beginning_with_today_yesterday raze countless_small_delights on_new_year's_day, but none brimming with more meaning than this: reaching through physical distance and the hours that separate two time zones to feel the muted music made by a muscle that can move the world. 260102 ... raze songs_i_sing_inside_my_head_to_stay_warm when_silence_is_the_soundtrack have a habit of cloaking their melodies in fleece and faux-fur to keep themselves from caving in when the weight of one wild wraith or another wanders across their freezing fuselage. the_thinnest_of_things so often make the sweetest sounds when they're on their last_legs. 260121 ... raze at_the_end_of_every_day this_fridge_barks_like_a_dog to remember the wolf it was before drifting into dreams of the strange surgical intervention that excised its heart and replaced it with a compressor and copper coils. 260202 ... ovenbird today_i_learned impulsivity: how to take my own hand and jump over the fire into a future of my own making. When I was a child, the teachers sent us out to the schoolyard at recess and they said, “you are not allowed to cross the yellow line. Under NO circumstances may you cross the yellow line.” The yellow line could only be crossed when the bell rang and we all lined up at the front door to go back to our classes. Otherwise we were meant to stay firmly on the other side, exploring the field, hanging upside down from the monkey bars, having our young hearts broken by boys who knew nothing of hearts or their fragile chambers. From my vantage point by the abandoned hopscotch court I watched other children step right up to that yellow line and step over, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t a razor sharp rule that could cut you in two. As soon as their toes slipped over the boundary I would feel my chest seize with anxiety, and I would be wracked with a deep sense of “wrongness,” of the world being out of phase. I wanted to scream, “No! That’s not allowed,” but I ground the words between my teeth and turned my face away from the transgression. I don’t know what I thought would happen to me if I crossed the line. Spontaneous combustion had occurred to me. What I knew was that my nervous system would not allow my body to defy the regulatory constructs that confined me. I was good. I was quiet. I was praised. But now. Today. I have turpentine in one hand and a wire brush in the other and I’m scrubbing the asphalt with all the pent up rage I’ve carried in the locked vault of my chest for decades. And you can’t even imagine the relief. Or maybe you can. Maybe you know what it’s like to let yourself be free. 260314 what's it to you? who go blather from