yesterday in mfa poetry class we read elizabeth bishop, a lesbian poet who blows words into fire. we read an article about how she was a hermit, how she lived in rio, then nova scotia, then the keys and how maybe it was because her dad died, and mom went insane.
this morning i made chicken noodle soup because kate has a sinus infection and is congested and watching redbox movies and i’m waiting for the water to boil and reading a GQ article about this guy called the north pond hermit who lived in the maine woods for 30 years and never bought anything, just stole food and propane and books and clothes and when it got really cold in the dark dead of winter he said he meditated and walked around his campsite to melt snow and he said dry socks are more important than warm feet and now he’s in prison and he said he’s going insane behind bars which is weird he said because he went thirty years without speaking to another human and felt fine but now his stress is sky high he said.
my mom died eight years ago. i don’t know when her time of death was but it was morning. i was in wyoming at law school and i was a drunk then but hadn’t started drinking because it was a weekday and it was like 645am and i was making scrambled eggs. i don’t eat scrambled eggs anymore, prefer yolks runny because that’s what kate likes and i can’t remember who wrote the book called the center cannot hold, but honestly i’ve never been the same since my mom died and i mean that in the most sober way possible.
in poetry class we were assigned to read a biography of one of the poets we read this semester and in class the teacher says we’re leaving bishop behind and moving on to this white guy named robert lowell and so she asks me what biography i am reading i said lowell and she said which lowell biography and i said um the one the library has and she looked at me and i looked at her and we both knew i was lying because i’m not going to read any biography because the poets are all dead and i mean that literally and also metaphorically or whatever the opposite of literally is and because on principle life is too doughy to capture with square pages, maybe if they pages weren’t square i would read it but the earth isn’t flat and…
I’m happiest of all when lying full length on the sofa.
I’m playing with run on sentences and don’ know what this says about my mood.
It’s funnykindasad how the facebook crowd is rabid with opinions on vaccinating kids because everybody’s scientists these days. And it’s scary that people message me privately and say ssshhh about vaccines and they say this is off the record but they haven’t vaccinated their kids. It’s funny because people message me and say shhhh about psychedelics too because the government is listening and they’re illegal and they have jobs and the court of public opinion is so gavel heavy, but they whisper how interested they are and how they’ve been researching microdosing too. and i say thank you for messaging me and i say it means a lot.
buzz looks good, the friend in my mfa poetry class says. the girl next to her nods. the teacher asks me why i did it.
i’m going to start a thai massage business called i’ll massage you and you can talk to me about the shit you don’t want to talk about with normal people and i’ll listen and won’t judge and probably 100% understand or at least nod and say damn i feel you, because on some level i do.