honeydunce

It’s hard to think of ourselves as something important to something, to somebody else. Some people, that’s all they hope for, that’s all they want. Some people spend their living looking for the evidence, and it is like missing the lips to hunt a limb–right there, as certain as anything could ever be. You breathe, it matters. This extends. Mixes with others, feeds plants.

It’s hard to say what happens when we lose sight of what matters to hold staring contests with what doesn’t. Unattainable understanding? Tangled in a fishing net, caught finally in the life current–the littlest thing, the biggest tradition; certain defeats caught by your conquering meaning most? What is it we want from ourselves?

I write to try and understand it, to remind myself. I can unravel a thousand times in a day, but I’m still tied to something. I’m proud of that knot. I do not have a name for it; I can’t say why it’s there. Whatever tethers my heart in my chest, whatever keeps self tied to self, soul/flame/belly, precious instinct in gut. Whatever keeps me going.

Something will always bring it back. A phone call, a letter, a father, the right song/shitty weather combination–a mystery in rhythm, or the wrecking thereof. Something will take you to the bare sequence, force you to begin again there. Scrap paper and a leaky pen–get to it. It all falls under what the heart carries close, and if your heart is the kind that carries a lot, then it’s all about what you do not drop.