Can't Give You The World, How 'Bout Detroit?
I sometimes wish you people could be in my head when I'm on a weekend break like this one. I mean, if you ever wanted forty-eight hours of complete solitude and quiet, not a stray thought to bump yourself up against...come visit my brain. I can't really explain it but it completely shuts off.
I don't like to think of myself as a catatonic recluse as a general rule, but certain weekends I sure practice at it.
Hope I'm back now, back in the sunshine of a new, if recurring, set of sins.
I feel a lot of poetry coming on late at night, and I have this dirty desire to just hit the sheets almost in this violent desire to destroy it. It's a mental abortion, and it's as if I'm desperate not to allow these things to leave my fingertips as fully formed thoughts and words and ideas and make their way to you and kiss you gently on the cheek. It's a wide life I give them when I do and sometimes it's something that has to wait. When it shouldn't. Books and health and the pre-natal ideas, they shouldn't fall behind this heave of cultural nausea that I suffer...this bullimic need to absorb information and vomit it up at some second date...and I wonder why I'm never called back.
I'm sorry, me and my Golden Finch never meant it to be this way. We were beautiful and may be again, stars eclipsed by brighter moons for a time.
An essay I read for class made me melancholy. About death, which, I suppose, would do it. But more than that, what death does to the living. I never thought about it but I don't think I could be anyway than the way the author was when her mother died when mine...eventually will. Destroyed. Ended. Savaged.
It's something I think about too much in between the times I think of nothing.
I think of how I kill myself with sugar and how I get dizzy and it's hypoglycemia and it's danger, danger, until it's not and we can reset the clocks until the next. I think of how I'll always be one step behind my next fuck-up or my next dream and I will spend my days philosophizing and not living. I think about my stories. I think they are not good enough. I don't know what would be, but I only know that they're not...up to snuff...I think about cooking our first meal for the invisible man who will someday be left with all this in his lap.
But amidst all that...is the thought that if my mother...if something happened, I couldn't be anymore. I couldn't be anything. I'd end and maybe there'd be something left. But likely not, if anything, it'd smell of sulphur and would fly out the window on a broken wing.
There's something to loving that much, the Catherine and Heathcliff love that frightens high schoolers. He wants to mingle with her dead what? Something unacceptable.
I...would say more, but it's not worthwhile tonight. To play with the undead and try and sing their song. I shaved my legs, I mean, come on Lily, we don't have to follow the danse macabre. We can be out there and make daisy chains and have cheap wine and we can pretend a while longer. We can look a photographs and still see the sunglares on our faces for what they are. We can travel back without falling off. Love is not a precipice. Doesn't have to be. You don't have to hang on its edges to prove its there, don't have to skip stones, drop torches, scream to Echo and try and make it so.
Love is pocket lint, developing and clinging and thrown away only to rubbed into existence again. Love is litter we skirt around on the sidewalk. Love is savagely seeking a way to hold on. Love is airborne, propagating in the lungs. Even when we want it to be gone, expect it to be, it catches us and sickens us again.
I can't promise the numbering of our days. Don't want that, to live in fear, I want you to know that I will be devastated, broken, dead when you leave me. I won't be right ever again. I won't ever make that sense again. But I promise to hold on, to think about tomorrow and walk its paths, because that's what you did. You caught the love disease and when it made you stay in bed, you kept us under the covers and kissed us to infection, made our own incubator.
I'm going to stop, I'm going to stop trying to heal.
