Hey are you there?
a kind of hunger
Oh hey sugar. Hey bright star. Hey mamacita. Hey baby, where are you going? Hey angel. Hey wanna get together later? Hey I just gave you a compliment why are you walking away from me? Hey sunshine. Hey lady. Hey why don't you smile more? Hey I mean hola. Hey I mean ciao. Hey I mean hi. Hey I mean wanna do it? Hey is something I never say but I'll say it to you: hey. Hey hey hey. Don't write hey in business emails, it's too informal. Heyyyyy. Hey baby. Hey boo. Hey. Hey? Hey! Hey... Hey + emoji. Hey girl hey. Hey and sorry. Hey I'm nervous and did I spell your name right? Hey sorry abotu teh typos. Hey and I promised myself I wouldn't. Hey and I did. Hey and yes. Hey and I'll be there tomorrow. Hey and I have to give up. Hey and I'm coming. Hey I'm on my way. Hey I'm not going to be able to after all. Hey and not sorry. Hey and yes I picked up the lettuce.
Hey are you there?
a kind of hunger
source: google image lol
Abby the dog's flying fur
we are driving somewhere to go skydiving, but we have to turn the car around because I forgot to pack my ripcord.
Maine was not too hot or too cold. It was a sleepless place, an empty vacationland stage. There was water and there was dirt, and tall grass that my dog kept eating. She kept eating the grass even though she wouldn't finish her breakfast. An anomaly. Is that the right word? I tried to reintroduce my beast to the wilderness for a while, where I thought she belonged, and when she turned her nose to the air, she seemed tired at best, lost at worst. She took the trails in reverse, stepping back into the car where I belted her in. I once read that if I were to crash the car while traveling just 30 mph, my 75-lb canine would become a 3,000 pound projectile. Thanks, physics, for helping me imagine my dog as a missile capable of killing me or someone else. I guess it's not physics to thank, though: it is everyone who has gone before me, faced the unexpected, and came out hurting and destroyed, or even devastated.
Last night, I dreamt that I was in a parking garage trying to steer clear of someone who was trying to hit me with his car. I wasn't in a car, though, and in parking garages, there really are no places to hide. Somehow I found myself in a small body crouched high on a shelf, out of his line of sight. I couldn't see his face through the windshield, but I knew he was driving. He kept circling and circling, looking for me as if I would suddenly appear: a target, a bullseye, his car the missile sent to destroy me. Instead of appearing, I took a deep breath and woke up.
I want to know what it is. I want to know what it symbolizes. It = my skin, the dog at my feet, the cracked spine in the middle of the leaf that just fell from the oak tree onto the windshield of the car I'm borrowing.
The car is grey, a Jetta. It has no name, but this seems fair.
My emotions belong; my emotions don't belong to me.
There are alternate explanations, she says. While she is not right, I am reminded that there may be parallel universes—dimensions or spaces or voids in which her alternate decisions live; the results of the decisions she could have made hang in the syrup sky as collapsed stars, their gravitational field pulling in everything except everything that could have happened.
All the sounds could be unheard, the touches taken back, the kisses dissolved, the unconscious spine ache cleared and intentions restated;
I could have happened another way.
We were at a party. It was in the suburbs. The houses were beige and grey. I could see aluminum siding and open skies and chimneys. You walked me up to your family members, who were standing in the front yard of an unknown house in some kind of receiving line.
I hugged your younger sister, whom I had heard about so many times, and not in all positive ways. I remembered the story you once told me about her and her friends as kids, how they ran away from you and huddled under the red umbrella, leaving you to get soaked in the downpour half a block away. In the dream your sister hugged me hard, like she meant it. I wondered who these people are, the ones who take hold of strangers and embrace them without fear. Was I a stranger, though? I needed the hug. Badly. I held her tight and released the stories I had heard about her. What can I say? I had to, I had to.
Then your father took hold of me with speed and a light touch. After a moment he stepped back, put his hands on his hips, and pushed his chest out like men do. "So," he said. "You're the one who calls."
Did I respond?
Turns out that the party was a wedding reception at a house. You and I were there together in the same space, which felt unusual and intimate. I watched you navigate the rooms, talk to people in the line for the buffet. You were wearing jeans and boots so I assumed it was fall, a season when things around us fall down and the days, despite our best intentions, feel shorter and shorter.
I don't drink beer. Never liked the taste. Instead, I indulge in a glass of Pinot, a packet of Fun Dip, a lukewarm Capri Sun. I go back decades because now is too difficult.
I used to say things like I was never good at math and can you figure out the tip? Now I'm drawn to calculating because there's always a formula that ends in something that feels like certainty.
I miss believing that I knew the answer.
I miss believing that I knew.
I miss believing.
I open my eyes in meditation to watch my dog dream. I tell myself you're breaking meditation, bad bad bad. A better part of me knows I watch because in the future, when now is too difficult, I'll want to think back and remember her twitching legs.
I once told my therapist that someone dear in my life really didn't understand me, and I found this frustrating. She was silent, blinked a few times, cleared her throat.
How could she possibly understand you?
In the 2010 film Rites of Love and Math, a renowned mathematician develops a formula for love and writes it on his beloved's abdomen in thick black ink. The only numbers in the formula are 0, 1, and infinity.