"It is eleven forty-one on May thirteenth, 2009. I am at my kitchen table in the Conexsh. Brooklyn's clothes are rattling in the dryer next to me. They churn in soft circles-- so do I. Purple ink. No one is awake. I want them to be. But if they were, I'd still be here seeking solitude for words. These are the first words of journal # __. What do I want? Today I talked to Claire. (Credit: She talked to me.) Here she is on this very first page.
CLAiRe. CLAiRE. CLaiRe.
I remember staring at the first page of my last journal. It was blank. In my hands I held paste, and a stack of what I'd been typing that month. The first cut square was an unsent letter to Claire. She'd made it into another book. I felt defeated, unanswered, by both of them. So I skipped the first page, flipped the second, and stuck it down there. A claire square. Page three. Here I am now-- beginning this book. Though the beginning of that last journal still holds an empty two-page spread. Why? Because somehow, if she didn't make those first few pages, it meant she had less of a hold on me. (Lie.) She did. She does. Let it be known. I have mad love for Claire Sorenson. There is no such thing as the back of my mind. I feel it all. "
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Sometimes I feel like I am singing in a foreign language-- stumbling, butchering simple phrases-- striving for communication that's been put up for sale.
Sometimes he is a black coat that won't come off. The sun becomes tinted against my will. Stifled. I've always been more of a kaleidoscope.
And so even without him, I can still see the moon.
Sometimes I fear that I will never find enough words, but I'd never let on.
Sometimes that boy would call to me, but I couldn't find the bridge to him. We remained on opposite sides: it hurt him. I cried. When did I cross over?
Sometimes I start a new journal at 11:41 PM. Go for two hours. Today laughing was crying. Neither was expected or explained. But I am always telling myself I AM READY for more. Dyin for a thunderstorm.
Sometimes I blog for 10,000 posts and talk of nothing but myself. I would talk about you, but you'd freak out.
Today I sat in my front yard, a phone number in my hand.
"Provo Temple Prayer Role"
It was the golden time, my favorite time of day.
Sun. going. down.
She sounded like an angel on the other line.
I balanced myself on the curb and asked her if I could add a name.
"Do you need first middle and last?" I say.
I spell each one out.
Meticulous.
God doesn't need the spelling...
What was I thinking?
I am thankful that God doesn't need the spelling.
What was I thinking?
I am thankful that God doesn't need the spelling.
1 comment:
I want to meet ClAiRe. God doesn't need the spelling, and hopefully he doesn't need the pronunciation either because I have butchered many a name during baptisms for the dead.
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