honeydunce

I turn twenty-nine in eleven days and I think I can say I’m ready, whatever ready means. I guess you do get to a point of
self-tolerance–where after a while fighting the self is a battle beyond boring, and it starts playing out like
choreography. You can call every move and motive, every self-inflicted injury. You start telling yourself not to turn
around–soon enough going forward becomes a habit.

A couple things. Like tonight in the back seat of a car, in awe of a sunset as if I haven’t seen one of those suckers before.
The slow motion drift of flags on the hill, hands in my lap stilled, heavy with words and no pen because it’s just the
moment, all I’ve got and everything I need. I went to the neurologist and after an appointment that lasted past 2 hours
it was pretty much concluded–main culprit being genetics, a brain that craves chemical correcting, so I have another
pill to fight the inevitable. Injections to try for the attacks themselves. In other news my heart rate remains chill at 52
bpm and aside from some stubborn neurons in the reflexes and the predisposition, I’m okay. I’ll keep fighting to live
more than half my life, my makeshift midafternoon nights–I’ll keep rationing my coffee and leaving when I need to. I’ll
keep remaining humble to my good days. I’ll keep enjoying the hell out of them.

It seems like too much at once but I’m trying to maintain the view outside of my mind–outside of where things get tangled
and messy and a bit too fast. School is making me nervous but I’m plugging along, muttering “this is your last math
class ever” under my breath when I need to. The poetry readings have been steady and supportive–the new book is
officially taking form. I’m somewhere in the hips and next I’ll form the lungs. I believe in my work. Another exquisite
evolution with this age and experience thing; the solid force behind it just grows and grows.

So. Twenty-nine? Bring it. I wait patient with a handshake.