Most of what I want to say these days I put in my letters to you. That morning magic saved and used for you and you alone. Sometimes I feel as a writer I only have so much each day, and when it’s gone it’s gone and I should use my time on something else. It’s a place I can only get to if I am left alone.
You tell me there is a tension between wanting to be a mother and being an artist and you touch your tongue to something I have not been able to name. I feel this all the way down to the quiet places, the thing I do not want to admit, my fear of losing my solitude, that place where the magic gets in. What will happen to me? I ask you.
Everything has this irridescent timeless quality to it. Like I’m dreaming, or I’ve just woken up. I cannot tell which and I do not think it matters. What I want it to drive north and lie naked sunning on the rocks at the slow bend in the river. I would follow you anywhere, if we were still going places.
There is a tangle of balloons caught in the palm tree outside of my apartment. The water today is a blue so clear I can see all the way to the bottom from my balcony. I wander from room to room and start three different projects. I make new coffee. I water the orange trees. I wait for something to happen.
I want to have a daughter and name her Blue. I say this out loud, iterations of the statement like an incantation. As if I say it enough it will become true. I am always waiting for my heart to catch up with my body, this time I think, I will tell it where we are going next.
I go outside, and it is bright and light, and I collect tomatoes off the vine. When I come back inside I cannot see anything, my eyes have to adjust. I think, this is what it felt like to fall in love with him. I suddenly couldn’t see anything I could see just a moment before. It took me two years for my eyes to adjust.
I take my own picture in the mirror in the living room, like I have every day since this started. For lunch I make toast with olive oil and salt, thick tomatoes slices, and chunks of humble fog goat cheese. I sit naked on the tile floor and eat with my fingers and watch the waves come in and out. There is something feral about being left alone.
One Reply to “Left Alone”
This speaks volumes without needing to elaborate on any chapter. Thank you fo wording these feeling so neatly. I get it. I get it all.