Wednesday, August 26, 2009


Today I don't like anyone so I'm going to write a letter home, and wait for my mother to respond and I'll hate every day until it comes, and I'll open it up and read "to my darling" and finally something will sound the way it was meant to sound, the way only a mother can fix some things, make you believe some things. While I'm waiting I'll write a letter to myself and it will say "The only comfortable side of the bed is the one you're not on" and I'll like the way the truth reads, its so unlike the way the silence rings, the way its making my ears bleed. I want to tell you but I can't, just can't, won't, won't you just up and leave? Miss the way the silence rings? Miss the way I hang, hang from the rafters and miss the way I swing, I swing with the breeze.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

The note from which a chord is built.

Memory construction. The things built into it, its all so strange. And sometimes--most of the time--I can't help but thinking that there's no way an atheist has ever felt this way about anything because the way I feel is supernatural. There is no other explanation for the way it spans space and time, for the way it has never faded nor died, just changed shape and become more than I knew anything could become, it has metamorphosed into a creature I think maybe only I have ever met, appreciated, smelled. And no matter what, this will always be one of my favorite things, its nothing that neither space nor time will touch, only inflate, breathe life into, gloss over and hold and keep for me and only me. It flows, it flows right through me and lights up everything in me, my cells expand, my muscles ease, my bones stretch, my eyes see more clearly, my memory sharpens and nothing nothing nothing has been lost, has ever been dulled nor loosened nor forgotten. And nothing is like it used to be but its almost better this way, better to the taste, to hold on to, to see because now there is no pain, just joy at what has been gained through loss. It is now not a scar nor a spur, though it is as permanent as both yet without the connotation of anything malicious; it is benign without the complaisant, it is exciting without the arrest, it is new without the repetition. It is both comfort and euphoria, it has become exactly as it should without any of my own doing and in spite of my own hindrance along the way.