What I cannot hear anymore is the voice I knew was obscure and strange. I have become expository and narrative, sanitized and commercialized as a book-and-coffee chain sanatorium. It is not broad strokes vs. pointillism. It’s digital vs analog. But with thoughts not fingers, as it’s almost-always been flowing from my Mavis Beacons since high school.
What a coupe to admit I used to like listening to myself whitter on so, before 140 characters and Siberia settled on LJ. All that journaling made a blogging bloody bold and resolute with a little smirk and nod to the left and right.
I cannot play so much because I maybe have incorrectly invested in the old aching ideas of story. Like somehow other people have any clue how the walls were built between worlds with words.
Children are born loving language and the sound of it. Age talks us out of and out of poetry and penultimate petulance. The lip is hardwired, and the chin tremble is womb-fresh.
Blind search out the genealogy, as if Hattie and Queenie could tell me something more than every short-life platitude. One deathless, one faceless.
I miss miss miss being miss miss miss.
Stitch after stitch after stitch, knitting taught me muscle memory that calmed my throat chakra down to a cool burn. But that was supposed to be for my hands.