At Faun Fountain waiting for my sister.

 Of course we are heartsick about the genocide. Anyone who is truly alive is heartsick about the genocide. And anyone who is actually alive takes comfort and sustenance from the resistance and the undying spirit of liberation and radical love.

yesterday, another first nations community burned, and a white supremacist rocket crashed into the moon. the steady hum of many machines is in the air. olive is bathing and i have a breakfast bowl of cashew yogurt, fruit and cereal.

 Now I want to know more about the writing that I see appearing around the neighborhood. The specific places the writing appears. This one, by my favored mulberry tree, where someone was camping in a kid tent last year. Where someone made a small fire with a long branch feeding into it. This space is magic, and it may be gone when the army corps comes. The writing is brown, like the brown paint the painters sprayed to cover the other words, Free Gaza. The magic moves around, it's energy. It can't be destroyed, even if it is erased. 

 Before this ramp was made, when I asked the guys what they were making, I felt the spirit of the act. They worked joyfully, and of course, I might have known it was to be a ramp, so elegantly elemental. They were so matter of fact. Of course, We'll build this ramp, because this is the place. This ramp belongs here, and we're so happy to make it.

 i get caught up in the news of the world and i have to return again to the beauty of everything that surrounds me. this ramp on the sea wall. not what the army corps will do. this ramp now. the bluegreen inland sea. the sky full of fluffy clouds. the hum of the city as i write. the gratefulness of another day.