Ode to a word I can’t remember
View from lady parts and Vimeo.
I am getting terribly sentimental sitting on the warm cement outside my apartment. I keep taking strange photos on my computer. Yes, I am a thief of the moment. How many times I have sat here and preformed sacred rituals with a treat from the panaderia and espresso with infinity and it’s terrific, glittering mirrors.
I have been so lonely here. I have listened to the silence, breathing it’s tongues of ash on the faces of leaves and branches, on you. The most loving and perfect lonliness.
One memory I would like to share happened last summer. I was heavy into reading old copies of The New Yorker and The Atlantic that I picked up from a thriftstore in San Diego. I picked up every Fiction Issue I could find. There was strange tension in the house. Heat. Sweaty and astranged bodies. But there where these stories.
And after finishing a few, out here, where I sit right now, and a cigarette, I wrote these poems.
I was going to include a picture of them, but I cannot find them.
I am moving away.
Yesterday when I was in the car with my mother and my sister, one thing lead to another and I got so damn weary thinking about all that I have become while here at this apartment.
I just owe it a night. A night, you know. I owe it some god damn silence with my face on it’s back, listening to it breath, feeling it’s warm skin on my cheek.
I really love all the people I have been here. I love all the other people who have been here, too.
What I am experiencing right now, this time of change, feels like this. A not so elegant, very quiet reading of excerpt, recored in the drivers seat of my car at 11:15 a.m. outside of my apartment. I read this for the first time at 17. It has a very special place in my understanding of ((( ))). everything.
I imagine I will feel this over and over like water cleaning pebbles in a stream. I cannot hold you in my hands tiny shaking bird. I am afriad. You are too good.
(The title of this entry is stolen from a poet whom I hope will someday gain the recognition she deserves. Her name is Christin Lee and she was in a poetry class I took.)
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I remember you reading me Christin Lee’s poem.
All of this sentimentality. College ending, moving, people not coming back, HARRY POTTER ending… I needed you to write this so badly.
Comment by Matthew — July 28, 2007 #
Her poems.
Thank you for needing it like I do. I think there will be a few things like this. We need to process with ceremonies.
Comment by Laura — July 28, 2007 #