Yellow tomatoes

Yellow tomatoes mean you're paying extra attention to yourself -- not just tomatoes, not any tomatoes -- but yellow tomatoes. Tomatoes that look like peppers. Tomatoes just for the outrageous beauty of it.

Van Gogh knew yellow tomatoes. And Rilke. And even Beethoven, finally, at the very end in all those suspended endless trills.

Yellow tomatoes for me are those actors who have walked through their own dragon doubts and killing fires, and died three times. Who are longing to die again, and to live, and who see me as the gate or the ground. And I, them.

Yellow tomatoes is sleeping in, in Paris, then walking through the field of old leaves and cold mud, past the steaming horses, to Le Cartoucherie and a theatre filled with sun and soup.

Yellow tomatoes is the path of no compromise -- of only yes. Of purely me.

I don't know the story of my life. I can't name where I am.

I thought the most important part of Ursula Le Guin's Left Hand of Darkness was the monks who lived in retreat, and who must highly prized Not Knowing. Their fabulous oracle, always right, not always clear or satisfying, cost a ransom.

The oracle would tell me, "You already are that which you are becoming."

I am almost ready to write my books -- almost truthful and ignorant enough.

it's not just actors --
i, too, long to die, be
reborn thrice, all the way

the first death is me
the second is the man. the
third is theatre

commitment feels like
death to me. i am about
to die many ways