The river's soft hum at 5 a.m., mist rising in the pasture, muting the gold light of Venus. One pauses at times to remember to forget, then goes forward. Death is one phase of a cycle that is not alive but generative. I stood on the precipice and was not afraid of falling, and I did not fall, and now I am home, and you are home, too.
Black coffee after checking on the horses, reading the news instead of sitting quietly in darkness. We rearrange the living room for comfort, leaning into our living in which everybody is always home, whether working or learning or both. The sentences, they write themselves.
Yet pausing under the hemlocks to watch the moon disappear into undulating western hills. In what way did "hover" become a word? It comforts me knowing the general structure of mind doesn't require an identity to function. We are often overlooked, but rarely to the degree for which we long.
Grease is the word, Grease is the way we are feeling. Moonlight in Vermont. One allows for openings the other declines to pass through and so the relationship dwindles a little more. The chickens don't want to die, a fact that blurs the broader fact that we all have to eat. Fewer secrets, please. Fewer lies.
Walking at 2 a.m. in the rain, my fear biblical, trying to brave my way through it but reaching the dark parts and not being able to go on, so coming back to read Moby Dick, skimming whole parts, until I doze and dream on the couch, dreams I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Realizing that the one you wanted doesn't see you but sees only the projection she makes of you, from which - thanks to von Foerster - you are liberated now. For many years loneliness was a condition of writing but suddenly there is this new way of being, suddenly there is this companionate joy, this wordiness that longing cannot erase.