5.26.22

To be honest, I invited you to the park, to dinner, to the soccer game, but I haven't left my room; and I will not- although I imagine you on the train on your way to these wonderful things with a smile on my face, knowing I cannot and will not meet you there where wonderful things are sure to happen. it's not freedom but the dream of freedom that moves me; in the dreaming I dare to not know myself without interference, caution, or fear of loving a stranger I may meet in the world with a proportion inappropriate for what I know of them or even myself. 

the words today: concrete rocks garbling in the mouth. dreaming of clarice lispector, her words a hand over your hand, guiding your palms over the prickling spine of a cactus. 

Hold my hand and together we can walk over this terrain of words which seems to have no end but is  nothing but endings. This morning I was heart broken and I knew why (who wakes up in this country with a broken heart and not know why?). I held a hand to my chest, grateful to have a heart and to know how to feel with it. Might I remember this. We won't let this be taken from us yet; the knowing how to feel with what we have left. 

And also this; How I miss California. How I miss its terrible, flattening sunlight. How I miss its bewildering loneliness, always like I was waking up alone in bed late in the afternoon. And how I miss the land before California, and the land before that, and the lands I have never seen with my own eyes, whose memory still persists somehow, like a dream I dreamt that I woke up knowing to be more than just that.