thanks to Sophie for mentioning Patrick Donnelly, an amazing poet.

After a Long Time Away
Patrick Donnelly

Everything is glad of me.
The radio plays only flutes.
My key fits locks all over town,
turns them over and over,
churches open their double doors,
the library has stacked all the books
in my favorite order. My throat
starts singing up and up.
Plants think up fresh leaves,
even the dust on the shelves
has got a new pair of shoes,
and waxy yellow peppers jump in my pots,
cook cheaply into a thick glee.
Trucks kindly do not grind my house apart;
the checks I write clear quietly and completely
in and out of the twilight, water-cool
vaults of my blue marble bank.
And death is just a word,
like doorjamb, magpie,
that twirls and worries gently.

I like how I have to keep turning the volume up as I go running. That add-distance/add-decibels thing I do on instinct, like I
want the music(selected just for that purpose) to take my legs away from me.
Dressing appropriately goofy for the elements. See above.
Pick up soccer in the park.
I like how Abacus flips out every night, promptly at 10 o’clock.
Catching up with old connections. Distance and time, you funny things. Prankster brothers with brilliant moments of perspective.
Cleaning, and then sitting in a clean apartment completely alone and grinning.
Sobriety. Everybody’s different, and everyone has a preference. I do what works for me and 7 months in, it seems to be
working. Not just for health reasons, but also in approach.
New music. Songs on repeat, songs while scribbling, songs while walking and waiting and daydreaming.
Never regretting that I ever said “I love you” to anyone I said it to.
A new book festering just beneath the surface, love affair of mountains–the kind of courting with the work you know will
break your heart because you’re building everything around it. But when it’s done, and it’s out there…you know you’re a better
person for all that exquisite trouble.
Writing. I have three shows coming up and it’s been a while–I have a lot of work waiting for the microphone and new ears.
Knowing it’s never been about anyone liking them, honest(to the pit of my gut, honestly). Knowing no matter how
scared I get, as long as I believe in it, as long as I say what I mean…I’ll be okay. Who tells your story? Waking up with
that question and living like you know the answer. Because I do.

large couscous and cold water
driving with the windows down
the talents of others
getting my first tan of the season while playing soccer
outside seating at restaurants for a party of 8
natural lighting
time share with incredible individuals
new music that moves me
running, because i want to
playing hide-n-seek with my niece
vitamin c
throat singers
thoughts before falling asleep
walking home alone
the loudest sound
the tip toe of a side glance
ability to move, express, and make damn fine guacamole
mugs that say “Frank”
using my hands
listening to gutwrenching songs on the bus
internal forgiveness, writing cadence calls for time
(she marches)
happiness is not a conclusion. it is a feeling. it’s the jigsaw of heartdrum and brake lights. treating equal what
you remember, what you forget. it’s open for appreciation. it’s nothing in particular. it’s a list of whatever
comes to me. also known as giving it a chance.

After work today I went to the coffee shop to meet with my friend Tait. I talked a lot about his novel, and how
much I enjoy reading and working through it. His belief in the work is contagious. I like when he talks about it
because he really can’t stop smiling–his eyes light up, and I can’t express the importance in that delight he
possesses for telling a story, for his craft. I know Tait as a lot of things. I’m fortunate to know him for being a phenomenal writer.

As always, our conversation proved to be all kinds of inspiring. Shortly after, I was joined by two other friends as
Tait parted for class. I talked too fast and too much about migraines, but I’m on this sharing kick in regards
to that subject–reading Andrew Levy’s book is really opening me up to commencing a dialogue, to not be
afraid of it. I had such a good time just talking about other funny things and laughing. We were outside and the sun was shining.

On the bus ride home, I reaffirmed with myself that I love so many things about the people I know. One of the
things loved most is bearing witness to their own loves and passions and talents. I get to see/experience
what happens when Tait puts words on the page. I know a handful of musicians and all of them become a
different beast when they’re playing–something untouchable as if they’re so far gone in the moment that
the world around them becomes barely a blink of light. Like Joel and Joey throwing themselves around
behind their guitars–the way they communicate through noise from opposite sides of the stage. Like Renee
getting up to the microphone, how she delivers her words and stands entirely behind them. Like Matt’s
movies and his amazing stories. Like Carrie and her precious artwork, not to mention every conversation
with her–I learn something new every time. And here I have to mention her ability to sing and wail like
nobody else. Every Katie I know is tremendous–up for anything ladies and brains for miles. Like everyone I
know has their something, and all the somethings house magnets bigger than a quilt of aortas. People,
connecting, communication, passion, witnessing–these things make my world turn. These things are
inspiring, and remind me that it’s plenty fine being who we are.

I’ve known you
for twelve years
or for six
or two months and some change
or no change just
whole numbers
the kind of days too big to swallow
left rolling on our plates
balanced from birth to the trash

or we don’t talk
or we do every day
or sometimes when the time is right
when the dusk gets drunk
and hangs around an extra beat
and the sun dipping out gets us thinking
lines end up busy
as we start to reach
at the same time

or you were in my bed for months
or I’ve never seen your room,
maybe we sat there once waiting
and nothing ever happened
and if you didn’t walk out
or I didn’t fuck up
or we were right where we needed to be
listening to crickets and talking about being kids
or we were still curfew bound
kissing as quiet as could be handled
beneath a burnt out porch light

or we were strangers
attending the same event,
playing with the rims of our cups
nursing individual regret

maybe you have no small town
and I will always stink like one
or the same vacant building worries us
or we know the same couple
or we’ve shared Sunday blues
fought similar causes
own symmetry in the way our hearts split

regardless

if this exhale is an offering,
then breathe in to accept it.

sun on broken piano.

What is the best thing about spring? Surviving. Recognizing the winter at your back and inhaling. Air still
sharp and chilly. Existing through senses instead of plowing through the day. Grinning stupid-wide, the
practice of being handsome. Rediscovering the solitude of writing outside, writing sentences that mean
something. Fighting for a good life. Understanding that I can put my dukes down.

My doctor called me back today with the results on my blood work. He said, “You’re cholesterol
looks wonderful.” Count is strong, thyroid is fine. Apparently, my blood looks great. He
definitely heard the defeated sigh that accompanied my thank you. I’m truly thankful that
the blood work is looking good. I am. But you see, there’s this thing about chronic ailments,
the pains we can’t identify but know very, very well. You just want answers. After so
long without one, you can feel yourself start to pine for it. Give me a reason for this.
Another result labeled “normal” means the search continues and you realize it may always continue.

Something’s changed over the past few years. Part of it is getting older, time elongating behind
me(20 years with this and the clock keeps ticking); another part is therapy and all the work
I’m doing to make things easier. Changes have been made, and I’m stepping forward to
more…and more, and more. In simple terms, I’m tired. I’m exhausted with fighting the
head pain so much, but I’m stubborn, and I want something better for myself. My life is anything
but wasted. I used to criticize myself for getting so caught up in moments…as
I get older I cherish it more. Despite the hard parts, I want my gifts. If it is intensity, so be
it. The writing? I’m on it. All I can do at this point is magnify the good–when it hurts to
get out of bed I must remember that I want to get out of bed. As for the migraines…
I will continue to work on myself, emotionally, spiritually and physically. If one
fears the body because the body hurts, then what better way to conquer it than by presence?
I will do what I have to do to survive. I want a full life, not half.

I’ve been reading “A Brain Wider Than the Sky” by Andrew Levy, a migraine sufferer, and it’s a
wonderful discovery. As I’ve explained to a few friends: it’s like speaking a completely different
language for most of your life, and people can only sort of understand you. And then you
pick up this book, written in that very language. The relief is monumental. All of the sadness
and struggle makes a bit more sense when you realize that you aren’t the only one
living it. Chronic illnesses can be a lonely thing. Stuck between wanting to be brave and
hoping nobody ever sees you hurting. How do I explain pain to someone, a hurt so bad that
my body disappears. Levy’s words remind me that it’s okay to want to express it.
Expression, I realize, is a key factor in making myself well.

After work today I’m going to go home and find something to break.

I did not think I could feel any worse about having a chronic illness. After a morning spent crying at my desk and in the
bathroom at work, I see that I was wrong.

So after 4:30pm I’m going to find somewhere to go and break something. I have no words, other than that I feel like a
swirling shitstorm of “I-give-up” and anger. I’m tired, and tired of being sick and tired, and tired of being tired of it.
So what to break? Dishes? Glass? Maybe I’ll just go for a run until my lungs explode. The edge of the earth must be
somewhere.