I Want to See What You Got in Store

I just had an quick, but meaningful, email interaction with Major Jackson. Let that sink in.

What the hell happened? How did I stumble into this luck? How is THAT poet even reading my words and AND AND and taking the time to comment? He called specific moments in my poetry "magical". He called my heart a fledgling. He calls me by name. I'm still shaking my head in disbelief.

And this morning, I had a question. I asked it. He responded in THREE MINUTES. If I ever take this opportunity for granted, please, please, please someone punch me in the throat. 

This sounds braggy, I know, but that isn't my intent. (Maybe a little, but moving on...)

I get to learn and sharpen my craft and panic and ball my fists, shake to the sky and drink and dance (like, literally dance) with other writers, some of them famous as hell, twice a year - AND correspond with them all year. I'm lucky.

Holy shit.

And even if we bare bones this whole overwhelming situation: I was afforded the opportunity to learn to read. To learn to write. To punch my emotions until I vomit them up in poem form. To have people who encouraged that from an early age (even if it was misunderstood).

So glad I didn't die from rabies.

I Know There's Pain

Here's this: my bike was stolen.

I can't seem to settle my heart. I can't calm down. I can't seem to quit kicking things; fantasizing both about explaining to the bike thief the emotional earthquake he's thrown me into and standing on his throat.

To say the very least, I'm struggling with resentment - the kind that is so pure one drop out of the little glass vile I keep around my neck would burn a hole through an oak tree.

I'm sad.

But also, something beautiful is happening. I posted on all my social medias about my Fuji folder and the rush of sympathy was instant. And wonderful. My posts were shared and reshared and commented on and then reshared again and again by friends and friends of friends. On all platforms. There are eyes everywhere in my city looking for my Fuji.  And I can't help but feel sugary in my browbeaten bones. So thank you. Thank you, universe. Thank you, Fort Wayne. Thank you, West Central.

But one man has destroyed me with his kind words.

I knew your dad and he was mature beyond his years. He was taught to be nice and respectful to everybody. He always greeted me warmly with a smile. His deep voice and kind eyes were very inviting to everyone who talked to him. I'm very glad to have been a friend of his. He had a super mom and dad, I believe that is where he got his personality and character traits from. I'm sure that he would tell you that what's in your heart far outweighs what that bike represents to you. Dayne wouldn't want you to harbor any resentment. Let it go and free yourself of the bondage of resentment. You need look no further than his friends to have mementos of your dad. There are plenty of stories of him to go around. 

And now, I'm looking for a new bike.  

Everyday is Like Survival

Decomposing is the easy part.

Watching things decompose, though, that's the challenge.
I don't really know why - surely we've gotten used to it, right?

Everything changes and all of that -
everything is temporary.

Sometimes I'll call my Nena and I'll sob and sob and sob into my little phone and she'll listen. She always does. Afterwards, she says: "I didn't understand a thing you said" or: "Life's about change, nothing never stays the same". (It's usually a toss up between the two.) Now, I know that's not original to her -- but every time I hear her say it, it resonates.

Everything is temporary.

Anyway - right?