1st July.
Almost a week since the Big Sad™. It has been a long week of understanding how little words can say, how ironic that I use them in abundance. It has also been a week of knowing & unknowing & re-knowing. I can’t make sense of any of it just yet, though. Been reading a lot of poems. Ada Limon says, “all poetry is grief. all poems are love poems.” Grief is countered, accompanied, made sense of— all through love.
The most basic function of poetry: to remember, not necessarily to give meaning; to acknowledge; to touch.
7th July
Still been just a week of un-
2 hours later
I am often interrupted by S during writing. Most of what I write is either inspired by, or formed through him (I even use his words, verbatim, in my poems!). It is only apt that I allow, even honor this interruption.. S said he loved me, not in the ways he usually does, but in the way it is easiest for me to understand— in words.
How do you tend to vulnerability— that of your own & someone else’s? For once, I didn’t say anything back, let it be, & welcomed it, touched, even.
15th July. 3:16pm
R realized it before myself: I feel better only after showers.
Intimacy makes an animal of you. Not the wild kind, but the sweet, tender kind. A picture in bed, draped in sheets, & dim sunlight reaching through the curtains from behind. Eyes always more closed than open. In that moment: you could cut right through & neither of you will realize. That soft. You want to, but you don’t. You acknowledge this sudden shift of power & return it threefold. Neither of you still realize.
21st July. 6:39pm
I kept looking at the sky & it kept expanding on me. Baba called them “dangerous.” I wished to look like the clouds; a thousand trumpets blown at once, all the dogs unleashed & howling. Everywhere I go, I see only two things: abundance & abandonment. Never together. Never neither.
I have nothing to offer, not even my poems. This mediocrity is a burden off my shoulders, I agree… but my mundanity only thrives in company. I want a house near the ocean or the sea or the lake. Anywhere that reminds me I am not drowning. I haven’t drowned yet. I can keep staring.
All these clouds, the waters, the sand… all is paid for.
26th July. 7:12pm.
“Would there be this eternal seeking if the found existed?” -Porchia, Voices
I know what I have given you, not what you have received.
28th July. 6:55pm.
Michaela Coel— creator of “Chewing Gum”, “I May Destroy You”— lived in rented houses, overlooking no garden. The uncertainty of concrete. The hard, solid earth beneath you.
Concrete (noun); a building material made from a mixture of broken stone or gravel, sand, cement, and water, which can be spread or poured into moulds and forms a mass resembling stone on hardening.
Concrete (verb); form (something) into a mass; solidify.
1:08am.
I want to lie on the grass overlooking the concrete walls, the white lawn chair in S’s garden, & the rain.
Little windows into a stranger's mind, how beautiful.