Somehow, life moves, so,
She says, when is the next substack? she does not know I can’t
not since her email and
(not since my desk has become community third space)
I want lately to put things
differently- time / energy/ here now/ it’s always to someone
/now it’s to her. She says: will you be home tonight? she doesn’t know
what she means- to me, home, will I? you
tell me.
I burn each day
a matchstick that says
‘self-preservation’ ‘fear of’ ‘self-sabotage’
‘past lives’ ‘anxiety’ or ancient woes-
Of course it’s still here. I am too
particular, its annoying, to let it go
for good, and we assimilate into ways
of speaking that make sense
for you and then for me and then for you-
this was meant to be an email. It will be
made public someday- god-willing- shared in- a life
worth examining.
Who knows?
To my friends here:
Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people- I am lost and destroyed. There is a woman who softens me- things excavated and turned to dust by exposure- now that I’m older- it’s different now I think, I am different- feel,-
Plainly- I am a kept man of sorts- I only want to share that Al sent me an email that would break even this wall- And so it did- a sort of earned devotion. Still, there is a distance which punishes, two mountain ranges and six hours of high desert, from here to there. I burn a candle for the distance, which collapses, between a fifteen inch digital gap and I put my hand on the camera when the night gets too heavy- such gestures so close to meaninglessness, a posturing humiliation- I burn a match for humiliation and the gesture collapses into beauty, care, the void of being- my floor is littered with burn-out debris- the sputtering build up from an age-old untouched engine. I am running again.
I tell Theo we’re official and someday maybe somewhere else: I want to show him the letters. He would say, oh, he would say, finally, maybe, as many have, and many too: you deserve this Oli. They don’t know what they mean- to me, to deserve, them, Jesus guys I cry for all of you. I am crying now- I deserve- do I?- can I?- someone- tell me- and every time I open my screen to her I also cry. I can’t explain it- It’s just that its delicate- just precious- so easy to hurt- easier to break- my hands shake.
I said to them all I am so fucked up; there are parts of me breaking now that I rested atop; there are ways of being so ingrained in my misery that to remove them is to take my very flesh- I am breaking over a kiss on the cheek. You don’t understand- hard years- I am breaking for lack of sleep, a body that keeps me awake.
And this was meant to be in a letter too:
Somewhere right now, I forget the distance and your agenda, Alicia, you and I are set similarly, I have no doubt. Viv sits opposite you and Kate me, our reservations and gesticulations mirror from 8 hours away. This, I suppose, means something, though I couldn’t say how and to what degree, but in its way it warms me; We must both be tired, or life has betrayed us both. All the same, or either way, Montana wanes. The river and hill are a memory of a memory now, distorted and showing me nothing of life or its complexities. Instead they are only showing me the complications of mind, the way She and I must reconcile impossible chasms, that optimism remains more or less a trick of time, brought down by time’s punctuation. Is it true that we parallel? Five hundred and fifty miles away I cannot know; naught besides what fits the phone screen, and that is always the kitchen light, and beautiful creases and black eyes. I am so different here. The tilted face revealed only, and blue eyes bloodshot with tears, an unspoken devotion which cancels my Friday appointment. We had a conversation that erased the overlap and unsuspended disbelief- I showed her something that festered: a little wound. Then the wound turned inside out and blustered and then collapsed and she leaned into the wound and it was something else- some flayed out inner self. So now I guess new definitions await.
So that’s what I’ve got; just an update of sorts. If my substack falls apart don’t blame me, it was a placeholder in many ways. The crushes withered- sorry- you should have- too late- I cannot remember your names- there is only Al in dappled sun- her room- her hands- lips-
a poem to leave you with:
POEM FOR ALICIA 12/12
Good is in the world you
Arrive soonish
My bed not-
My sheets need- oh
Well- tomorrow is another day and the day after
Will leg on leg
And will head do feel the same - it was
Your car I remembered today
covered in stuff and mine dusty
We are each ourselves in many ways
Me for instance my feet
On yellow cement half buried and
Everything slinking cat like over the fence away
(One imagines your shoes covered in a layer
Freshly pulled moss and needing knock)
(Everyone does, in fact) And something dripping
off your nose, ice maybe distinctly not
like it does in Alabama- which defines me
As well.
If nothing is for certain
(it certainly is, god, I’m sorry) I
find here and there tangible unsteady touch-points
By which my feet set themselves and even then
Man you can’t- it’s good still even then
When they make contact
Better- still- even
when the brevity dispossesses a finger
My finger, of its length
You’ll never believe it- Just
the moment you walked up
It’s so classic-
It is so nice to sit here with you, in this way; although
There is not much else to say right now. And
Who knows when we will be here again.
Merry Christmas.
Best,
Oliver