Out of Line

The torment and art of letters unwritten arrives at dawn in a certain angle of light that reminds one of what she knows, which, of course, is absolutely nothing. Rainbow cables connecting pine branches. Evergreen bushes topped with crispy golden oak leaves like a peach cobbler or Mom's sour cream coffee cake. No matter how tightly the scroll is rolled and sealed and bound in cement to be thrown in the deepest part of the darkest sea, the words migrate or lift or arrive like a searing flame every – single – day. There is no other way to say this: I've been branded.

This heart is out of line – a destroyer constructed to open the veins, to add red to the cool tones of a perfect painting. One step closer, two steps back. That is how the ravenous protects the ones they love; it is how they pray.

Roiling under the exterior. Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me. The mantra collides with lava; hence, brimstone. Hence the writing that only arrived when two flames licked the air they shared, almost touching. Almost combusting.

Yesterday I found the black moleskine in which he took dictation for me while I drove. After every poetic thought or observation written, he added his own “ * kisses. * ” Because he loves me in some sort of fireproof way.

The temperature drops enough for the heat to kick on. Forced air smells collected and artificial and it reminds me at the sensory level that I can't have it both ways.

Beckett mentioned MIT which is only 4 more hours of driving time from here than Michigan Tech, and did you know that Michigan is always under Massachusetts in the scroll-down menus when you have to pick your state online?

Lake Michigan is not the sea but it looks like the sea and behaves like the sea. And it's warmer in the summer and freezes around the edges sometimes in the winter. The variance wobbles with the weight of differences that converge. The question now is, what is the temperature at the edges at the merge?

I'd like to know more about that.