Tonight some friends and I drove out to the lake for a short, late evening cookout. We made a fire in a grill and cooked hot dogs and sat around at picnic tables and talked. Two of my friends are married and have six-month-old twin girls, with another baby due around Halloween. The other is just entering her mid-twenties and has every expectation of being a wife & mother someday. When we got there a young couple was just finishing up dinner at a nearby table, a single rose in a vase between them; they left after the sun set.
It was a catalog of roads not taken.
Moonlight on the lake, a big messy splat of a bug on the windshield of the van on the way back.
I haven't written much lately but when I let myself sit with it for a while I think it will all come out in an enormous splort of poetry. Maybe it will happen in Provincetown.
Then I can put together a new chapbook: Splorting in P-town.
Ten things you didn't know you knew about me:
[fill in the blank]
To make lists or not to make lists; TMI or not TMI; po-blogging or pub-blogging or describing your own left shoe. I don't care. Sometimes I like reading the most mundane and silly things about people whether I know them or not. Sometimes I love finding out that I'm not the only one who cares about [fill in the blank]. Anything that can make a person feel less alone in this world, any small connection ... that is a gift and a blessing.
I bet you didn't know that sometimes I can't imagine speaking to another living human being, and sometimes I wake from a dream in which there was someone else in my house and for just that flicker of a moment it seems completely inconceivable, unreal, and wrong that the other person isn't really here.
I bet you didn't know that sometimes I sleep when I shouldn't and sometimes I stay up all night.
I bet you didn't know that the half moon over Lake Monroe was laughing at me tonight, and so was a six-month-old girl.
I bet you didn't know that the rabbit never hears the owl that swoops up behind it and gathers its bones and its blood into darkness.
For real: ten years ago this summer I was healing from a broken engagement. Or wasn't healing, really. When I look back on it now I don't remember how it felt -- either the crazy in love part or the crazy after. I don't remember, meaning how it felt is no longer available to me and I can't even imagine how it must have been. Once I decide whether this is a good thing or a bad thing, I have every intention of writing about it. I do. I think it will be fiction.
I still think of her sometimes but I don't miss her. But sometimes I miss whoever it was that I was then.
Today I took my 18-pound fluffball of a cat to the vet to have the fur underneath his tail shaved so that it doesn't collect stinky things. He sat on my lap in the waiting room and purred and purred. Cats are the best. I am well on my way to becoming the crazy cat lady librarian in comfortable shoes. And I say that with a smile.
Sometimes there are things I don't know how to say. Sometimes there are things I know perfectly well how to say, but I don't say them. These are the times when I should be writing poems, though a lot of times I don't.
I have ten days to bring myself to the edge of something, and then I'll be out there on that very end of land and words will meet me there -- my own or someone else's.
My own. Or someone else's.
Outside, there are fireflies on all the trees. And mostly I do like my life.
I bet you didn't know how much I love to fly. It's because of the light up there, all that blue and striking light.
Ten things you don't know about your own self. Go.