I started reading an epistemology text and now I am just sitting around thinking about indirect realism and how one's own body is an external world.

through the circle of her own arms

The last woman left had to birth herself through the circle of her own arms. - my journal

notes from a weird week

Sometimes I write toward the hardest Other. She is ungraspable, which is ridiculous. Girl. I run away from myself.

a good morning

A cold, beautiful morning in the city, with David Lynch-themed donuts and abundant sunlight.

Game day in america

I say things like "he had a lane" and "years of eligibility" now. It's incredibly weird to watch a Bama home game without hearing the stadium roar through the window, just before the feed catches up and the touchdown happens on TV, official, and we exchange a sly look because we already knew.

I went to a poetry garden party yesterday. It was really, really, really, really nice to be among poets, especially poets who didn't judge when I smashed my entire plate of food up against my white shirt.

I have just obtained a parking permit so that I can park in my own neighborhood, and I also just realized that I've kept this blog up for over 2 years. I missed that anniversary, completely. Looking back at my first blog post in 2012, I can tell you that I never built that coffee table, nor have I framed the broadsides. The coffee table's a wash since we got one from IKEA, but I still plan on doing something with those broadsides. And! two years later, I'm still obsessed with houses and home and belonging and longing. At that point I didn't know the house in Margate would fill with sand during the hurricane, or that I'd never go back there. I have three orchids now, and the descendent of that original wandering jew plant. I hardly got any tomatoes that summer, because of the heat and blossom end rot. I didn't know the tree behind my house would get hit by lightning. I also remember, very clearly, counting up my mosquito bites that summer and hitting 72, but according to my own blog, I never did that, so, memory is faulty I guess. I started writing here for a few different reasons, one of which was to force myself to be a more honest and open writer (and maybe a more honest and open person). Doors of New Jersey is the second most honest and open thing I've ever done, and this blog is probably the first. Happy two years, blog.

like a postcard of the blue beach

Getting up early to write has been hard, less so the waking up than the actual writing. I need more runway time. But the cat has been noticeably less demonstrative in his affections since I started working full-time, hardly ever climbs into my lap and stays there. Early in the morning is the best time—he's in my lap right now—so for that I'll keep trying.