Now I Can See the Moon.
prologue.
“Barn’s burnt down - Now I can see the moon,” - Mizuta Masahide
I abhor people who dream lightly, people who do not ponder, who have no imagination, who are not curious about the world, who think of living in the same city, being the same person, meeting the same people. I loathe a brain trapped within the skull, beating against the illusions of hell.
There is no hell, you goddamn fool. Get up. Stop making a mess of your life. Get yourself together. You had twenty years to witness brutality. It is time to step into the sunlight. That life is not meant for you. Come to Paris. Go to Colorado, Riley. Go to university. Dream a little bigger. You are capable of so much. You are glorious. Luminous. You are light years beyond this world. Go step into the world of art, of literature, of books, of wonder. Give up this life. You are about to go into a new realm. Go with love, Riley.
I know that you may not believe me, but I must show you. I must shake you until the wonder of the world seeps into your skin, until you are shaken with amazement, until you are throbbing with bliss. Just look. Oh look, it is so unbelievably gorgeous: all of this humanness.
I read Mizuta Masahide’s haiku today, and I was struck. The barn has burnt down. Now, I can see the moon. I instantly went to Mary Oliver’s “have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?” And I was struck. Perhaps this life may be all about finding what makes one tender, what brings the wonder into light, witnessing beauty and knowing what it is for.
i. crafting a private library
In Kafka on the Shore, Murakami writes, “And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.”
For my college essay, I opened it with a walk around my mind: “In my mind, there are rooms crowded with boxes of memories. There are shelves full of all the books that I have ever read. There is a box of vinyls in the corner, along with my glass stand for my record player that I found in an antique store when I was sixteen. There are photos hung on the wall of every person that I have ever loved. In a few frames, there are my favorite poems, including The Friendly Wood by Paul Valery, The Arc of Your Mallet by Rumi, and Swan by Mary Oliver. If you strolled inside my mind and thoroughly picked through every thought that has manifested as an object, you would find the name Josephine written on every wall, every book, and in every journal entry.” My essay continues to dote on my childhood best friend and how she shaped my mind, but that is not a discussion for today. What is a topic for contemplation today is the wonderful, luscious forest that is the mind.
Along the road in the countryside, a house of gray stone sits quietly. There is something magical in the zephyrs flirting with the nearby trees, watercolor flowers painting the veranda, faint sounds of laughter, and the Divine spirit moving in and around, up and down, outside and inside. Inside the abode, novels lounge on every shelf. A projector plays memories on a blank white wall, transforming the bleakness into an artistic mirage of personal filmography. A CD spins inside a pink boombox somewhere distant, and melodic mumbles drift through the house. The living room is covered with love. It is almost reeking of cloyingness. There is a hidden room, walled with pink and white flowers, Alencon lace stringing vines around a desk in the center of the room, and written words scrawl and cling to the littered papers on the floors, on the walls, tucked in every pocket of the mind. I can hear Slaughter Beach, Dog’s 104 Degrees dancing around the room. Somewhere here, at times, I am twirling around, naked, free, and open to the gentle indifference of the world. At times, I am in this room, shaking, clinging to my knees, asking my body to save me from destruction, begging God to burn the wretched house. Not today. Not today. No, today, I am opening, freeing, and thinking of Kurt Vonnegut’s words, “everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.” Today, everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.
When I was seventeen, my personal library was filthy with longing. I tore the posters from the walls in my room and burnt them in a pile on my floor because I was disgustingly heartbroken. My mind was a desolate cave of my own moanful pities. With tender, love, and care, I remodeled my mind. I retouched the reference cards. I dusted. I tore walls down. I read books in unfurnished rooms. I taped photographs to walls only to rip them in fits of anger. I have changed the flowers a few dozen times: pastel pink lilies, orange and red roses, hyacinths, lavender, and more that I cannot recall.
INTERMISSION. At this moment, Heavy by The Marias is playing. L, E, K, and I are sitting in my kitchen. Well, L and K are searching through the pile of games in the spare room, looking for entertainment other than their cellular devices. Meanwhile, I am busy with my laptop and thoughts. At the park, I was pondering my student loans. I asked Aunt C if she would co-sign. She asked how much it was and other important questions. I need to find all of that information out tomorrow. When is it too late to apply for my visa? While my mind wandered in and out of the room of overthought, I decided to direct it towards something more charming. Albeit, pity and stress is tempting, but I must not be torn apart over God’s plan, in whatever that means. But [insert name.] I miss [insert name.] Next to [her,] everyone seems lackluster recently. I cannot imagine being beside anyone else at this moment. I may be slightly attached, slightly in love. I am much too romantic for [insert name,] so I must not share this news ever. I am moving in the wrong direction here. At the park, I was overtaken with the need to listen to my thoughts and transcribe them into written words. I said aloud, “Not gonna lie, I kind of want to write.” E looked at me, nodded, and said, “Let’s go.” Something inside of me melted. E also prioritizes my writing. In our friendship, she understands my wants and needs. There is a personal critic in my brain ringing with comments about my judgment, seniority, sassiness, and pretension. I do not want to sound pitiful here. I promise this. But inside, being a writer or an artist, seriously, feels embarrassing. It feels like I live in a bubble of the irrational. I created a magical forest in my mind that homes poems, paintings, sculptures, scripts, photographs, words, watercolor cards, voices, and more and more.
(from November 2024) I feel that I have the detailed lexicon to explain my experience. More words appear in my brain as I wander through life, pondering, admiring the way the street-light orange of a passing vehicle appears across my bed. I peer out of the RV’s massive windows that display the clouds as if they were passing pieces of abstract art. Perhaps, this is why the words write themselves as they do. It feels as if I am wandering around an art museum. Is it too cliche to say that is how I feel about life: wandering around a prestigious art museum? I must get some acceptance with those words. And it cannot be chalked up to naive optimism. No, this museum is complex. It is not only about picturing the gardens of the world, not also about gushing waterfalls that promise some beauty amid a disappointing life. No. This museum is full of dying trees, dying men on the battlefield, women being raped in their childhood rooms. No. This museum is not only a sensation of the sunset pulling the goosebumps from your skin, as the wind rejoices in a cool evening. It is also the feeling of being six and wishing on dandelions outside of the big yellow house after my mom tried to kill herself with me standing in front of her. This museum holds the image of me lying in my bed, crying with my head hidden under my coverless pillow in my attempt to muffle the moans of my father and step-mother fucking in the room opposite of mine. She pulls me into the living room. “You are the reason your father won’t fuck me. You know that?” Yes. This is my museum. This is the museum of life. This museum houses the complexity built for an expanded awareness. This museum demands attention. Every detail, down to the speckles of brown hidden on the blue tile of the flooring, begs to be watched, examined, and studied. Oh, yes, I will study you. I will devote my life to the curiosity that is born from knowing more. How much can I know? I ask. How much is enough? Will it ever be enough? I must know the ways of the green leaf. I must know the types of clouds as they pass above me. This intelligence breeds awareness. This awareness breeds multiple perceptions. These perspectives breed complications, moral dilemmas, and philosophy. Flowers For Algernon. Is it better to speak or die? To speak, she says. But she’s on her guard. Senses a trap somewhere. A is listening to the audiobook [of Call Me By Your Name] right now. For Christmas, I will ask for a fancy copy of the book. Hardback. Fancy. One that I will annotate and read until I am thirty. Maybe I will hand over all of my books to my daughters when I die. Daughters? Sons? Any and all. My kin. We are in Illinois. And I have never been to Illinois. I have now. Never been to most states. More and more as time goes. Time chugs. Time carries my lifeless body. Time carries my beating heart. Time pumps oxygen through my veins. Yellow street lights. Orange street lights. Syliva Plath. How can I devote my life to the dead? I must devote my life to the dead. Cannnot wait to set my books all over my house. My house. A house. Happily, I have a home. A safe home. And two interviews. Two. I am safe. I am safe. BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING.
ii. guest house
A thousand people, pieces of literature, songs, galleries, street corners, dark nights, and conversations with strangers have transformed this mindscape into something beautiful. Selectively, though. I am sure to not bring political news articles into my mind, sit with them until I reach madness and commit arson. As an Aries, I tend to move towards fire often, burning cigarettes in contemplation or fantasizing about engulfing my misery into flames. Political articles cannot enter the dreamscapes. Kafka can. Murakami can. Thoughts of God, memories of my youth, and the words of my best friends stumble like clouds around the house. I do not mind. I enjoy their company. I do not fend them off with a sword. I sit with them. Oh, how I love to sit with them.
I tend to invite strangers into my abode. When they streak mud across the carpet, I am not offended. I clean. I invited them. They have come. I will do the work that is required when I make a mistake with my readings, when I love too hard, too soon, when I go too far.
I am the only person that will ever live inside of my own mind. I must make it nice for myself.
iii. Now I can see the moon.
On occasion, I will wake with joy and whimsy that pushes my dreams closer to me. There is a small voice in my ear that urges me to seize and conquer, with love, of course. I woke with these words this morning: Summer has rejuvenated me. Or fluoxetine. Oh, who knows what it is! But I am happy to be alive! And everything is falling perfectly into place. Paris is approaching. It is 80 degrees outside. It is much too hot, but that is okay. Oh, it is more than okay. And yesterday, everyone called me pretty, and I worried about my hair. What a great thing to worry about: how my hair looks and who I am marking with love bites. I woke up in time to stress about my student loans. All is well now. I cleaned the house and listened to music. I washed my sheets, thankfully. I cleaned the kitchen. I showered. Oh, everything is so beautiful today. Everything is so incredibly beautiful today.
Now, I want you to know that if your barn burns down, you may have a better view of the moon.
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“There is no hell, you goddamn fool.” God 😮💨this is incredible