as is my handwriting,
which shocks me quite
a bit upon grazing
it as I survey my
desk. do I instantly
begin to steam, like
in cartoons, turn red,
smoke out my ears
and nose, eye-veins
enlarge so that there
is more red than white
or brown or black or
hazel (every once in
a while, like dad)? am
I now more calm than
anything else, how very
simple and quick I go
from cartoon melo-
drama, hyperbole,
to serenity, it can’t
be the unexpected
interruption of my
dad showing up here?
how could that be? I
wonder, and in con-
clusion, chuckle. it
was more of a multi-
beat or multi-syllabic
chuckle than one that
might be mistaken as
hmph, perhaps, or a
hiccough. stirring in
the background at the
moment is a poetry
reading, live, on zoom,
my first time, welcome
to the roaring ’20s, I
think. calm. a warm
feeling between the
bottom of my neck
and the line of my
chest. I overhear
“the discovery of
joy,” exactly as I
write this. only
a few seconds
between the
words coming
at my ear from
my phone that
I’ve hung on a
couple of hooks
on the wall next
to my desk and
seeing them
onscreen, here,
in the tiny home
where I exist, and
have, without even
one visitor now, for
sixteen months, yes,
it has been sixteen,
the range of emo-
tions that I feel,
have felt, from
seeing something
so terrifying that
I had written, or
hopefully, rather,
misreading a line
that I had written,
barely able to read
my own handwriting
any more, and the
modicum of sway
of the words and
sounds that are
piped in from the
poetry reading,
which I hear in
bits and as they
drift into my room
from my phone,
from the east
coast, in fact,
a book launch.
the unexpected
interruption by
my father. my
morbid sense of
humor, almost
alongside my
irrational and
short temper,
all of which,
I want to say,
are part of a
cognizant and
consistent effort
on my part simply
to allow things to
come at me, that
openness that gives
permission for what-
ever comes my way
to do what it does,
while I experience
it, am fed by it, and
try not to let any-
thing get out of
hand; this kind
of living is
a luxury made
available to me
by the imposed
solitude, which
is nothing I ever
wanted, ever even
thought would find
me, because I had
no way to predict,
much less to com-
prehend what this
foreign landscape
would look like, how
it might feel; and I
definitely feel it. and
I am yet here. and all
of what I write here
to you is true (I say
today, anyway; with
a bit of a wink, an
expression of desire,
maybe just a wish,
at some soon-to-be-
embarked-upon ex-
ploration of truth, but
that might be whimsy
or fantasy, I must,
I suppose, confess.)
so I can be thank-
ful, as I try to say to
you as often as I can,
and to show you, by
showing up here,
anyway, to invite
you in, so that may-
be you accept my
invitation, perhaps
take a peek in at
me, here, check
in on how I am
doing, which
sounds nice, if
not a bit selfish,
as I, in prep-
aration for the
opposite of
solitude....
to which I add
with all the
hope that
I can muster
(which turns
out to be
quite a sur-
prising lot!),
although, as
for solitude,
at least from
what I hope
is the butt-
end of it,
I know well
enough to
be thankful
for that, too.
as I, in prep-
aration for the
opposite of
solitude....
to which I add
with all the
hope that
I can muster
(which turns
out to be
quite a sur-
prising lot!),
although, as
for solitude,
at least from
what I hope
is the butt-
end of it,
I know well
enough to
be thankful
for that, too.
