I don't sleep through the night anymore. I'm not sure why, but my brain can't stop it's buzzing buzzing buzzing with ideas old and new.
And the work I need to finish.
And the immeasurable joy of sussing something out for myself.
I lie awake and wonder about the people I used to know, some years and years ago, in other countries. And I wonder how they are. Hope they are safe. And warm. And I hope that they miss me somewhere in between the busy moments of their over-thought waking time. And I think they should. I made marks bold and bright. And I left some wounds, but time moves like a rake on the sand and smooths them out and leaves us with the tender moments we held like jewels in between those busy, rustling hours that made for us the better part of the seventies and the eighties and the nineties.
And we still hold them, because they can't be shared or leased or given away or left behind a trash can at the mouth of an alley.
And I rattle around this house like typewriter keys shaken in a jar. A student of letters. Learning how and why and where they fit together to make something sensible out of something that spans the length of centuries and has yet to be defined.
I trace the trajectory of my joy across a broad expanse of kindness.
And the work I need to finish.
And the immeasurable joy of sussing something out for myself.
I lie awake and wonder about the people I used to know, some years and years ago, in other countries. And I wonder how they are. Hope they are safe. And warm. And I hope that they miss me somewhere in between the busy moments of their over-thought waking time. And I think they should. I made marks bold and bright. And I left some wounds, but time moves like a rake on the sand and smooths them out and leaves us with the tender moments we held like jewels in between those busy, rustling hours that made for us the better part of the seventies and the eighties and the nineties.
And we still hold them, because they can't be shared or leased or given away or left behind a trash can at the mouth of an alley.
And I rattle around this house like typewriter keys shaken in a jar. A student of letters. Learning how and why and where they fit together to make something sensible out of something that spans the length of centuries and has yet to be defined.
I trace the trajectory of my joy across a broad expanse of kindness.
2 comments:
We should have a soup and beer night. I know that was like four posts ago. But still! We should.
I was really hoping to have a soup and beer Thanksgiving thanks-giving.
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