I started this blog seven years ago, as part of a writing class. As part of a small series of rituals to keep my soul and sanity intact.
Seven years also marks an unsuccessful last-ditch vacation to save a failing marriage. If nothing else, the trip was beneficial to my writing. New England in October is staggeringly beautiful. Pain is a serviceable muse.
I kept a journal and wrote prolifically during this time. It is prone to hyperbole, darkly dramatic, and often devolves into extremely biased shit-talking. Below is an old gem, from that journal, written by the Pemigewasset River. It had been raining all night, and the lower sleeping bag had been compromised by several small rivulets of water.
I’m looking forward to revisiting New England on my own terms and writing from a different headspace.
Rainy, 4AM
i woke next to your pale form
and for the last time
felt unsafe and unholy
in your presence
the river rushed on
the green light of the moon
encased us in a tomb &
made the sleeper a corpse
this reverse pyre
where the wife is drowned
once the husband expires
this plastic cocoon
of shaky promises renewed
kept the storm away, for a little while
for a little while, i thought only of myself
i had to wake you, to say:
the only thing keeping me beside you is the rain
