Winter Music

I’m reading old blog posts.  Ones I thought were lost to the ages if I didn’t pony up five dollars to open an account to save them.  Suddenly, though, I have access to them.   They’re making me remember both the old ways I used to write and the old things I used to write about, which are actually strangely distant to me now and they shouldn’t be.   I feel the absence about writing about loneliness with such a keen voracity, ever on a knife’s blade, that you would think that something must have happened to cause that change.  Nothing I’m aware of, save the consistency of being here, requiring 500 words and for a long time (and soon again) blogging pretty strictly about what was going on food-wise and weight-wise and sliding into poetic effusion wasn’t on my mind.

There was some rather beautiful and truthful things said.  I can kind of re-live the agony that made those ideas possible as I read them back and I can break anew.  I don’t really know any better, sorry to say.  All my eggs are in the New Year’s basket.  I am eating terribly now in hopes that this tabula rasa will stick.   But they’ve ruined my sundae with unexpected peanuts and now I feel like sinking into the sheets.  I feel like everything’s got an off smell.  A putrescence that emanates from something long gone rotten.  Me and Hamlet, querulously sniffing about finding the odor amiss.

The year is almost over and I can’t remember a thing that happened.  Well, I remember falling head over heels with Mumford & Sons which saved me, truly, from things which might have happened if I did not have their good hearts and beautiful songs to distract me.  I remember a blur of projects.  I remember stress.  I remember a whole year without Mr. Rochester or anyone who could stand in his shadow.  I remember gaining weight and losing weight and then, just gaining weight without sense or reason.   I remember going to Red Rocks and hiking about there.  I remember we went to Minnesota.  I remember I went to Atlanta and met my friend.  I remember thinking I should start smoking, several times.  I remember thinking – deciding – that I should get a tattoo.  I remember driving back and forth to work.  I remember the accident that suddenly made me question everything all over again.  I remember reading, though not enough.  I remember my friends and watching shows with them and laughing until I thought I was going to die.  I remember deciding I wanted to learn the guitar.  I remember how I fucked up my own birthday.  I remember Mr. Polite, though he is faint.

Mostly I remember being here, talking to you, this amenable version of myself.  I don’t know if it helps me, but I know that I can’t stop now.

My sister seems to think that 2012 will be a good year.  A memorable year?  A changing year?  I don’t know.  Looking back I doubt that I know how to be anything other than how I am, a creature separate from itself.

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