Plans for the year are cementing themselves, though maybe more like femo? Not as solid, malleable and full of all kinds of good intention. I’m starting a few new creative projects and one is Project 365. Im excited to see photos I take in full-size instead of only on the tiny screen of my phone for once.
Come follow me.
365 Project flickr or on instagram @cowboycass
In addition, my plan is to pick out some photos to post here with some writing. Not all (b/c I can’t be too ambitious, can i?) but a few, here and there would be more than I wrote in 2014.
2014 was a year that happened I guess. I’m struggling to maintain an interest level with re-hashing it again. Some high/low-lights:
- r’s recovery from her accident
- a’s cancer
- getting engaged
- traveling to europe for the first time
- biking all summer
- buying a house
- my mom’s continued decline
- that beyonce album, y’all.
- deleting facebook
Here’s a picture from day 3. Its the psychedelic spaceship jukebox at one of my favorite haunts, also home of the best nachos in town.
Its still all, love notes on the dresser and beignets on special occasions. My lady and I are project heavy and wanderlust ready, meaning, change is a-foot and all is well here in ole’ PDX. Having this person to adventure with, to learn with, to create with and get into trouble with is incredible. Having this person to come home to, to eat with, to make things dirty and clean up with, is absolutely where I want to be. I can’t wait to see what comes next.
Last night we talked forever and it felt like a revelation. Some of our discussion was about creating, about art, about making things together. My sweetheart and I are going to launch a small project together, and it reminds me of a similar time/collaboration we worked on last November – creating things together is something I cherish.
I’m going to be posting a few letters from our first creative project here as a way to movitvate moving forward into a new thing we are making. First, In light of all the wild political things happening lately. I thought I’d post this letter.
I want you to know that I loved this letter when I read it the first time. Have loved all of them so far, read them multiple times, am so glad to have this record of us, of you and all that you are thinking and doing in the world. You are a dream boat.
I have started my day with leftover chili colorado and a big helping of MSNBC election coverage. Its sort of boring so far in that, its just another big pile of speculation since we dont have any returns yet. Apparently just over 30 million people have voted, which seems like a sad number considering the size of the population. Then again I don’t have a feel about what the usual percentage of voting is. Im feeling tentative about the whole thing, nervous, and as if elections and politics and stump speeches aren’t real, nothing tangible will change regardless of who the president is, whether or not gay marriage and marijuana are legal, etc. I know it will, but it doesnt seem like it. The world is so vast and full of stuff, how is it that this can be real for the individual? Esoteric revelations for the win, I suppose.
Tonight I’ll be at my favorite bar with some of my favorite people steeling our clenched knuckes into the possiblity that elections matter, and we can count on each other to be good, to be reasonable, to be fair.
In celebration of these feelings, I’m going to go to therapy in an hour.
Never out of breath we
gasped into the night sky for the fun of it. For
every promise we kissed into
each tore up road sign. Every
in God we -suddenly- trust near miss.
That lanky turn of highway
Your feet on the dashboard,
car doors full of empty soda pop cans.
like we ran out of gas, laughing like
we’d never seen this rest-stop
before, like we’d always find a way to
My two-fingered whiskey grip on your hips,
cheeks flushed –
thighs stuck to thighs
stuck to thighs stuck to
every mile we’d yet.
Your hands all over my chest,
bumper bruised with your name.
Right up on the edge of the best view –
a star scape of your eyes reflected rear-view
and my heart beating back.
Never out of breath.
I’ve been working on some goals lists – and this little blog came up a few times. My lady and I are working toward things, together and separately – cheerleading and winning every game.It feels really good to have a partner in crime who is a multi-creative and motivated person. A person who always wants to see more making of things by me, a person who says “I love your poetry.” Who says, “You make me want to write.”
The last six months have a been a whirlwind of changes for me, and as I write this I find myself at a new job, living in a new city – with nearly endless opportunity stretched out before me. I’m enjoying the struggle to find my place, am comforted by the anchor in my beautiful and supportive partner and friends here in the city of bridges.
I’m letting myself fall in love with Portland, slowly, tentatively, on each date we have. Every morning light streaming through my bedroom, every daffodil sprouting next to the front door, every time I bike over the Broadway Bridge, every time I watch a rainbow break through the sky from my office window, every crisp evening on the bluffs with her hand in mine , every time she says my name before we drift to sleep.
I’m inclined to complain about the fact that I am still out of work, but have been trying to keep it to myself. Suffice to say, I’m pretty bummed that I am still unemployed. I do much better when I have a job. Emotionally, in my body, etc. This week I’ll be doing some house-sitting/gardening and am like, embarrassingly excited about it. Just to get out of the house and do something for a minute sounds like a dream.
I mean, I have been doing, but you know. You know? Of course, there are literally a million things I could be doing but I have like motivation fatigue or something. It is true that I do best at one end of two extremes. Either laying completely motionless with a cocktail on a beach somewhere or so damn busy I can’t see straight. Anything in between is difficult town.
Things I should be doing:
- Fixing the drywall in the ceiling in the living room
- Patching/sanding the basement apartment
- Putting together my chap book
- Getting quotes for replacing the counter tops in the apartment downstairs
- Going for long walks
- Finishing edits on that story that I’ve been writing for a year
- Writing more poems
- Researching gigs
- Memorizing the hell outta some pieces
- Spending time with my mom
- Reading the rest of The Creamsicle by Rhiannon Argo because its actually so good.
- Cleaning my damn room.
- Being a fool in love with a dreamy lady (I am, admittedly, doing this like every hour of every day, so thats something.)
This list might make me seem like a total lump. This also might be the most boring blog entry ever written. despite everything, I am still such a happy, happy dude.
Tea cup people gazing
I’m a bad blogger man, and have totally neglected this jam for so long. Things have been a little wild, a little difficult and a lot awesome over here lately. Happy high gay holidays! You know, I love Pride season. Last weekend kicked off with a lot of dancing and day drinking with sweet friends in Portland. This weekend Seattle will don its gay apparel and I can’t wait. I’ll definitely be out dancing on Saturday night at the very least.
Also, I’m totally in love. So, theres that.
In addition – there are some sweet little events coming up where you can catch me telling stories, and teaching up a storm. The list is below.
Tuesday, July 3rd – Featuring at the Seattle Poetry Slam! 8pm. $5 cover, ID required, 21 & over. Re-Bar Seattle – 1114 Howell Street.
Monday July 16th – 19th – Teaching “Writing and Gender Intensive” @ Bent in Seattle. sign up for class here.
Afternoon @ Peninsula Park Rose Garden in Portland. ❤
You should listen to this song
I am breathing for the first time in weeks – shaky and stunted and messy. Full of spit and saline and the sound that comes out when you are trying so desperately to keep it together. You know the one, something like, “huh huh huh huh.” Like your lungs are asking a question that your heart can’t answer.
My hands say goodbye and please don’t go in the same reach, and last night my fingers were so cold you shuddered, offered your warm arm to me, gripped that glass of whiskey like your steely pupils know my hidden parts.
In the green room your hand stayed, fingers pressed to glass pressed to lips and laughing. Leaning in, I felt the curl of your resolve pressed between our foreheads and I was so grateful for your red booted turn and walk that my single press withered in your wake.
We are grown now and wanting is not the same as needing, even though I have never been one to excavate that sort of distinction.
I always believe you when you say that we are going to be okay.
My hands start out twitching, slowly, almost completely unnoticed. When the tremors increase, I begin to sweat, starting at the place on my temples where my hairline has retreated, starting at the very center crease of the lifeline in the middle of my palms and leaking outward. Then they begin to shake. I sit under all 19 florescent overheard lights trying to steady them, to focus my vision.
I begin to get sleepy despite myself and my vision goes blurry again. I’m trying to see something that isn’t there. I’m trying to see the absence of you instead of waiting for your arrival to knuckle down. Trying for somewhere that isn’t this desk, somewhere I know how to be still.
It’s almost two p.m. and I am in trouble. The ways in which I am superstitious are embarrassing and comforting and I am shaking, sweating, silent. My molars are rubbing up against each other in the back of my mouth out of pure desperation and I immediately wish I had insisted on that mouth guard the dentist offered me months ago. I can hear them quaking in my sleep, the weight of their full court all caught up in my dreams making the blankets draping my hips water log themselves to anvils too heavy to lift.
It is an exercise in escapism; it is a dream about feeling my heart stop beating, the muscles in my fingers vibrating against my skin and the tiniest of disappointing gestures. A singular longing, somewhere that isn’t this desk. Somewhere that isn’t my bed. That tiny pocket in my jeans, the fifth one, empty of peach colored pills, and left dusty and dark as I jam my shaking digits in and out, hunting. The art of letting go.
Everything is going to be fine.
Photo by K. Fallon
from Saturday, 4am, Seattle Airport.
I’m not sure I’ve written anything this early in the morning like, ever. Which, I guess, doesn’t inspire much confidence that these early morning moments are anything worth remembering but, here we are. I’ve seen some incredible fashion already this morning in the airport including but not limited to: a purple velour bedazzled track suit and a pair of jeans which were entirely missing the fabric on the top of the thigh area. It seems like you never really know about current trends until you head to the airport at 4am.
I know now that I am most certainly behind the times. Me and everyone who think fleece sweatpants and a grease stained t-shirt is appropriate travel attire. We’ve really got the whole fashion spectrum here.
I live in a fairly large city and yet, at the airport, seeing someone who’s got some cool points is like winning concert tickets from your local non-profit indie rock radio station (shout out to KEXP) – just rare enough to be exciting. When spotting each other, two “cool” people at the airport are shy, almost bashful, sneaking glances at each other, almost saying “Please! notice me! I just need to know I’m not alone!” Reassurance is delicately and subtly passed around like the name of that really delicious and exclusive fusion restaurant that just opened. It is brief, but meaningful and we all paid a lot of money to be there. However, these are just fleeting moments because it is a known rule that ‘cool’ people in the airport cannot stay in the same place together, they must spread out and become outposts of good taste and hope that all humanity hasn’t turned into some self-involved, poorly dressed suburbanite.
As for me, I’m about to board my flight. Six hours in the air from one hip metropolis to the next. Working on forgetting where I really come from with every frequent flyer mile. Of course, I end up sitting right across the aisle from ‘no thigh’ jeans girl, who spends twenty minutes talking about how much kindles suck because its so much better to read an actual book (with which I agree, mostly, except someone gave me a kindle as a gift so I use it). Then she pulls out a Vampire romance novel, and I pull out my kindle to read Sub Rosa by Amber dawn, (which I highly recommend) and I think, we are really just the same, all of us.
This is what I like to see. Don't y'all think I'd look fly in one o' those hats?