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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

Three people are asleep in the theater,
each one missing a different plot
slow light disappear then lifting
across a cleft chin, cracked lips, furrow sloping into bridge.
Mistake and misery bypassed while
the rest of the audience cries or pretends not to cry
(the kind of thing we do because
we always assume that someone’s watching us)

There is a drift and leaving.
A departure that swells in us,
blocks out the other bodies, the traffic,
the kind of slumber that requires walking and function,
days of it you can stack into nickel pisas
the kind of mess you can make with you whole heart
the undecided blue of the room
(it could be early morning,
it could be just beginning night.

“Poets aren’t rock stars. I’m not sure they should be. Poetry rattles you, and it’s hard to pay for that,” he offers.
“I’d hate to see poetry commodified. It keeps it safe and sacred.”
- Richard Siken

Saying Your Names
Chemical names, bird names, names of fire
and flight and snow, baby names, paint names,
delicate names like bones in the body,
Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing,
names that no one’s ever able to figure out.
Names of spells and names of hexes, names
cursed quietly under the breath, or called out
loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again,
calling you home. Nicknames and pet names
and baroque French monikers, written in
shorthand, written in longhand, scrawled
illegibly in brown ink on the backs of yellowing
photographs, or embossed on envelopes lined
with gold. Names called out across the water,
names I called you behind your back,
sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable,
the names of flowers that open only once,
shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops,
or muffled by pillows, or whispered in sleep,
or caught in the throat like a lump of meat.
I try, I do. I try and try. A happy ending?
Sure enough — Hello darling, welcome home.
I’ll call you darling, hold you tight. We are
not traitors but the lights go out. It’s dark.
Sweetheart, is that you? There are no tears,
no pictures of him squarely. A seaside framed
in glass, and boats, those little boats with
sails aflutter, shining lights upon the water,
lights that splinter when they hit the pier.
His voice on tape, his name on the envelope,
the soft sound of a body falling off a bridge
behind you, the body hardly even makes
a sound. The waters of the dead, a clear road,
every lover in the form of stars, the road
blocked. All night I stretched my arms across
him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing
with all my skin and bone Please keep him safe.
Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be
like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed
to pieces. Makes a cathedral, him pressing against
me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe
his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me
like stars. Names of heat and names of light,
names of collision in the dark, on the side of the
bus, in the bark of the tree, in ballpoint pen
on jeans and hands and the backs of matchbooks
that then get lost. Names like pain cries, names
like tombstones, names forgotten and reinvented,
names forbidden or overused. Your name like
a song I sing to myself, your name like a box
where I keep my love, your name like a nest
in the tree of love, your name like a boat in the
sea of love — O now we’re in the sea of love!
Your name like detergent in the washing machine.
Your name like two X’s like punched-in eyes,
like a drunk cartoon passed out in the gutter,
your name with two X’s to mark the spots,
to hold the place, to keep the treasure from
becoming ever lost. I’m saying your name
in the grocery store, I’m saying your name on
the bridge at dawn. Your name like an animal
covered with frost, your name like a music that’s
been transposed, a suit of fur, a coat of mud,
a kick in the pants, a lungful of glass, the sails
in wind and the slap of waves on the hull
of a boat that’s sinking to the sound of mermaids
singing songs of love, and the tug of a simple
profound sadness when it sounds so far away.
Here is a map with a your name for a capital,
here is an arrow to prove a point: we laugh
and it pits the world against us, we laugh,
and we’ve got nothing left to lose, and our hearts
turn red, and the river rises like a barn on fire.
I came to tell you, we’ll swim in the water, we’ll
swim like something sparkling underneath
the waves. Our bodies shivering, and the sound
of our breathing, and the shore so far away.
I’ll use my body like a ladder, climbing
to the thing behind it, saying farewell to flesh,
farewell to everything caught underfoot
and flattened. Names of poisons, names of
handguns, names of places we’ve been
together, names of people we’d be together,
Names of endurance, names of devotion,
street names and place names and all the names
of our dark heaven crackling in their pan.
It’s a bed of straw, darling. It sure as shit is.
If there was one thing I could save from the fire,
he said, the broken arms of the sycamore,
the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard —
your breath on my neck like a music that holds
my hands down, kisses as they burn their way
along my spine — or rain, our bodies wet,
clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging
nipple to groin — I’ll be right here. I’m waiting.
Say hallelujah, say goodnight, say it over
the canned music and your feet won’t stumble,
his face getting larger, the rest blurring
on every side. And angels, about twelve angels,
angels knocking on your head right now, hello
hello, a flash in the sky, would you like to
meet him there, in Heaven? Imagine a room,
a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.
- Richard Siken