Strange – my desire for books to write to (ha!) in which to write. I’m seeing they’re all shapes and sizes, the words and the books. I think: when I sell the house, I’m going to buy boxes of books – all the same size and colour. Then I think: if I opened a store, I could sell my favourite (blank) books. Then I think: Ya, to myself. I smile at this.
This hurts a little. My lip, my upper lip – which is supposed to be stiff – started to trouble me yesterday. I immediately chastise myself for not drinking enough water. I think of G. and “worry” about her not drinking enough water. This leads to all sorts of other thoughts, which I won’t write about. At least not in this paragraph. I realize, with some surprise, that my thoughts are like gathering clouds that seem to feed each other. I think, “I don’t know enough about how weather works,” that maybe if I did I’d have a fighting chance at fighting down this weather system I feel trapped in (in which I feel trapped).
I remember, finally, how I burned this upper lip: stiffly, with steaming hot camomile tea from Tim Horton’s on Friday night. The scalding came at the moment a friend uttered the words “mercy f*uck”. She said it with the smirk of the married, it came to me like the tea, and like a lexicon I don’t get and don’t ever want to get. I want to say to her, to the world, I don’t get you, and I don’t want to get you.
Just kidding, she claims to the other person, the three of us standing there. The other person seems to get it. It’s all too late, I burn my lip badly, choke on the hurt, she looks at my forced smile and her look seems to say, I know you don’t get it, it doesn’t matter, you’re not one of us, never were, it doesn’t matter the look says, in the end we don’t really care.
No gurls allowed, the look says. I want to say, I don’t / didn’t want to be allowed first, first before you didn’t allow me, like resenting I’m not invited simply and only because I wanted to be the one who said, Thanks, but I can’t make it. Thanks, tho. Really.
This morning I see the irritation has spread to the corner of my mouth. It looks like a cold-sore-in-waiting. I look up Cold Sores in Louise Hay’s book.
Cold Sores (Fever Blisters) See: Herpes Simplex
[Probable cause] Festering angry words and fear of expressing them.
[Affirmation] “I only create peaceful experiences because I love myself. All is well.”
This I understand.
I look up Herpes Simplex. See: Cold Sores
[Probable cause] Burning to bitch. Bitter words left unspoken.
[Affirmation] “I think and speak only words of love. I am at peace with life.”
This I get.
I collect all the things, the journals, the pens, the coffee, the smokes and come outside to write. I write here on the first page of a new journal. I hesitate. A virgin book, it should be important how I begin, this being an inauguration of sorts. I should worry about what I write here, on these first pages. I think, for a moment, that the new book offers itself to me as a kind of mercy f*uck.
I’m not sure about this thought. I draw doodles of boxes, the poontang patois irony of it all slams home.
I realize I get it but that I don’t want to, that I’m suddenly grateful that this libido has never left room for the notion, and that maybe, just maybe, one day at a time, it never will. I add it to this vague list of important questions I want to ask my twin flame when he appears. Do you get this, do you ever want to understand this, live like this? No? I feel the relief like a small mist coming to dissipate the clouds, like an unassuming lotus opening, relief like a Sanford Uni-Ball (Fine) pen scratching on an unlined, Canson, Universal Sketch Book, 9×12, 65lb, microperforated, acid free, improved surface for fine and broad lines, versatile, opaque white that erases clean.
I think, at the last, that maybe bitter words are best left unspoken, that maybe love can and does smother the burning. That maybe creating a joyful life narrows our focus, like being on the beam, and so being, erases words and notions clean, clean, like a rain from that merciful sky showering us with that thirsty, consummated piece peace.