obsess about the past.
But only when I can't seem to figure out the present.
The last of five books I ordered came today.
Books that I loved as I slipped into maturity.
I explore, again, the lives of Hattie, Sal, Tiger.
Again, I admire Dolores, Amandine, Green, Evan, Olive, Zinny.
Mary Lou, Jonas, Sophie, Leo.
I think of ferris wheels, blackberry kisses, red lipstick, thorns.
Bathtubs full of water, small jars full of ocean, forest trails, sailing.
Journals written for Mr. Birkway, pale eyes, and porcupine ties.
It feels like a plunge into cooler waters, breaths of cooler breezes.
It feels like vigor in my lungs.
Reading, I fell fast and deep.
I woke with a start, only to find I'd been asleep for little more than a minute.
I listen to Cary Judd and he speaks to me.
He brings me to the past too, not quite as far as the books do, but far enough to make me miss the sun.
Far enough to make my insides churn.
I used to be a glorious fool.
and I wish I could talk to Kam.