i went through the emails, messages, cards. i’m on a nostalgia tip, the ghost of _____ past running through my head. except time’s all messed-up, so i’m dealing with pastpresentfuture. all at once. it’s been a heavy emotional journey, documented online breadcrumb trails on blogs and twitter feeds, status updates. we’ve been so public and confessional.
i can’t count the amount of phonecalls i’ve had in response to posts i’ve made. check-ups resulting from my broadcast emotions. and those of others. i look for the patterns in correspondence, and i can see them. there are some pretty high crests before those lowlowlow troughs.
i’m still shaky, unsure, wishful so it’s probably not the greatest idea for me to do this right now. not at this time of the night, which is my witching hour. retrospective word of the year is: bombardment. from everywhere.
like that line nikki drops, on her first date with vik. like friday afternoons under a baobab tree. like bedtime with my grandmother. dry, rough hands. the scent that triggers dream memories, brown and gold. 81+18, son. sign of god’s beauty. i didn’t know. speaking of hands, i want to force yours. but instead of reaching, i instinctively reach for patience. golden war. timestepping van Winkle. funny, you never disappointed me. shifted my gaze downwards, on a level. glitter dust falling all around me. i see you. in your own weird, unreliable way, you’re now a constant, now something steady i can refer to. no pain in the stranger. i’m this close (pinched fingers) to claiming my wish. learning a new vocabulary, a new way of being. co-existing, giving up on molding, learning to become less inflexible. learning to stop with the futility, learning to stet.