The honeysuckle grows outside of the door and whispers reminders of life

The dirt still finds it’s way into our eyes, with the oak pollen.

We seek out the chalky hands…the calloused nights of sore limbs and nervous gym sweats

As I wear my work face out the door

Learning this new layer of myself

The dull hum of a screen, and a new age co-op work space

Isn’t it all still the same hustle? Just disguised as another way of thinking?

I think of of days, reading Edward Abbey. I think of Kerouac. I think of Bruatigan and Bukowski and Plathe and the hauntingly raw female vices that rise from the caves of today.

Have we all fled so far from the cave that we have forgotten how to make fire?

“What happens if I eat a caterpillar?”



We make groggy coffees together each morning and hug each other tightly through the nights, dreaming of lightning bugs, cinemas, flying cars, and boats on a lake.  We wake each dawn to purge the wisps of the visions before the fade too quickly.

I’m seeing it all through eyes of my heart,. I see myself working through the tides that rise. Hand in hand. The broken car. The searches for purpose. The bike rides to a yoga class. The deadlines of his career. The weight that is carried with grace. The walks in the neighborhood with a slow steps and good conversation. The dark corners of the bars we smile across small tables at each other in. The big dreams and plans and ideas.

My job is a new language. One that I am familiar with in the sense that I have always window shopped it. It is the language of hunger. Of drive. of a sense of humbling ego to fulfill a task that feels urgent yet in scope, does not change the ocean tide.



meltdown maneuvering in magic

Sun splinters my eyes over the granite and lichen speckles.

a patient pair of green eyes from above my shaking limbs hold a quiet sense of unrushed reserves.

Below us on an adjacent route are two middle aged warriors, allowing my erratic attempts at the traverse manageable


I got it..I repeated. My mind says go further, while eyes panic at the thought to leave the safety of the crack that my purple shoes rest inside.

Jill. Fucking move.

You will be okay. He’s got you, and you have this.

A few small moves get my body situated over the slab, and the next 10 meters or so are an easy spider climb.

Clip in to the anchor bolts. breathe. Kiss his sweaty face.

Crack a celebratory beer and feel the heat of the wide Texas hill country.

What a drive to the dome.

Small mental summits are the secret, I’m slowly learning.