I'd rather be hungry than full.
I prefer anticipation to climax, longing to fulfillment, sadness to satisfaction.
I want you to read to me, sad poems, I want to hear them. Start with William Matthews. Start with us both drunk.
I want to lie on the bottom of a lake longer than I can. I've been practicing holding my breath for just such an occasion.
Consequences be damned. I want an inconsequential life.
My head feels so heavy, like a water balloon, like the air in my bedroom, pregnant, tight, almost.
I pulled a muscle in my thigh. When? Why? What have I gained from this?
Perhaps I have a fever. I want to press my face against the cool tile there. I want a kind woman to wipe my brow, to bring me fresh water, to allow me to let down the guard, the ramparts, the fortress walls, just for one day.
I want absolution without atonement.
I want to be alone or in a crowd, a crowd of people and me drunk among them.
Even in the moment of happiness, I am nostalgic for happiness.
Lupus? Do I have lupus? My joints feel swollen.
Barry Lopez wrote the great book, Of Wolves and Men. I wish I owned it.
Books I have started in the last year but not finished:
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
Wide Sargasso Sea
Poison
Waterland
The Periodic Table
Cryptonomicon
Independent People
There are others, I'm sure. I feel sick just thinking about it. How can I start over? Where to begin?