Not Alone

Last night, feeling rather morose and mopey and altogether out of sorts, I wrote about missing places I’ve grown so fond of. Afterwards, I was surprised and cheered to find that, as it turns out, I am not the only one.

Over and over, I saw people I love and respect from my alma mater saying the same things, more or less, in their own ways. I am homesick. Something is not right. Where is home?  Continue reading

Just take me back to Italy or Ipswich.

10246808_10152387513886789_7785261663538854280_n - Copy

Pathway to a church in Hadleigh, UK

Tonight, there is no where I want to be so much as the other side of the Atlantic. I imagine that the sun is washing London pink and orange now; it’s summer, and morning comes early. I imagine the beds I have no slept in in a good long while—near Heathrow, and the two-inch mattress on the seventh floor of Manson Place, and the couch in Florence under fourteen-foot-high Tuscan ceilings. The futon in Naples and the bunk at Castle Rock, Edinburgh. The floor of a Dublin hotel room, sneaking. S’s mother’s house near Ipswich, with a little window to the room so you could open it an look out over the street.  Continue reading

Transition

I have been living on my own for two weeks and three days, and I am still not used to it. Sometimes the feeling of loneliness creeps up on me: what exactly am I supposed to do without my Elon roommates? There’s no one to eat an entire Kraft deluxe Mac n’ cheese with, straight out of the pot the noodles boiled in. No one to persuade to go to the gym (or to be persuaded by). Or to drive to Cookout with, vowing to save half a milkshake for the next day. I don’t cook as much here because there’s no one to eat with, or eat around; no one to help eat the pan of brownies I want to bake.  Continue reading

Enough – Katie Peterson

So many forget-me-nots, with their white centers,
scattered, you’d say, if there weren’t
so many everywhere, as many as the stars
last night in between the branches
above the porch, behind the house.
Was it an argument or were there just
things they had to say?
I could have faith in so many creatures—
the old setter from the neighbor yard
who follows me around the corner
and no longer, the chick with its new beak
just past breakable whose lighter top feathers
have a bit of flight, any mother bear—
you say things and the next day
it’s like they don’t matter, we want our faces
to alter though we don’t want to get older, neither
do we want to get younger, repetition
with less knowledge is ridiculous,
just ask the Greeks, you get to keep
being a tree but without the branch
that showed the sky your starlike shape?
I don’t think so. Steadiness can be useful,
but my loyalty loves a form
that will follow me through changes.
At a diagonal the dark woods
on the back slope have enough space
to walk between, not enough to hide.
He looks into them
and writes notes to his mother, she
looks into them and finds alignment,
or looks for what she wants.
She has a human skeleton on her desk.
He has a protractor. I had wishes
for both of them yesterday
but the weather has become so kindly,
so temperate, I forget what blessings
they don’t think they have.

This came through Poets.org the other day and it made me pause. There’s something here so lovely- the line that mentions the mother bear, the last clause. 

So, June happened…

Please excuse me (which I say as much for my subconscious as for you, whomever or whoever hasn’t stopped reading).

This seems to be the summer of I keep not writing, which is both okay and not okay. What am I thinking? I need to write more! But then the whole MFA thing, writing all the time thing, starts in just a few weeks…and so it is inside my head. Continue reading