10 October 2007
when you move from your house it is like a giant anvil dropping onto you from many stories up. or more like a giant upright piano because this agony has sounds. and colors. and your old friend writes to say 'i am a married man now, so far away from our days in california' and for weeks you mull this sentence over trying to give it more meaning than you know it has. and the heart is the ocean floor deep and cavernous with ledges that drop off to unspeakable depths. and that comforts you. and when you are lying awake at night you are counting sheep for the first time and naming them and coveting their dirty fleeces.
you saw a movie by yourself and love the feeling of everyone looking at you alone wondering what is wrong or if you are one of those crazy people who wonders the streets and counts straws, steps, and sugar packes. and in a way you are.
and maine smells like apples, applesauce and cider. and you cannot get that smell out of your clothes. you don't want to.
11 July 2007
03 January 2007
it begs you to reconsider...it asks late at night and in the early morning when you are the only one still resting. it begs while you are driving and your mind is wandering. there was a time when other things were possible, when more was possible, when your friend made it clear that he wanted you to stay and you made it clear at the last minute that you had to go...and he walked you to where you were staying. and when you are standing near him it feels magnetic. like you just want that embrace to last longer, to mean that youre not really dead yet. and you thought back today how you were almost famous for sending out valentines instead of christmas cards, but this year you barely did either.