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!
while
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
patiently
to be known
sit and,
wait, I guess
that's what I'll do
sit and,
wait for whatever
comes to
come
to me
cool linoleum
underfoot,
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,
while
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
he's
older, now
in this ugly house
what'll become of him
something in you
is destined for some kind of
end
I'm on
both sides, switching day
to day
hot, too cold
then too hot
again
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.
Hi!
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.