Sunday, January 12, 2020

On the Shore of the River

What kind of cold? In this house, sometimes, the doors open and close on their own accord.

Mass-produced Buddhas, mass-produced Christs. The bedroom becomes a secret place, doesn't it.

By sixteen I'd stopped trusting adults but couldn't find my way with kids either. We kissed on the shore of the river, sailing between uncertain and unsure.

In a dream, all three of my children were made of crystal. The man with abandonment issues develops an acute sense of when to perform and when to slink away unnoticed.

Slick shorelines in northern Vermont where I paced for hours dreaming the idea of a woman I could never meet outside of dreams. The tool makes the project, not the other way around.

Outside becomes a web of neighborly concerns and demands. She confesses and many implications float between us, neither grabbable nor not-grabbable.

Horses are not objects. Meaning is a relational dynamic, the bounds of which are impossible to identify.

Over time I began to understand my fear as an artefact in a family museum, but as yet more time passed I began to wonder who the curator was, and then I got bored and began looking for exits. Driving as a stand-in for oblivion, an acceptable zero.

Driving west generally means ending in Pittsfield, with a sense of Albany (and the ruin it engendered) not far off. A yearning for the sea that never quite goes away, almost as if it were inherent.

Making afternoon tea. Leftover maple leaves appear to shiver on empty trees because early January is unaware there is such a thing as Spring.

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