i'll let you know when i get there

It almost sounds cute like something to squish or at the very least, poetic. Instead, I can barely move out from under the heavy  nothing

I want you to know that I have grown used to the lines by my eyes. They are mine. When I see them now, I do not startle.   Recognition. I want you to know that the robots let me go. I tried to call The New Yorker to bargain down my subscription renewal. Instead, I was greeted with a robot voice. Instead of connecting me with a human representative, it cancelled my subscription and ended the call. Goodbye. I want you to know that it can flip like a switch. Topics that consume so much energy, anticipation, intrigue... all the bigs, at any moment, can become nearly repulsive.  I do not want to hear one more word about it. Unsubscribe from the podcasts. Close the blinds. Cancel the library holds. And all that rejection leaves a massive nothing and a dull ache in its wake.  Filled in the rabbit hole. Staring at dirt.  Next. I want you to know that the past doesn't hold me with much of a grip. I remember some things in flashes, but mostly the fog has settled in. Large stre...

Are you? 

Maybe I should return to writing everything down. Is anything really safe in a cloud? but then there's the other reduced to rubble Is all of life just a dull slate grey? or is that just the shell tender cracked a part  or piece  an obvious lack just a child inside who will watch and repeat  patterns and cycles joys and defeats and barely understand it at all London Bridge check the news dull slate grey and bomb bright hues sun up sun set all those basic needs unmet What connects me to you? something borrowed  sometimes blue walk a mile stay the night still adjusting to the new late light walls intact and for now we're alright And luckier than we know.

I was two blocks from work and barely on time when a woman with a dog stopped abruptly in front of me and pointed at the sky.  I was startled enough to ask, "What do you see?" "The birds. They're migrating early." And then she fell in step with me as though we had planned to walk together.  In the course of two blocks, I learned about her sleeping habits, what she's learned with age, her hormonal imbalance that, even at 73, makes life unliveable without hormone replacement therapy.  She stayed with me, stride for stride, and spoke in such a confessional,  comfortable way I started to wonder if maybe I knew her- maybe I had met her before.   "This is my stop," I said.   "Oh, you live here?" "No, I babysit here." "Ah." "Well, nice to meet you.  What was your name?" "Joyce." "Have a great day, Joyce." Joyce ___ At the end of the check out line at the grocery store, a woman with bright purple ...

I went to a talk about particle physics at the library. I only understood a fraction of what was said; it was like listening to an entirely different language. After a good effort of trying to keep up, I sat back and spent the rest of the talk just appreciating that there seemed to be a good number of people in the room who did understand what she was talking about. Hooray for humanity! We are so interesting and interested in so many different things! We are so collectively capable! I go to these kinds of talks often enough, and that's usually how it goes. I remember writing poetry about quarks and covalent bonds through my undergrad Physics classes. I remember listening in awe to Dan Miles talk about the Higgs boson discovery thirteen years ago.  I knew nothing about it then and understand just slightly more now, but I remember really being in awe of his wonder.  Wonder adjacent, I suppose. More of a science gal in fancy than in fact, but still I go. The part tha...