Which is not to say one does not pummel some things. Worry the rag. The dog downward facing failure. One must lift such things up. If one will.
Rain is good but it wearies us. Grey soup is worse. By far. An active thing beats a still thing. Hence our verbs. Hence our movement. Hence this body.
I believe I am English. I will call cookies biscuits and biscuits cakes. I should like to speak should all over should in all places should in their sense not the terrible should do should do of us. This place. This shame.
I will inherit a farm. My father’s great love. I told him yesterday that I won’t live there. Because it is not me. Because I am not a commute not a car not a stillness. Because I am a hamlet a village one traffic light. I am a place I’ve yet to find.
But such sorrow to let go the place. The pastures. The pines. I may keep a back corner. The hardwoods. A cabin. A retreat. Because I may want a still thing. But in ten years? Probably no stillness left there.
And the sadness of its earth dirt the plow my mother pushed turned the furrows up. The sadness of the burned out house, the burned out family, the burned up girl. Brother. Father. I do not miss my mother.
Of all things a slight bit of pain chirks the girl up. A slight bit. Okay maybe a lot. One becomes accustomed to the morning back the afternoon slump. One cheers that it is not worse. One applauds the body that it will rest itself. Sleep.
One needs work. One will find it.
The piece accepted is a lyric essay. So this morning, as a good writer should would do will, I read someone else’s lyric essay. Tripe. Quite true. Swill. If you must write about nothing please grab me by the throat. If you must write badly please depart. It stinks up ruins the place. And yes I know it’s all a matter of taste. Except it isn’t.
To heal the brain do unto others. To heal the body do unto it. Or to write. Or to praise that which is. And will be. And will finally go away.
It’s a bitch that it takes energy. All of it. Thinking. Talking. Writing. Holding up one’s arms. It’s an anger old shoe rotted rust trash barrel. We did that. Burned our trash. Took dead cows to the dump. Called the state as to alert them to our massive brush fire our controlled burn.
I saved a house once. The Trueloves. A shack really. Driving home from church I saw a light that was a flame. I said Mama look. I said stop. Not too long later our house flamed up. I watched. I bawled. I watched myself watching and bawling.
Am reading Lena Dunham. She is young. The writing is young. So much of me in it her in me. Except New York. Except the leg up. The accident of birth. Except the luck. But then, I’ve so much of that. Really. Think of what the thing could be.
Once a woman another Rebecca came to my house brought her autistic son to visit my autistic son brought her severely autistic two-year old brain trapped flailing her ribbon belt red back and forth fifteen model lovely such bones. Red hair. Clair Danes. I’ve much better lucky lucky luck than that. One knows when the bread is buttered.
Obviously, quite, the day should be written the woman girl is chock full.
To what do I owe this pleasantness? To whom to I owe this suffering? Quite obvious that the joy the light the goodness is random unexpected unearned. Quite obvious the suffering is planned is personal. One is not God. One is God. Of course, I am both.