My Seasons - Spring

Spring:

































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Coming back to New England. The past is a potent, dangerous thing. I can't stop thinking that, can't stop those words running around in my mind. As I drive my car down streets that hold memories of me from 25 years ago, as I laugh with my family in the kind of joyous abandon I'm capable of with very few others, as I soak in the kind of Fall beauty that made my heart stutter and my eyes water when I was 10... There is so much that is appealing about this past. So much beauty that was left behind, and is just waiting to be discovered again. And so much that is no longer me. I'm drawn to be a version of myself that I discarded as unhealthy long ago. Family and home, makes me feel like I didn't actually throw away that version of me. I just hung her up like a coat I can shrug off and on as needed. My brain is screaming at me this trip. This trip of grieving my dead sister, of comforting my shattered, resilient family. Parts of me are reveling in nostalgia, are soak...
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Wow. It's been a long time. Coming back to this blog after more than a year away feels odd. Although I've written a few posts that I just never published, almost all of my writing has been exclusively in my physical journals. I have needed that. I needed the pure privacy of writing only to myself. It's created a style of writing that is extremely analytical and practical, interestingly enough. Apparently I don't believe in telling myself stories. Everything I write with pen and paper is meant to disappear the moment ink hits paper and thought manifests. It's not meant to last, to be read again, by myself or anyone else. It's boring, in some ways. In a lot of ways. Margaret Atwood advises one to write as though no one will read you. That works for therapy, but not for story. Not for me. There is very little that is beautiful that comes out when my brain knows it's not performing. Which is FASCINATING to me. It highlights this very performative part of m...
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Glances

I get it, dude. I do. I look more exciting than your beautiful wife, sitting to your side with a brand new baby on her lap. Blocking access to her womb and her heart, a tiny little presence that has supplanted you completely. My breasts are hugged by a form fitting shirt, framed by a vest designed to make them appealing to you. Hers are covered by flannel, comfortable and soft for a baby to rest against. My hips are mine alone, not occupied by a tiny being that has sucked all the sexuality that created it right back into itself, for the moment. Ah, for the moment. All the moments. That's what you need to remember, as you look at my hips and breasts longingly. The moments you've helped create. The depth of sexuality you're missing, that's causing your eyes to stray, have nothing on those moments. I hope, for your sake, that your father taught you the breadth of moments available to you now, the depth of the beauty you've created. Because without that knowle...
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