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.