Dear DLD,

Yeah, so I’m going to do it: “I had this weird dream”.

A stressful dream anchored in S.’s story at the dinner party last night – about the electric scooter with the warning label that it was not recommended for people over 50. I bought one. And I was trying to get from one side of town to another, through a crush of people – could have been London. I stopped to watch a performance at one point and was concerned that someone would steal the scooter. I was torn between trying to watch the performance and watch the scooter. I woke as I was trying to navigate through a crowd of teenagers that I could have easily walked among.

An hour later , sitting here with coffee and pen & paper, I’m laughing out loud. Don’t we do that? Take something that is a fun toy, and try to shoehorn it into usefulness to justify it? Not even notice that doing so creates more distractions and obstacles from the constructed “purpose”?

I am reframing the “not recommended for people over 50” entirely. And I am thinking of you and your daily prayer for God to make you useful. And I am thinking now I should perhaps be writing to Oscar Wilde instead.

Maybe “make me joyful” is a more honest prayer?

Dear HXH.

Playing with form again. Perhaps not the most productive way for me to work these days, but an old habit. Handwriting on unlined paper. Numbers and scratches for iambs and spondees. Illegible corrections.

I pulled a book off the shelf. What made me think of you?

I keep throwing myself at the feet of strangers, circling around them again, they are both familiar and made strange when viewed from a new point in time. This is the way of things, isn’t it? There is a painful roundness to the world – I started something new going over old territory.

The world is too round for my determination. The time=distance cluttered with objects as real as anything I think I can hold in my hands.

The Too Sharp Corners of the Too Round World. 

I keep accidentally dredging up evidence of my own life. Evidence is a funny word, really, in use. After all, evidence is just support for an argument. For a hypothesis.

The introduction to your poems presents the evidence that you likely existed.

Believe in god’s perfection: a circular affectation, a gold-leafed halo, a ring.
But the world in rotation slips — an oblique perspective of life, a provocation.
The distance fills with substance. All truth is observation.


I am not a creature constructed
for journal-writing.

Is it odd that I am just now discovering this? I need to talk to someone. Living or dead. Part of me is concerned that this means I am defined by others. After all, we use one voice speaking to one person, and another when turning to someone else’s ear and embrace. Multitudes, for the many we love in so very differing ways.

I have a flash of memory of my mother angry with my, eavesdropping on my telephone conversation with a friend: “Why can’t you be that person when you are talking to me?”
There were so many answers to that question.
I think I shrugged.
At 16.

Who am I when I am not interacting with someone specific? That quiet watcher who tilts her head in puzzlement. Like a dog: taking interest, but not making up a story to imagine the world into meaning. It is a peaceful place. But lonely. Maybe that is why dogs curl up tightly against each other in musky dens?

Why Leonard presses his skull into mine until I have to distract him with a pig’s ear or a bit of cheese.

This desire than needs an object.

I should have been a dancer.