i just want to make something today
I dated a man from the U.S. mint once. He always used to say, you look like a million dollars, baby. He told me on our first date how he’d gotten to see where they keep all the gold at the federal gold reserve at Fort Knox. After two months of seeing each other, he took me there on a beautiful sunny day, to this awful slab of a grey building—it looked like my little brother put it together with Legos—it looked like my little brother had gotten bored and just thrown together all his ugly grey Legos. He asked me as we passed through the clearance and were allowed inside, You know what I mean when I say you look like a million dollars, right? I said, That I’m a million dollars worth of beautiful, I guess. He said, Close, but not entirely. It’s like, yes one million dollars is a thing of real worth, but it’s also a representation, a representation of something more substantial, heavier, something we can’t just carry around with us every day, something its value is derived from. And that’s you. You have this essence of there’s more locked away somewhere, to you. And not like locked in a tower in distress, I need to go find it and save it. Like, there is more locked away somewhere safe, somewhere it belongs, somewhere I just don’t know how to get to yet, somewhere I’m not qualified to get to yet, I need clearance, but I know what’s in there, and it’s gold.
There is a problem with life. Something about how it is strange, beautiful, or ugly. Maybe the problem is that life is strange and beautiful and ugly. Or maybe it’s more that life has not gotten to be as strange or beautiful or ugly as I’ve been waiting for it to become.
Today I am a little afraid to write. I fear I may write myself into a feeling from which I cannot surface.
Being thankful to be back in my community. Every day is a vacation when you get to work with folks that you love.
He said he would leave in 2016. No matter what, he’d have his boxes, have his ticket, board his plane. His name was meant to be held in the mouths of other folk, in another place. His heart was meant to be tied to another collection of wood and bricks and glass called home.
She looked at him across the table and then she knew that there was danger. For it seemed to her that there were two types of people in the world: the explorer and the settler. And he was the former and she was the latter. And what was a latter better at than falling for the former? And what was a former better for than telling the latter farewell?
Oh but more than that, so much more than that, first he would explore her. Because she was tundras and mountains and oceans in one. She had cliffs and crags and valleys and hills; he could feel her slip through his fingers like sand, nearly drown in her depths, look into the horizons in her eyes and rest in her still waters. And she could settle in him, fingers tracing the hairs on his arms; she could put a welcome mat under his feet and hers; she could set a shelf within his heart and put a piece of her heart there, hang his portrait up in hers. She could build steps in their affection toward the door of freely-given passion. And she could believe that distance was merely a finite number; that he would come back one day, repair the porch and repaint the shutters. She could pick out colors.
But she would still be one. One settler in a vast land. One small assortment of flesh and bones and voice eclipsed by the ocean and the mountains—vistas of sand and frozen land. And he was an explorer. He would have to explore these. He would go. But more than that, he would go with bits of her inside him. Spreading her like bread crumbs everywhere he went, seeing things at times almost as though through her eyes, with her words in the backdrop, with her thoughts (as he imagined them) popping into his mind. And maybe even in some conversations he would find himself repeating her, a quote she said, the way she phrased a phrase he’d also phrase it—maybe, perhaps, he would even speak of her, to another traveler, or a settler he was passing by, remember her precisely, piecing her face together to view again.
So the danger would be dual-edged—double-edged as a sword some might say, but nothing like a sword, she realized, for the two sides of a sword stay edge to sharpened edge, and that was something they could never imitate.
I’m in a bad place.
It’s all a bad place.
This is my weak spot.
No spot is really strong.
Just feeling down today.
What goes down must come up—could at least.
Just go away.
No I plan to come along.
1. i don’t like folding laundry or talking about my emotions. i’m likely to leave both scattered all over. 2. i’m not much for cooking but there will always be coffee. 3. i’ll wear anything of yours with sleeves. i love when they’re long enough to wrap around my hands. 4. sometimes the world is too harsh, too big. it’s hard to leave the house on days like those. 5. when i was sick as a kid my mom would run a bath for me and wash my hair. it was always so soothing. maybe you could do that every once in a while. 6. i find it difficult to finish most things. my room is home to countless journals of incomplete thoughts. 7. i won’t love you any less in december. i think my heart just wasn’t meant for the cold. 8. i never truly know why i’m crying so don’t bother to ask, simply be there. 9. there’s whiskey in the medicine cabinet. 10. if things get terribly bad, please don’t give up. get me in the car and drive to the sea. the waves beneath my toes will wake me up and i’ll be yours again.
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