Something odd is happening these days. Everything is a novelty. All tones are introductory. I am not the shabby saved newspaper clipping in the desk drawer. THAT is what I’m used to. Instead, I am a magazine in the front room, in the middle of the coffee table alone. I am new, glossy and impersonal. Front and center, but in a haphazard no-second-thoughts kind of way. This place is not my own, and I cannot make it mine. I can contribute, but the home-feeling that I belong to faded pages in desk drawers will lock-in on its own. Until then, I squint in the fluorescent living room lights, I bake monotonously in front of the drowsy window. I need to burst, but I can’t push it. I try to be wise, to keep my senses open to natural reaching, innate seeking.
There is a feeling in the air, particularly in this place… there is something out there I want so bad but I can’t yet see it clearly. It reverberates within me, but its pulses are quiet, unassuming, waiting to be found.
I am coming.
“Loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life.”
Gretel Ehrlich The Solace of Open Spaces
The grass feels new on my hands, waxy like the skin on an apple. Stiff, but willing to bend and mold between my fingers. I pull hard with my closed fist; it stays with its roots. The bell tower wakes. I close my eyes and feel the mountains that encase me. This is the west. I live here. On my own.
I roll more towards my stomach and feel the spiral of the notebook go up and down the tip of my nose. I sink into the ground beneath me, the slope of the hill molds my stomach, hips, toes. My heart thuds against the opposing ground. I wait: they find each other, calm each other, and I am hidden away.