Heart Wide Open

“Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear,
I do not know.” ~ Anne Sexton

I love how this newsletter is quickly becoming a collection of who I used to be, who I currently am, and who I still wish to become… It feels like I’m exploring the elements of my process—not just as a poet, but as a person—before transforming them from raw material into something I hope to use in a longer manuscript. Though I am also hoping to use this space to more deeply examine my desire to make something tangible of mere words—my fear of fading into oblivion, perhaps—maybe even make peace with the inherently ethereal nature of story-telling…

Stories as memory. As history.

As humans, we long for something to hold—but how do you capture what never happened, what you only imagined, or what you weren’t there to witness? Why does it even matter whether we capture our experiences or not—in writing or with a photograph—when just bothering to remember takes effort. What is it that compels us to be willing to replay an event in our mind—sometimes over and over—simply to recreate the feelings of that moment, or to hone in on some tiny detail lest we risk forgetting it.

Yet I never thought I could care so little about my own past as I have recently. Unfair to quantity though, really. It would be more accurate to say that my self-reflection has become something less critical and a bit more constructive than it was before I took the time to heal from all those wounds. As it turns out, it was precisely this cool—almost cold—objectivity which I lacked but think I needed in order to truly dissect the journals of my youth… As cloudy, dark, and full of feelings as they are—I can finally see how I was hiding from myself even more than I was hiding from anyone else.

freestyle drawing (by my cousin) from which my wrist tattoo comesPoetry Journal Entry

“Jesus loves me, this I know—though you'd swear it isn't so... Ah, the days of eating alone—back to back to back—are back. These days, I visualize every passerby panting—sweating naked [over their lover and dripping profusely into their lover’s eyes until they are blinded]. This way, I prefer to eat alone. ❦ Foolish child playing in the street, this heart [of mine]. The heart, my [greatest] foe, [is] a ghost in training—[is] a bloody fist [that won’t stop pounding until] calloused raw. [But when] the heart takes things into its own hands, it never [truly] mends... It only pretends [to]. [When] the heart attacks, it toys with [you]—paws its prey. The heart does a back-flip [off the rib cage and disappears into the stomach]. The heart revolts [into a] back bend [but it breaks far too easily]. [It] rattles the cage, rests, raises the white flag. Forgets, [too] quickly. [Much] too quickly. [It] sleeps with another… [Then another.] Comfortably. Too comfortably. [Alas,] the heart holds hands with too many other hearts—[for] the heart is [far] too aware of [all those] other hearts. [So] the [collective] heart beats in unison [until] it beats in fear [until] it beats for its life. [So] it beats on the door [of your chest]. [It] beats on your door all night all night all night [long. Beware, for] the heart [is] that bloody fist pounding on closed doors [all night]. ❦ [Yet she has] eyes like [ice,] that could freeze a body, that do freeze—and she's a shiny thing, so you pocket her [for later… Meanwhile,] I've dropped the proverbial [scented] handkerchief [again—but as usual, nobody bends to retrieve it.] My biggest guilty pleasure [seems to be envisioning future] dystopia[s and weeping over all of our losses in advance. If only I had a] waterproof friend (friendship or actual ship) to weather the coming storms with...] Hark the [warning of] church bells! I wish you [all] the best and the worst [that a life of] mediocrity [has to offer—but] make your own minions [from now on—because] there are no happy endings… Only better ones [to be made up as we go along].”

{ { { August 18th, 2006 } } }