I want to write something new. I have been editing summer poems all morning, sitting in the hot living room and watching the eucalyptus. I’m waiting around for something, something to happen, something to fall from the trees. I want direction. I want difference.
I am making an effort not to buy the same things, or similar things, as I had before. Before was a child’s desk, and black bookshelves, and a black iron bed with white sheets, and a red red chair.
Now is a bright green desk lamp, and a mission desk, and a white bed with purple sheets, and a brown chair. Books on the floor. Dog on the floor. Rug on the floor.
I’m sick of waiting.
I am not yet sure if I have found my new coffeehouse, though I have left the apartment, and sit in one, dark though the door is open, burlap sacs on the ceilings, beaten wooden chairs and round tables, jazz music, half-empty ketchup bottles and salt shakers, cigarette trace.
The most beautiful letter, yesterday...Justin says: what more do you need?
I hate my clothes. I hate my shoes. I hate my jeans. I want skirts and heels and a new tote bag. I want a new life, and first it will begin with a chemise! But I have no money, and I have no idea how to get downtown without dying. Yet.
I order crepes. I am not sure I should be spending my money on crepes. But now is crepes. Now is a scarf. Now the baker, when I stop in the morning and say it smells lovely, like cinnamon, says: I can’t smell it anymore. But I smell your hair. You just washed your hair.
Before was farmland and train track and novel-writing and mountain-climbing and sadness and teaching and Chinese food and grief.
Show it to me.