the way you wait up for me

i’ve been writing every night, and it makes me think of hilary. one of natalie goldberg’s books on writing talks about being given permission to write, how every writer is given permission by another. there is no doubt that hilary gave me mine, wrapped up in saturday afternoons, coffee, and finding so many secret parts of myself mirrored in another human being. she gave me my copy of writing down the bones; it stays on my desk. tonight, i caught myself tracing the inscription with my index finger-

i was thinking about visiting her last march, in the middle of everything i thought i could count on dissolving under my fingertips. i was thinking about her mother’s kitchen table, rhubarb pie, and yellow roses. i was thinking about her smile.

i’d like to visit when i’m not falling apart.

i did not make new years resolutions, and maybe it’s time. flying up to michigan sometime before next february, when i am not in eight million pieces. i want to meet her in the airport with yellow roses. i want to give her a hug that means, thank you for those few days, for reminding me of-

of myself, i think.

california on my mind. heather and sarah and taylor. monique used to live there, but i don’t know where she is, now. i’d like to go to a beach, pick up shells. i never minded the sand underneath my fingernails, catching in the creases between my fingers. i wonder what a weekend alone in california would do, what words would slip out, what pieces of my heart that i haven’t seen before- and then, come home to him.

i would like that. — another resolution, then.

also: i want to write at least six days a week, but i won’t get too mad at myself if it doesn’t happen. i want to learn to make my voice sound the way it does in my head, so the idea of reading my poems at open mic night doesn’t make my stomach twist in that ridiculous stage-fright kind of way. i am outspoken. i absolutely refuse to be afraid of reading my poems to people. i want to be a better friend. and i want to take pictures of neon and stars and neon stars.

ps. it rained yesterday. the desert is saying goodbye to winter.

Hilary

February 4, 2004

I had a horrible start to my morning. And then I read this. And smiled. A Lot. And tears came to my eyes. It takes my breath away to think that I had (or have had) any major impact on your life the way you have on mine. And just maybe when the runways aren’t filled with ice, I could turn the tables and come visit you someday. I would love to have you back here.

intothesky

i love this and you know, maybe being in a million pieces just means that the image of our life is being transformed. being put back together in a different way.

bachelorette

you are Amazing. xo.

i would like that, too. we must make time. and. i am glad, that you have a good him to come home to.

February 5, 2004

ryn: it would be fantastic if you drove up. But I don’t know how you and Heather would both get here. Maybe she’d fly… But you’d have plenty of time, and if you arrived any time between 2/19 and 2/24 we’d have a few days together. And, if I had to work any of those days, you two could explore and write without me. But I’d need to know dates soon, and I don’t know that I can ask that of you.

So you’re the one I reminded him of. And you’re the one he thought I was. And you’re the one who wanted Bacardi O at the 40 Watt, and they only had regular Bacardi..so that is what I got you, with my fake ID. And you know Steve. And you know Jeffrey. And you know Nickie. I’ve only met you once I think, and can’t really remember your face, but I’ll never forget your name. How are you?

i can never get my poems to sound right when i read them out loud. i just get people to read them in their heads the ways they think they ought to sound. i love how you describe so accurately to feeling-in-a-thousand-pieces, but i hate how you so painfully feel the feeling-in-a-thousand-pieces. but i guess they’re kind of inextricably linked. take care morgan, don’t forget i’m your sophia.