A tree fell on a power line yesterday, it was on the main road, it knocked our power out for a couple of hours, it was strange, the wind gusted up and came from nowhere, whatever God wills, happens.
William Faulkner said in writing you should kill your darlings. I've done that, and now I observe, but there's still a twin-grief, she and I hurt over identical and nonidentical loss, it all ends as women sitting alone.
I left flowers on a grave, yellow cherries in a bowl, elegant black ribbons with words I penned on them. If I could trade I would, I would be under the ground, I have so many reasons to not want to be here anymore, you could have all of my treasures, everything I've collected, an estate, a cedar shed with screened windows-so that only rainbows can get in; not bugs, our clot of homes and assets, my kayak, a lake and mountains, my mean old dog, everything but my unhappiness, I will take that with me to the soft, red clay of this place, it's unfair, it should have been me, not you, everyone loves you, everyone hates me.
I saw someone smoking a Mexican cigarette yesterday, it was early morning at Brenau, the lazy smoke looked like a burning landfill. I'm tired of writing, tired of speaking, tired of climbing gargantuan wooden steps and seeing the graffiti of a black grease pen, these endless and decomposing stairs that rise slowly into a sealed, blueish rose-colored sky that looks like pieces of Heaven I can never have, a calmness in my head and my heart, something right there that is so far away, a place where there is no pain or suffering, another life, it's unfair, I want to be there.
