Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Crazier Than What I Won't Write

I will never attempt to reconstitute my shredded lace heart. Gorgonzola cheese, fresh garlic. Giant ministers with fins the size of V.W. bugs. The "G" word - use it or lose it. And by the way, the Canadian Ron is the wrong Ron.

Roosters - a dozen at once - figuring out the sun is rising by some internal clock. What I wouldn't give. Last night I poked my head into the attic, then everybody did, we were all that brave.

Jeremiah propped a Go Fish card on the headboard and instead of sleeping began telling himself a story based on the card. He told me one, too - after, in the dark - and in it he and I made repeat visits to a castle where "everything was blackness" but nothing bad happened. He said after "was it funny?"

When I place a hand on his back while he sleeps I want to cry - every time I do it, no matter what. Something gets all fluid inside me like a hole through which sand won't stop pouring. What I don't know often drapes over me like a mangy curtain. I sat on the zafu yesterday, first time in months, then just sort of leaned my elbow on it. I made fresh pasta with sage - most beloved of all spices - and ate blueberries by the handful with Fionnghuala.

The ground is so wet we may never move forward. I just want my twenty sentences to be done, okay? So I can pat their body, maybe lay down beside them. I can't sleep and it's making me crazier than what I won't write.

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