Threw the I Ching; got The Well.
(after several minutes of staring at his shirtless and reclining body)
He: What are you doing?
She: Hm? Oh. Just objectifying you.
He: HEY. Eyes up here.
Usually I would call a day like today– leaving my homest of homes with my family and their kids and their big old hippie houses on the mesa and the staggering landscapes and the amazing food to go back to the Deepest South, where a very very handsome man is going to pull me into his lap and play with my hair and tease me until my face hurts from laughing–bittersweet.
But it doesn’t feel bittersweet. I am sitting in the airport terminal, listening to suddenly-profound pop music and watching the shadows of clouds move over the face of the Sangre de Cristos and all I can think about is sweetness, the sweetness of it all.
“I have trekked far,” is the quiet reply. To which we should add that when it
was all made–with such a perfect blending of love, secret enterprise, and
malevolent cunning–it was left outside. The action seems to be wholly
mysterious, as is fitting. We must reemphasize the complete independence
of the author and his traces. Can we say that they are a “pathos”? an
“image”? a “Nothing”? A breaking into the garden? Or a bridge? In any
case, after this there is, for a time, no ghost in the stairwell, though a light
appears in some neighboring window and goes out again.
Intrinsic, your un-
thinkability. Casts over all created
things annihilating shadow.
An opening for possible
storms, as a deity enters
the world, a stranger.
The bed we are not in: can-
not surprise it. What passes
in the street? Pure picture.
In the world these
limits, almost occult–only signals
corporeal. To think of something.
Last night he read The Singing Knives and the title poem from You aloud over the phone in his deep, vibrating baritone.
Sometimes in our sleep we touch
The body of another woman
And we wake up
And we know the first nights
With summer visitors
In the three storied house of our childhood.
Whatever we remember,
The darkest hair being brushed
In front of the darkest mirror
In the darkest room.
I thought about my approaching Saturn Return, set to start around March of the coming year, and featuring Scorpio’s influence (sex, death, secrets) in my 7th house of love and partnership. The seventh house often conjures the theme of looking for what you lack in your partner–certainly I have a history of emotional and psychic violence in relationships that features all three of Scorpio’s favorite pastimes.
I’ve been talking about the Saturn Return with Dana quite a bit on this trip. “I keep feeling its influence; I know its starting,” I said, over eggs and berries at our favorite country French breakfast place. “But I am still waiting for the emergency.”
“Sometimes the Saturn Return isn’t an emergency,” Dana amended. “You are only really checked in that way if you aren’t on the path of heart. And you seem to be. So perhaps your Saturn Return will be about falling in love and getting married, or having a baby, or writing a book. Sometimes the Saturn Return asks you to commit to a life project, and that’s all it’s about.”
Sometimes when we are just laying around, riffing on each other and cracking up, it’s like looking down through a spyglass at a winding trek through a gorgeous jungle. And while his voice was ranging over Stanford’s deep and dark and feral imagery, I began to think maybe my Saturn Return will be about learning to cherish and honor another person in relationship for an extended period, and as a life project.
I don’t know what else to say, really. I’ve probably already said too much. This all feels very right.
After talking to you last night I didn’t fall asleep ’til 3 am. Heart & sex chakras pounding, mixing themselves up ’til sex feelings are overwhelmed by heart. Or perhaps it’s more like sex feelings pumping out of my heart. Anyway it was a kind of excited bliss, & I haven’t felt this way for 10 years since I fell in love with Sylvere. At that time it went so badly–those feelings were barely expressed and never accepted. I had to resort to other stratagems, like being the most intelligent and useful girl.
My personal goal here–apart from anything else that might happen–is to express myself as clearly and honestly as I can. So in a sense love is just like writing: living in such a heightened state that accuracy and awareness are vital. And of course this can extend to everything. The risk is that these feelings’ll be ridiculed or rejected, & I think I’m understanding risk for the first time: being fully prepared to lose and accept the consequences if you gamble.
Dinner with Ellen and the boys last night was wonderful and hilarious. I home and read for three minutes before I fell asleep at 9 pm. Now I am up and headed to the pantry for breakfast burritos (2 egg, chorizo and red) with a friend from Alabama who is in town doing thesis research, then the Museum of International Folk Art yesssssssss and then to crafting, booze, Winter’s Bone and latkes.
You can listen to my reading–and indeed, the entire MFA Reading Series– here.