I’m going to take my own advice that I give to you, Don’t try.
I miss you and it’s a long day, always. You wrote how editing and finishing is a death.
What are you writing? Where are you walking? I think everyone wants to know how to get there.
So I’m not going to try. I was driving today and I tried to “catch” a poem or thought-poem that came into my head. It was windy and dirty and nasty outside. I was so tired from work and driving 75 miles to read court documents, so delirious that the day seemed unreal. And then a row of cows. And a bit of green. It’s ok to want to have a mind-meltdown, I thought.
Is it ok? I didn’t. But thinking it was ok to park the car, go to the cows and cry, for no other reason but that sometimes, even if life is good, it is still hard and we are still lost and so separate from each other and alone. Even when close. So just the thought of “giving permission” was a freedom.
Like the thought of sin, the opposite of what you were taught, is ok. That’s it’s just human. But isn’t it the same? That the thought of Losing It is a sin, a break from the norm?
But it’s not. And we are not our thoughts. But our thoughts are what makes us connect.
For example: this poem. Which I didn’t “Try-For” but maybe someone, or even you, will connect to?
How do you love a door made of bees? How
Do you walk into your own body, with a cow
stolen from the side of a highway after driving
all day listening to yourself break up with yourself.
You park the car. You stand next to the cattle guarding
The same question over and over. How do you
Love the unlovable. You just do. You just steal
The cow. You take him to your bedroom.
Tie him to your lamppost. Feed him letters
And bits of the plant that’s dying in the kitchen,
Stolen from a man who gave it to you for free.
The cow knows how to love everything.
Even the door of bees. Even the unmade body,
Stolen from a God who once loved a God
And still loves a God. And still loves. He does.