I’ve been saying goodbye all month. Goodbye to people and places and pigeonholes. A goodbye stretched out too long even for me. Leaving and leaving and leaving but never gone and starting again. And of course, you never start again completely. Because everything you gouge out and throw away leaves a bit of a scar. I’m learning to love this unseen pattern of scars all along my past.
Separation, impending or imminent, highlights importance and unimportance. Faces and hearts and minds. The ones I will cherish. Carry through and through and through no matter where the world sets me. The others I will quietly wipe from the slate. Spend an evening shredding evidence and walk away smiling.
I’ve spend the last two days purging old memories. Photographs. Letters never sent. Half-written stories from half-my-life ago. Diaries of a seventeen-year-old me. But I kept the billet-doux passed in elementary school halls. Handwritten letters from lovers (former and current) and friends. All the bits explaining how I came to rest in this moment .
When the pictures have finally come down from the walls. After we have cleaned between the tinny echoes of empty rooms. Once the car is crackling forward on the gravel that never gets completely cleared from these streets. I may acknowledge the sadness of packing up and disconnection. I will frogleap into the west coast rain and resolve my life into waves.
1. The instructor for my magazine writing course is pushing me (and the rest of my classmates) to pitch ideas to magazines. She really wants us to succeed, and I can’t help but want to do a very good job for her. It’s nice to be taught by someone so passionate and so willing to include us in her passion.?????????? ?????????????? ??????????: ? ??????? ???????????? ???????
2. I got the twitter. I have no idea why I joined, and I’m not really sure I understand what the point is. But if you’re on twitter and you want to follow me (or if I can follow you), look me up. My username is “milkcratejess”. I remain uncertain and wary. For now.
3. My mind is in turmoil, and my heart has sunk. I have found out that my husband considers mashed potatoes a radical shift in the Christmas dinner traditions of his family. I argue that roasted potatoes are not my forte, and that I’m quite good a preparing mashed potatoes. Besides, I miss them sometimes.
4. The September weather has been dismayingly uncooperative. It persists in breaking records for daytime high temperatures. I want to wear sweaters, and I’m sick of my summer clothes. Far more sick than I ever get of my winer clothes. I want to wear boots. And my new wool hat.
5. I ought to have been in bed an hour ago.
Within the quiet of your not saying anything, I became. Perhaps. Words wrapped around concepts like scotch tape wound around a rubber ball.
If you’ll forgive me, I don’t quite feel like talking. If you were here (or I were there), we would sit in silence and be grateful. Perhaps we would hold hands, but maybe not. The gestures of strangers. I picture you laughing often. Despite what I don’t know about you.