11.6.07

I can't even write a song.

This has been brewing for some time and I fear I'll still miss it. It's a slippery little thing, grief, it moves like love or memory and never lets your hands close.

I'm ok with this. I've learned to love this precipice and this final lie after stepping out-a brief moment of suspension before the fall and the ultimate crash. I enjoy this splintering half moment of weightlessness and defiance.

We know what's coming. We always do. As a species we're stupid, but not stupid enough to stave the certainty. We will crash. We will hurt and we will climb up and do it again because we are little more than piles of bullshit and habit. Carbon and repetition. A mobius strip of grunting forward, falling back and off; climbing again to some frightening height and falling all over. Endlessly looped in a roller coaster of decisions and indecisions and some catlike awareness of the fatality and accelerating stupidity.

None of this is what was meant.

What I meant to say is that our heart finds a landscape. I noticed this yesterday on a clipped out strip of road that stretches from Aurora, Il to Waukesha, Wi. My heart always seeks this few thousand feet left to right of the hundred miles or so north (then south-always falling) in times of loss and being lost.

I couldn't set a toe in DeKalb for over a year. Just the ground made my knees tip in and my heart an anvil. I lost a piece of the north side of Chicago when Michelle moved on. Sugar Grove burns like the bottom of my pipe but smells like tar and wet leaves.

there's a geography and a tempo to love and to love's passing. I won't fight it and I won't love it and I won't leave it. Winona will always be my souls' cage and New Mexico the tears. Illinois is the voice; a different song every few miles.

It's amazing anyone can stay in one place. The scars we step on every day. The fading photos we pass on the way to work-I'm a faulty camera that I love and hate and can't let go.

The trouble is: when I said that all pain connects with all pain and that hurt is static, that we have monochromatic emotions in the face of our agonies and they're all the same color and texture-well, our loves are the same.

It's only the size that scares you.

You see? I got it wrong.

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