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:
We are broken remains for future archeologists to piece together, retell a story even we don't quite understand.
So right, Zhoen. Keep providing the verbal data, Dana. Someone's got to leave clues for posterity.
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.
:-) Sometimes I think all my blog posts should start off --
First Gentleman:
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