For awhile, now, I've felt like the things I used to post up in this space just aren't there anymore. And it's left me feeling startled. But not empty or void of anything that I wanted to be there -- anymore. I've wondered if being really happy in life (not sitting around late into the night with gaping wounds and bag fulls of self-pity and doubt and too much red wine) had left me without words -- without the ability to weave sounds into images that might tear at your hearts -- at least a little bit. I was worried I'd lost something of me -- of my ability to write love letters that make even the strongest of souls jump as if sneaked up upon by ghosts. But the other night, hunched up in the stairwell of my apartment building, alone. I didn't long to spill out my guts onto any page. About anything. And maybe that feels good for a change. Maybe not having to narrate a life means that I am actually just now living one. I don't have to write sprawling love letters meant to convince the love in my life -- of anything. We live love, together. And sometimes we spill it all over ourselves and make messes that have to be cleaned up. But those emotions work themselves out of me into him and back again. And there's usually not much left for this space -- or blank pages tied into a book. I use them all to live. To breathe. To share. I miss the rhythms that used to beat words in and out of sense in my head. That used to just spill out of me when I least expected it. And maybe that will return. The mimetic beats of the universe always seem to naturally even themselves out. But mostly, words have simply just felt cold to me lately. And muted. The cadence to them has been left out. Even my email messages come off a bit flat and rehearsed -- have a nice summer they all say.

It's the spring. And I am happy. And I do have things to say. (See how plain and ugly those statements sounded?) But it seems I've lost the voice with which to speak them into you. And after all, maybe that's a good thing. Because that old voice. She brought a lot of pain and hurt with her. And maybe now what I need to do is learn how to speak, again.

in the hazy cold grey morning. buzzing alarm clocks to palms closing. i sneak into that place between. where limbs become circles that bend time. enough for me to sleep.

in a dumb shower razor handed towel mouthed shakes memory across skin no words speak as if to bead on plastic walls where i am nothing but a trill lip a slip this plastic geshia doll disaster these wet foot prints

left in your butter

if there was ever a time, when i was you and you were a thousand saved box tops--from sugared cereals i was never allowed to eat as a kid--sneaked in a bag underneath the bed. and we were redeemed for a secret decoder ring. what magic we would have spoken. maybe you would have seen better. a world unlocked by patterns. than my word. maybe i would have seen. how much time steals kisses. and that you are always going to be, you. now i am only me and you are only ever the dumb african ring you left. that has never spoken. to me. not one single word.

this afternoon, my boyfriend shaved off his beard.
i've never seen him without it.
now, every time we kiss.
i feel like i'm having an affair.

tonight i learned from lucille clifton
she began by reading
why people be mad at me sometimes

and i cried
as if she were speaking the words, just to me

There's a particularly unpleasant thing about being sick, for me, and that's losing a sense of my independence. In the middle of the night when I'm huddled on the bathroom floor with a cold compress trying to stave off ear-buzzing fever swells moaning and wailing, I used to just rock and rock on cool tiles until it broke. I didn't wait for anyone to crack the door. Bring me cold glasses of water. Carry me to the couch when everything decided to stop. I didn't feel useless and out of sorts when my partner was out of phone range to hush my aches. Somehow I was stronger then. In some memory version of me. Some card carrying soldier of pain. In days when I could close the door when I showered, even if I passed out. Dropped all the bottles on their heads. When there wasn't always someone in earshot.

number of temper tantrums today: 6 (thousand)

number of cups of coffee consumed in the past 3 hours: 5
number of cups of coffee spilled on the counter in a crying frustrated rage: 2 (approximate)
number of hours slept in the last 7 nights: 20 (approximate)
number of partners driven out of the house: 1

amount of work completed: 0

i made best friends with my couch
and moaned weakly
occasionally
whale attack
only sometimes, i got an answer

I've already given myself permission to eat a corned beef sandwich this weekend.

And I'm going to try not to feel guilty about it.
At all.

Bad vegetarian. Bad.

You know, I've stopped watching, in some weird obsessive way, those terrible pornographic-American-dreamish shows about pregnancies and babies. Even the adoption ones. Mostly. Instead, now it's all comedy. And shows about addictions.

In the middle of the night last night, after several nights of desperate insomnia, I watched a program about sleep disorders. I didn't fall asleep until several hours afterward.

favor-rights!

my favorite love scene in a film is the one between baines and ada in the piano. the one with the long shot of the back of holly hunter. keitel's hands grabbing her milk white skin and perfect.

there are odd moments. when i forget that i am sick.

sometimes, i wonder about your favorite things.

when i got out of the shower this morning. the steam walked a pattern on the mirrors. i watched it creep slowly and then vanish. the breath of ghosts. for only a few seconds. i smiled, even though i was the only one there.

what are they?

tell me yours.

vrrroommmmmm.

This year, I didn't go anywhere.

We stayed in bed all morning until my eyes turned green. Took blurred lowlight photographs of deep grins and made Spanish whispers about the future.

This year, we aren't trying to forget, anything.

when we were both machines. i used to love you. the way your heart ticked like an alarm clock. second hand. and dime storms were kisses that didn't tear away skin.

"yes, my girlfriend is a lesbian."

oh dear. my horrorscope has actually suggested that i name my genitals.

oh.
oh dear.

thanks to the Suburban Hen for the nomination

i didn't even know there was such a thing.

last night in the shower
i realized that
since the arrival of your new pulli
there was no longer a need for
the sweater i'd been knitting you
out of all the lint i'd collected
from bellybuttons

The most hilarious part of the quick shopping stop I made late last night, was realizing that the first bottle of parmesan cheese that I picked up was not vegetarian (because it contained, for some reason I cannot understand, rennet). But these potato chips that I stumbled upon: Herr's Steak and Worcestershire flavor -- yep, totally vegetarian.

And yes, I did buy them. (How would I pass that up?) And yes, they do taste like steak. If steak tastes like the fake smoky "meat" flavor of veggie burgers. And yes, I realize that eating them sort of breaks my current eating bans in two ways -- potatoes and chips. But come on. How could I not?

[My partner, by the way, had a very easy answer to how I could not. He squinched up his face, while I might add, he was looking for canned veggie hot dogs (disgusting) and said, oh, god, please tell me you're not getting those. And, slightly horrified, just put them back! To which I still responded, how could I not? I think most of you out there can see my point.]

on days when i convince myself that we're the same person. and all coffee mugs turn into the precise weight of the one i held at the airport the first time i watched you cry. i wander the streets of this frozen city. and thank christ for ice cube trays. and the fact that i can get mad at you for wanting me to stay just a little bit longer. the way blueberries hold themselves in the memory of my mouth. and how you always know i'd rather have the pain au chocolate and a very strong coffee. that i like to sleep late, but will feel guilty and won't enjoy it if i do. that i'll get mad at you if you go or stay. that i like to deprive myself of food and sleep and laughter. because i forget that most of the people i've ever loved in this life have died young. and i'll never have children. so on days i sometimes do. enjoy excessive things. pinch myself awake to live. and to love.

[and to french toast.]

I've been a vegetarian, off and on, my whole life. So, when I met my life-long-non-meat-eater partner, it felt like a perfect natural match. And, having never really liked it to begin with, I rarely miss the fleshy bits. Sure, there are times when the idea of devouring a beautifully prepared rare fillet makes my insides pinch. But only dreamy and fleeting. Especially since, I no longer eat potatoes, either. Ah, the classics.

But I do crave strange things. At times. I'll pass an Arby's and start fantasizing about a fat Chicago-style beef and cheddar. Or a Maxwell Street Polish. Sigh. Gyros. (Sometimes more desperately at 2:30 in the morning than sex.) Chorizo. Especially, chilaquillas with chorizo. Shudder. [And, yes, Ted. I do still love a Reuben.]

Usually, though, the idea of actually eating those things makes me feel a little silly in the tummy-sack.

The other night, over a plate of wonderful Mexican food, my Olav told me that it makes him happy to see me eating real food. He squirms a bit every night when I eat a plate of nothing more than iceberg lettuce and a little dressing after preparing a real dinner for him. Since I worry over my weight, it was a strange-beautiful thing to hear. And I ate the rest of the chilaquillas (sans chorizo).

blowing.

so, i'm spending my time standing in the sill -- pretending i am snow.