from the vault (a buried draft)

December 12 (actually November 29)

Leslie,

I’ve been many people and right now I don’t know if they are mingling at a party or awkwardly holding their water bottles wondering when they can sneak home. Away from any kind of party, probably some of my selves are scampering down leaf-collaged sidewalks, or dirt paths at the base of a composite volcano called a mountain. I want to be with the scampering ones right now.

For one of the only times in the many years I’ve had this desk (it used to be my sister’s when she lived here when I was young), I am currently sitting in a chair with my legs inside its cave. I am actually sitting here. The middle righthand drawer is full of 11 years worth of bad poetry and I’ve got even more buried in this tank of a desk. I wish I knew what kind of tree this desk was borne from, but I am not that sophisticated. Nor educated to that knowledgeable extent in the College of Forestry at OSU. Surely if I had majored in Natural Resources or in Wood Sciences rather than simply minoring in NR, I would know.

All over the map, confused with my overabundance of time and need for routine, commitment, socializing, space, and place, I stare at my laptop then wonder why I am staring, and what purpose it possibly serves. I load books about writing, race, gender, sexuality, nationality, and stars seeds weather hidden thread ends in my Powell’s cart, and with my discounts I am eager to rush to Hawthorne, and gather these books in my arms like treasures. But

i want books

that i am not prepared

to read

My mind and part of my heart

want them,

another area of my organ

is too swollen

I gear myself up

but sometimes i delay

getting out of bed

because although i have hunger

i do not have an appetite

I want to be strong but

often do not even bother to

reach for the pull up bar

I add books to my wishlist

hoping that page by page,

bite by bite, pull by pull,

i will be the person I want to be.

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