an explanation of sorts.


i read ‘the secret history’ in high school and i remember quickly falling feverishly in love with it. donna tartt wrote ‘the little friend’ when i was in college but i think i wasn’t paying enough attention to that part of life to pick it up then. when ‘the goldfinch’ came out i had a great, big feeling about it, i waited all spring and the first half of summer in a queue of people to get it from the library and i remember holding it in my hands when it arrived and feeling different -- a gigantic, tender moment. i stared at the little bird on the cover all the way home and sat in bed with it looking curiously, tenderly back at me. it knew something i was only just understanding. i’m now going crazy a bit, after finishing it a couple of days ago: heartbroken and so lost.  i’ve been an avid reader my whole life and there are many authors that live so close to my heart, the actual loves of my life, who’ve changed me and filled me up and have done everything good and important authors can do for writers but i’m not quite sure that i’ve ever felt this way about a book before. books have come close -- very close but. this was big. i’ve been watching donna tartt interviews for two days now and i’m reading ‘the little friend’ which is beautiful, of course, as was the secret history -- but the goldfinch just, stuck. i cried watching this 5minute interview last night and i'm not sure why. she is everything i could ever hope or daydream to be.
i miss my writing-self so badly, it’s been such a long, hard, strange two years and i can feel it all stirring and humming somewhere down deep, where it stays buried, proud and untouchable and hidden in a thick, unfriendly fog. i feel like there are so many wavelengths at this moment, making up my life, patterns and rhythms and life-altering-things that are creating an environment that does not allow that part of me to exist wholly. alongside them. i know that one is definitely fighting this illness. my emotional and  mental energy are both all used up, i’m drained and brain-fogged and in pain and it’s awful. but it’s also, i think, very much this new dynamic, the household dynamic, living with children like this, out of nowhere, an around the clock family lifestyle, it’s very different and unlike me and alongside the routine/restrictions the illness brings, neither are conducive to the person i was when i was writing. i used to do such beautiful, marvelous things. most of the time i was alone. i have always ached for solitude and had a very real limit to my time around other people. somehow giving something ghostly and intangible in others' presence without exactly being aware of the exchange.  for me, even having someone downstairs or in their bedroom in the same house as me, still uses up my energy the same way conversing, socializing or having them right next to me would, because i’m not all the way comfortable, my energy still goes to them, somehow. i’m nervous, i feel i need to cater, their presence is loud. and even when everyone is out and it is me alone in the house, i am ‘preparing’ for the next arrival, getting ready for more of it. i need complete solitude in a big way. i don’t want this to be true. but i know it is. i have to find a way to track down my soul-self in a life-style like this. i will. i used to also stay up so late, my most productive writing hours were always the witching hours, always 3-5 a.m. and i can’t stay up like that now, i need sleep to heal. i am so tired. i also drank more, i drank often. i wonder sometimes if that wasn’t a big part of it. all of it: the lifestyle, i guess. and yes i was self destructive, yes there was a hollowness, a cry — but it fueled me, creatively. it was who i was. living here, in this town is also big, i think. i feel like i am living his life instead of my own. i feel lost here, my soul is missing, unrooted. sometimes i miss brooklyn so fiercely i’m sure that my heart is going to crack open or explode or melt or dissolve. i miss it all the time, like an underlying emotion that is in the background of all other emotion but then a sound or a color or an image will trigger a hard rise and fall of it. deep. i miss the mountains: the air, the spirit, the music and light. i've always been so sensitive to my environment. my soul must be in place, one with it. a part. i like to live somewhere alive and magical: somewhere stories live, close together, vibrant and unique people and colors. rich, moody reds and bright greens and concrete and soil. bookstores and coffee shops. a way of warmth. this is what built me, it is what makes me tick. i can hear myself calling from somewhere. again —it’s so hard for me to know how much of this is illness. it’s so hard to differentiate. i have to just, calm myself down. i have to say: you are fighting so very hard and you will get better. you will. and some of these things will change, your body and brain will be yours again. i have to say: we will be moving soon. the patterns you feel so closely tied up to you soul will resurface. you will feel like yourself again. this is long, i know. this is taking so long. i cried so hard last night. he held me as my shoulders shook, my head in the small, homey space between his neck and his shoulder. i need to feel like myself again. this woman struck a chord in me, ‘the goldfinch’ moved me down to the bottom and i’m grasping at all straws, i am searching. 

i just heard thunder and i have never been happier for rain.

comma dreams

it was your wedding. 
it was in a big room near a field and there were a lot of people there. you wouldn't look at me and i wanted you to. of course. 'baby' she said, and smiled. you sang her a song on your guitar and then later on when no one was looking you sang it quietly in my ear, you looked at me and you mouthed "one year"  and i ran out into the field and kept running , running and crying at the same time, i wanted you to notice i wasn't around, like the radiohead song.  i can remember what the room looked like, and the field but mostly i just remember the feeling of being there, i think that's how most things go. in the field i was laying in the grass, like the poem i wrote before i fell asleep, i was looking at the sky from upside down, and i think it was shaking. you looked like the most familiar thing in the world, something that has been around forever, inside me or around me, under my skin or in the air i have been breathing back and forth all of my life and yet you were far, you were in a negative space i could not get to. a part of life that doesn't exist anymore, not for me. this was tugging at my heart strings like a really loud sound. it felt like the scariest thing that could ever happen.

she surprised you with something, a small adventure,  some scavenger hunt for you to complete and i was dreamy for all the things i would have done if it were me, what i would have done for you. also "christmas lights" i said to some girl next to me "so many christmas lights." you started the search, alone, but i could see what you saw. i was seeing for you and it felt just so safe. there was a tunnel and you crouched down and crawled in, inside was a stone wall with my name carved into it and you touched both R's, your mouth a little open. to the left was a stone statue of a lion,  it was perched on the top with it's legs crossed and it had a mans voice despite the lack of a mane, it was tapping it's paw, it sighed - it said "it's not what you think it is" and looked at it's claws despondently. 
underneath it were two doors and you opened one and she crawled out, her body was distorted and small, her hair buzzed, she looked sick and scared, she crawled out and to the other side of the statue and opened the door, she said her own name like a crying out, on the floor of the tiny room she opened were a line of dolls, skinny and small, like humans still alive you could hold in your hand but it was too dark to see. the lion said some things i couldn't understand, he quoted something that sounded like a bible passage and  then  changed into what looked like us, together, and you said something out loud, what would have been me in the statue looked up and the eyes got really white, white and sad.

8/1


there is a past me and a present me.
both 
flailing
my brain is a fog i cannot step into
at the end of the fog there is a light 
it is not the sort of light you picture 
when someone says to you: 'light'
it is something else entirely.
when i am there, when i get there
i will bring you with me
and i will tell the whole world everything.
today is august 1st.

aerially, undone

i recognize you aerially is how i know we used to fly, i remember you aerially. “so the cosmonaut" is how she starts and i say holy shit, i said, that cosmonaut is me. its me, its that same sound.

there is more. you know, always.