I am unaware of how long I can go without saying anything true, until I sit down to write again. I knew it would be only a matter of time before the dreams came back, and the questions no one wants to ask.
Vermont seems so far to be a microcosm of lessons I have previously laid to rest, a condensed version of my time in Idaho. In these first 48 hours I feel many of the same feelings. A restless joy, a displaced fascination, a conversation with myself about what I really want in this one true dying and wyoming life of mine.
When I am older I will tell someone, I do not yet know, about how all of the big moments in my life were cut in half by rivers. How for someone who was always ocean bound, most of their time in which serious self reflection was drawn, a river nearby was inevitable. And I like to say, it is coming from somewhere I have never been and going to somewhere I will never be.
At this river, there is a rock in the middle and the water eddies and swirls around it, sometimes doubling back over itself.
In the novel I am writing, which is not the novel I thought I was writing, there is a girl who falls for in love over a peach at a fruit stand and changes her entire life because of it. She is reckless and fearful, and worried she will die to soon, and she makes a lot of her choices based on these facts alone. And I am worry that she is the character who is most wrought from my own body and memories and state of mind.
There is nothing wrong in wanting more, even when you have a lot.
I have a conversation at noon with intuitive in Detroit, whose number I got from a friend who had a baby and the only thing I can ever think- no we don’t talk about that. We never ever talk about that.
Mostly what I think about lately is you standing in the kitchen or outside of the shower or dancing in the living room, and my laughing bouncing around while the records turn and wondering what I might have to do in order to stay.