it's 2:38 am, on November 29, 2001 - old flames.
~
It says somewhere, which is inconsequential, 'old flame'.
The Barenaked Ladies say, "thanks, that was fun, don't forget, no regrets, 'cept maybe one".
One or two, for sure. I'm kinda not sure what they are though.
~*~
The driveway is too dusty for wintertime. It should, by rights, already be covered in a light dusting of snow like icing sugar, but you can't push a cold snap. They come when they want to, and shoving just keeps the temperature hanging in the balance some. More.
You need to get more wood from the shed, before there really is snow on the ground and all the logs are damp. You're wrapped up in a blanket, sitting in a wicker chair at the window and staring out at a lack of snow.
It really is cold, despite the lack. A token wintery symbol; a fire going in the hearth and your toes haven't been warm since last August, it feels. The window will get boring very, very soon. You have to rake the leaves up and blow out the candles, soon enough. Soon, indeed.
It seems uncharitable to leave the wood out in the shed when it really should be sitting in the front hall, in the bin, waiting to stoke the fire. Keep the house warm for these dark months. Even at high noon, the press of dark is faint but there.
Dust has settled on Lynne's boots as she's come to see you for the last three days straight. She's a bit worried that you're going to do something stupid, perhaps, and very worried that you're too solitary. Lynne's a bit of a nuisance, but you like her so you put up with her smoking and her boy.
You couldn't say what you needed; you couldn't write them either. After a last glance down the driveway, to the road, you get up and get ready to gather some wood. It's been put off long enough-- time to stockpile for winter, dig in and get ready to bear the brunt of it.
Your boots are tied and you clomp outside, cheeks stinging. It doesn't take long. There's far too much time to think about, think. The day is washed out like a newspaper clipping, grey and off-white and colors faded. There's very little wind, and your house looks huddled down. All the green has died, ready to hibernate too.
Somehow, the newspaper this morning, that paper and ink, though it rubbed off on your hands, didn't seem to imprint quite so well enough to explain why things that you can't see are so goddamned important.
~*~
Okay, I can't continue that anymore. I just really can't.
This is my journal, right? And so, I should write about me. Or what I think about something. And what I'm thinking right now is, I wish I didn't put stock into things I can't see. And, there should be some way to stop.
There's this thing right here that, okay yes sexy. But it's also.
'He's mixing God's name with Chris's and begging and praying are all the same thing.'
Some day, I want to get a tattoo that says, "I think it has always been my way of praying", because claire said that about language and poetry, and I understand that because somewhere, far back, I decided that it mattered to me, to have language as my prayers, and my begging, too. The word in latin, I think, is 'orare'. It means 'to beseech, pray, or orate'. But to pray, or orate, you have language-- you must be a writer before you say things, before you read your own script, you have to write it.
There are only two letters difference between 'orare' and 'amare' -- "or" to "am". Prayer, maybe, should be about somebody, and not about how you say it.
I said yesterday to Cathy that "I wanna be an actor so that I can pretend to fall in love a lot."
~*~
Just remembered this: I seem to have three kinds of journal-reading days.
Was going to have this discussion, but, first, I didn't know if I could, and also, the journals I seek end up being, one for, for-- no, start somewhere and one else. Right. I read one just for st. petersburg, and because there's breathlessness in everything. but I think, everything I read is for breathlessness, so it's hard to talk about other people in terms of something else.
I read claire, of course, for poetry, and it feels green. --oh, and there are those few I read for absurdity, like Sheila and Bobby because they dose me on absurdity like no one else.
And then there are the couple that used to be totally different and now they're not. I read them because; and-- except I wasn't going to do that anymore, so I read them because.
Sometimes I reread myself, too, because it ends up doing -- I don't have the language for this right now. I think it might be too wintery. There's a noise of faint banging against the drainpipe outside.
~
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