Swan Songs

Maybe Dear Diary isn't enough anymore. Maybe sentences scooped into bowls of twenty cannot tend the inner, let alone the outer. With the exception of dialogue and poetry, everything begins to peel away like a 1970's yellowing veneer. Even music. Yet, as long as the willingness to sit and write exists, I will mine these veins until they collapse. I guess what I am saying is that these tracks are getting ugly, beloved.

Another ice storm is looming. My family thinks I take these warnings a touch too seriously. Firewood, batteries, food arrangements. Lex says, “we're not in Kenya anymore, Mom.” The things we fear versus the things we trust, and why.

The sulfuric tang of riled skunks hangs in February's swan song air. Monica and I talk at length about swans, consciousness, and plants. Inherent in the conversation is the idea that whatever hurdle or problem we are having, we are it. It is us.

Maybe all we can do is write our story. Who really cares what I think about sex or war or consciousness? Little by little, every day, I'm just here, figuring out the story.

Syntax, Swans and Songs – all swimming away from silence.