melting off the back porch

Have you ever felt the ground start to tilt, a signal of a moodiness coming? If it is to be compared to anything,
then compare it to a storm approaching–the kind you can watch roll right in and blow through trees one at a time. A
marching line of rustle and bending, a choreographed movement of prayer and submission–it’s a fight between eerie
and beautiful. I compare it to that, some approaching blues or sadness.

So I’ve been a little “off” this week, a loneliness I haven’t had the energy nor desire to fight. It’s okay. I enjoy feeling,
you know. Which is the irony of dealing with chronic pain and depression–life is learning a dance between relishing
and loathing this thing I crave called feeling. Today was the day that all preparation of approaching
sadness came to use, as I crashed and crashed hard. I’ve shuffled a worngroove from bed to couch to bed to couch to
bed again. I drifted off again and again and felt damn well delirious at one point, bouncing from dream to dream as if I
was simply looking through a stack of photographs. All of them were sadness. When awake I sat there with them
weighing on my body, a sort of sagging in the heart. This feels like the most of it–the storm has wandered offto the
left and I’m coming up like out of water.

A necessary day, but a wasted one nonetheless. I’m ready for so many things. I’m ready for a new week and a better
mood(less lonely, more focus), more writing–lately that’s all I want to do(I want to sink my life into a pot of ink–want
to be the feather end dipping in, the words coming out in beats of three and dripping wet. If not writing, then what?
Then nothing). I’m ready for more melting, the slow dip and climbing tease of temperature, more soon-coming spring.
Finished revolving around the release, as letting go is not a stagnant stage(and I cannot be slowly opening a palm
forever). It’s time to forward. Shake feathers dry. Be light.

obligatory snow picture

Snow and snow and snow. That’s been going on. The storm hit the Friday before last,
andevery day since then, something’s been falling from the sky. I tweaked my knee while
navigatingthrough the stomped down white, so I’m stuck wearing a giant brace on my right leg
this week(it’s a wonky sprain). The side effect: an interesting social experiment. Plus
I have to walk a lot more slowly. That’s different.

The doctor appointment? Went well. The mole looks benign and the doctor told me I
don’t have to remove it at this point, unless I want to. I think I’ll keep it for a while. I have to get
blood work done to check my thyroid. Also, anemia may be an issue. I can start the
paperwork for FMLA. I said it once and I’ll say it again: I’m thankful for such a wonderful,
attentive medical team. I’ve been feeling(and doing) a lot better because of their support.

Writing = full of surprises. My poem in [out of nothing] is about to be published(authors
were allowed to see the preview issue to check format and such). Open Thread Review
accepted a poem for publication–it will appear in their second print anthology.
Today I sent in my manuscript of poetry for the RADAR productions contest. A winner
receives 25 print copies of the poetry and the opportunity to read at an event in San Francisco.
I plan to record by the first week of March. Sister Spit is coming to town in April(!!!), and
I’m still working on out-of-town dates for the summertime. It’s been a slow and
steady fall/early winter for me–most of my focus stayed on my classes, so writing progress
dimmed a bit. I did some groundwork, and submitting lots of work for publishing consideration.
Doing so, and being accepted, has really helped me let go of the critical eye. I’m used
to approaching my work with an almost dismissive nature when really? I need to give myself
more credit(I cannot be afraid of that). I love to write more than anything, and I’m thankful
for the ability. So I’m feeling pretty good about it right now. Now to push out the sex
anthology, and piece together my next book.

Last but certainly most important, my sister found out what she’s having. A boy! I will have
a niece AND a nephew, and I’m over the moon. Everything looks good and she’s healthy,
and that’s all I care about. My family is so important to me, and I’m so glad that I have a
sister to look up to. She’s tremendous, and I can’t wait to meet the newest addition(coming in July).

When I get ready to read a book, I better have back up. That means at least one book of poetry
to accompany any longer nonfiction or fiction work I’m trucking through. My intake requires a balance.
Also, as a poet, I want to stay in a constant state of study. Going to readings, dragging my finger
over unique structures I admire, and losing my mind over new discoveries. Like the first
book pictured above, “Crush” by Richard Siken. I’ve mentioned his name to few poet-loving friends
and they all nod in agreement and understanding. Perhaps I’m behind the time. I have Marty
McConnell to thank for the discovery(she asked the readers of her journal to name their
favorite queer poets, and Siken’s name appeared in multiple comments). So thank you, Marty.
I read 4 of his poems and sent him a message immediately to let him know how much I
appreciated his work. That’s another thing I’m working on with words: giving credit loud and
instant when it’s due.

Other books in the picture above, stacked beneath Siken: “Wellspring” by Sharon Olds. Renee
gave me a gentle nudge in checking her out, and I studied her work for a project in poetry class
last semester. I’ve read two of her other books and I’m already swept away by this one.
Knowing how little she reveals outside of the page(in regards to her childhood and past) makes
her words even more stunning and intense. Good poetry is like being knocked over and not wanting to get up.

Next is “It’s So You,” edited by Michelle Tea. Various individuals contributed to this collection to
discuss personal style. Including Eileen Myles, my favorite. I will read anything that Tea is involved
with, honestly. But first, the book beneath that: a collection of letters between Vita Sackville-West
and Virginia Woolf. Oh. My. Goodness. Joseph described it best by calling it a “torrid love affair.”
Expect more entries on here in regards to the book as I delve deeper into it. Vita is such an interesting
spirit–the introduction refers to her as almost being “professional” when it comes to breaking
up marriages and having intense affairs with other women. She adores Woolf’s writing, and
Woolf takes to her because she is very mothering. I love knowing that “Orlando” was written with
Vita in mind as Orlando–that it is a book referred to as “the longest love letter ever written.”
Every time I start reading, I think of my dear friend Jess and how much she loved Virginia Woolf’s
work. I owe the exposure to Jess and Jess alone.

In between various housekeeping things, I started rolling my plethora of change tonight. I’m
tipping $120 and I still have a ways to go. Who knew? Change seems so random and everywhere
and not mattering too much. But oh when you archive it…the currency really shows itself.
I guess the word “change” is appropriate here.

In other news: another doctor appointment tomorrow. This one is a check up, some various
tests, and I’m going to see about getting this mole on my chest removed. For as long as I can
remember, I’ve had a beauty mark smack dab in the middle between my breasts. Two other
women in my family have one in the same place, which is kind of funny. However, mine is the
biggest, and I think I spy the first two or three warning signs of the ol’ “time to get the thing removed”
handbook. I’m used to seeing it, but parting won’t be such sweet sorrow–piece of mind
acquired is much better. Be done with it.

I have a busy, busy weekend in front of me(including a documentary on the Paris ballet), running
parallel to the warning of a snow storm coming our way. As usual, people are getting very excited
and anxious about the promise of severe weather, understandably so. I prefer to just wait and
see though. I’ll put on my boots and deal with it. It’s February, so I’m not surprised, and I’m
not disappointed. Spring is next. It’s coming, no matter how much people complain and detest the
current temperatures. It’ll pass.

That’ll do. And now, to bed.

I’m awake. After hours of a manmade sleep. It is like going to bed in an actual bed and waking up on a piece of
driftwood in the middle of the sea. You know, drifting. I couldn’t make a fist when I first woke up. Now I can.

I woke up with a migraine and tried to be tough. Pleaded with the head and limbs to behave long enough for me to
get to work and do my job. Bargained with the self. Okay, so you have class tonight. Forget about class. Focus on
getting to work. Get to work. Focus on doing things.

Sat in the meeting with three fingers pressed to the left temple. Pushing and pushing against the pressure there. I
was trying to think past the instinct of getting up and heaving in the trash can. Meeting adjourned and I made it but a
coworker is worried and gives me words of encouragement. Appreciated but I can’t do much with them.

Realize that my hair is a mess. I tied it back but it’s coming loose.

I walk to my supervisor’s office and he already knows I’m sick. I leave for home after a 1/2 day of effort, and every
step on the concrete hurts. I wish I could explain it without sounding silly. It’s a painful vibration from each foot
connecting–the tuning fork travels all the way up to my head somehow. I get on the bus. I spread my scarf out on
my lap because I don’t have a plastic bag and I’m going to lose my breakfast. I’m sitting in the very back, casually
glancing at the others sitting nearby, trying to imagine their reaction to me cupping fabric around my mouth. I play
the little mantra in my head (It’s-okay-it’s-okay-it’s-okay-you-are-almost-home). I thwart the instinct and stumble onto
my street. I am walking like a drunk but I’m sober.

I slept and now I’m awake, reeling in the afterbirth of what comes with the usual. Disoriented and alone but not really
lonely. More like relief, to be honest. I do not want anyone to see me this way, and I’m kind of glad that I don’t have
to call and tell anyone about it. It’s too hard and too sad and “I’m tired of this” roles off my tongue like the easiest
thing. I’m not you–I can’t make it through my Monday. This is the only time I want to be different, something inanimate.

I think about my supervisor bashing FMLA after I told him that it might be my only option in terms of health and job
security. I don’t want to believe his naysaying when it comes to protection. What else can I do? It’s easy for someone
that isn’t dealing with a chronic illness to be so jaded and dismissive. I want to prove him wrong. I’m also incredibly
worried that he is right, that the protection promised will not be for my benefit in the end. I have 3 various doctor appointments
this wee so I will just have to see. Then what? Tests, worry, hope? Waiting?

I tell myself everyday that I am more than pain, more than an illness. But some days I have a hard time listening.
Some days I sleep and I sleep and I wake up on driftwood, and I wait for nothing except an acceptable time to go back
to bed because I don’t feel well enough to do anything else. Afraid to make plans because I don’t want to break them,
afraid to speak because I can’t do shit with your pity.

It’s 8:48pm. I stop here. Reasonable time to retire.