i set my blog to private for a few days while i sorted out some concerns i’ve been having about it. i’ve been writing on the internet since i was 14 (1999? 2000?), since before blogging was blogging, since geocities, since ICQ, since britney spears, since forever. i write on the internet because i refuse to write elsewhere, because i hold myself back. this time i came dangerously close to not renewing the .com, but then i was brutally honest with myself and here we are.
one day, should i ever start publishing, it might stop. but still, i know it will just come back again. i’ve done it for 12 years and can’t picture myself not doing it. i would rather write here than risk having to speak, i would rather write here than risk having to write something i’d want to hear read aloud. and besides that, these pieces i have are just pieces, memories, poignant flashes like the visions of last night’s horrible dream. they’re never what i really want to say.
i have not stopped recalling
a february you, a lit
face by candles and dim desk
lamps in your pale bedroom
power hungry, and yet a
spooked horse, a man of little
knowledge and impossible
timing, dashing through torn
fields of grass and thistle
because you thought it would
repel me, propel me harshly
from your back
i’m sorry for all the bad things i said to you and about you and behind your back. you are cold and cruel, but you are lovely also. you didn’t hurt me; i hurt myself & tried to bring you with me.
you did not lie to me any more times than i lied to you or to myself. i was wrong. i am aware that i could have been different, if not for myself then for you, because you could not have been different.
you lose a day for three years out of four. you are unpredictable and dark, you are not tall. you are unfriendly. your shoes are thinning at the soles. denim shows the fat your legs are lacking. i could not love a thing about you, except that you exist. i still do. as you fade into the melting spring i will end up lonely and you will be a memory.
of walking in our winter clothes, of sunshine on cement. old coffee in a paper cup. i’m so much more than fine with that.
the memories are worth it and
i’m sorry. you are good.
things i would have said, if i were better at saying:
1. i don’t know how i’ll ever afford it.
2. four months ago the guy at the quickie almost didn’t sell me cigarettes and i’m still just as lazy as i am impatient, and i don’t have an age of majority card.
3. i’m scared of everything except you (simple).
4. i brought the drawer from my old bed out of the closet and put it in the window, to appear in backgrounds of blurred photos. now it’s behind the fish tank and still funhouse mirrored.
5. i miss your mouth, or just the way it never parted open.
6. the traffic is fantastic, it sounds dry & a little unhealthy.
7. nothing could have felt better than loneliness in that room, here it’s an ounce or so too heavy.
8. i feel childish & glad.
9. there is no way i’d ever really bother you with all these irrelevant, boring, boring thoughts.
10. beetlejuice beetlejuice beetlejuice!
following the ditches forces
butchered blades of
knuckles whipped by long
grass, stems of weeds
while i dreamt
and you were coming
from a stop
sign in the winter still
stole an orange
in dormant streets and i retract,
a pedal carries
fleeting feet to swamps
we used to sleep in, sides of country roads
i’m going to miss the sounds of the traffic. all the wheels always moving, not hesitating, not braking, not here. when i was just learning about myself and my skin and the capabilities of my small mind i used to sit under the highway in a tunnel that was meant for carrying water, the excess rain water so it couldn’t pool in the streets and cause hydroplaning and deaths and other accidents. it was calm and quieter than home. this room is like that, it’s the first in a long time and i am anxious and upset over saying goodbye to it.
there are only imprints now, and everything fits onto a single scrap of paper that hid itself somewhere around here. i don’t know if i will remember by morning because i never do, but everything is here, always, surrounding. just in case. i take deep breaths and smile before i fall asleep.
so i guess it’s official: i do not write during intense heat waves.
i’ve always hated writing in the summertime. i even started this blog last august as a last-ditch effort to get myself writing more. i don’t want to seem like a whiner or anything, but it’s just too hot. and heavy. and i get lazy. and tired. it would help if even the evenings were cool, but there’s been no relief from the heat for days. the kind of weighted, constricting heat that makes me forget what canadian winters are really like. and it’s not like i exactly want to remember what our winters are capable of doing, especially in the first week of july, but this is a little intense.
in the spirit of this exhausting, thick summer heat wave:
your breeze provides
little relief to
the hairs on the back
of my neck,
the creaking swing to
my shadows, aims,
the uncut grass to another
sleepy dreamy afternoon