Tuesday, January 08, 2013

Dearest

Dearest:

The days fly by, stiff and unyielding: I try to set aside the dread that makes its own disasters. I reach for you, and hesitate.

When you sheet home a sail and it fills? That feeling? It has been missing from this last week. I can get no way on my life. It pitches and yaws and spins.

But the fear is all for other people: I have none for myself. I am indestructible, a deep-rooted blackberry in the alley of the world. Let them go ahead and try to pull me up! They'll only tear their hands.

I broke a plate the other day, one of our four remaining Churchill blue willows. Now we have three, and one of those is cracked and due to shatter. I imagine adamantine dishes, formed of blue clay and fired in the deep places of the world. I am tired of things that must be handled tenderly. I want just a few things that will not break.

Still, sleep-short and sore-eyed though I am, never have I felt more ferocious, certain, immortal. I weigh ten thousand pounds: I am made of metals heavier than you have ever imagined.

I am not the solution to anything. I am not the door into summer. I can't be transplanted or remade. This is all, only, and every.

So much love, dear. Today and every day.

4 comments:

Zhoen said...

We are broken remains for future archeologists to piece together, retell a story even we don't quite understand.

Dick said...

So right, Zhoen. Keep providing the verbal data, Dana. Someone's got to leave clues for posterity.

marly youmans said...

My first drifting thought was that this was a letter to your anima, perhaps, who often takes the form of a particular woman... It is a reaching out while denying the reaching out.

Dale said...

:-) Sometimes I think all my blog posts should start off --

First Gentleman: