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it’s there, isn’t it?

up and over

– under, perhaps?

you knock, and

on the other side

the silence settles onto shape


you’re certain of it

it’s as real as the room

as the ground underfoot! 


white nails, and

red toes 

– push firmly, now

into the something that is 

certainly there

with the closed door, locked

– it’s handle, stubbornly fixed

a tired and heavy resignation 

blankets all wakefulness

– warm, 

you settle with sinking of it


And, swelling into a sharp song

An echo sings falcetto, 

it’s deafening pitch

arriving, now

from the depths of some inner well

where the water still dances

to the rhythm of some deep disturbance

that has waited


to be known

sit and, 

wait, I guess

that's what I'll do

sit and, 

wait for whatever

comes to 


to me

cool linoleum 


sticking to, and

peeling upward, off

shifting balance toward

 the right, while

twisting left, to look

– slowly – first

at the bottom folds of a

purple shirt you know is red, 


skimming upward

past white letters to

the arch of neck, holding a

mind that's heavy

to lips, resting now in a slow exhale 

slowing your heart into

beats that pound into your neck

visible pulse, 

to a nervous glance into the eyes

of the older man

in the yellow light

of the hall, behind

you, who still

need something


older, now

in this ugly house

what'll become of him

something in you

is destined for some kind of



I'm on 

both sides, switching day

to day


hot, too cold

then too hot


I think of the feeling of October in my new bedroom – of the furniture that once belonged to my family – Kelly's carpet, granny's bed, and mom's floral sheets; my childhood desk – etched with grade school math and pastel lines from Easter drawings.


The air is dry here – I forgot about that. It's cool on the skin and I'm comfortable. I bought some clicky boots and a long coat. I walk through the grassy valleys, swaying gold in the sun that constantly shines here.


You're home. You feel it – the feeling of it lives everywhere. You're constantly reminded.


In blankets, I felt the warmth of reassurance in the chair as Dorothy closed her eyes and clicked her heals – there's no place like home, there's no place like home. I felt like God offering me some kind reassurance – restoring the faith in being here, now, for some reason – of leaving the life I had behind – the love.


It was only days ago that we swam in Lac Davignon. I was too cold and couldn't go in. Standing there, I stubbornly refused – ankles in, naked, un-playful. I felt embarrassed by my hesitancy – that it was ugly, somehow – and revealing something about me. I could feel you noticing from the water. 


In it's shear coincidence, felt the world kindly offering me the assurance I desperately needed – to make sense of being here, now – of leaving the life I had. 

In my heart is the pang of grief – of a life that could've been. Yet, I choose not to be? Who does that? What kind of person does that make you? To leave? The blood must be cold in your heart, sick with grief – musn't it? What kind of person causes ruin, the way you do? You're good at it.


Life is passing. Life passes by. I'm growing older – and I look older, too. I have lines in my face, my eyes are deepening. I feel like I lived many lives – each year a different way of being. It's strange. It's haunting.


, – the warmth of the sun through my window. The dry cool air.


I've lived in 2 apartments since then, and I feel completely changed.


This is the apartment where I fell into some dark territory – the room where I managed my grief – the shock of suddenly living back home, of leaving the life I built and came to know, willingly – why? what for? Did I disrupt my life in order to feel again? Was I really that numb? Is it my worthiness – am I not worthy of love like Jo's? Or am I camouflaging through my days, being who I needed to be to get by?


Who does that? What's wrong with you? I'd write everyday.



I added a bunch of polaroids to my site! In April 2020 I bought a Polaroid SX-70 camera and I shot a lot during the darkest months of the pandemic – mostly lonely photos of my room, the view from my window throughout the seasons, self portraits, Emz – our little house in Mission. 2020 doesn't feel long ago, does it? Yet it feels like ions go. Looking at these photos, it's strange to me to see how life evolves – how everything that seems established, feels fixed, completely contained.

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