Would That I Might

Melissa is finally going to be flying home tomorrow, and I am quite excited for her return.  There are a bunch of things I should try to get done around the house before she arrives, as I am not the most organized person, when left to my own devices.  I can't believe how long it has been since she left.  When she first went, it wasn't planned to be so long, but things just kept coming up which prolonged the stay, and it has been difficult for both of us.  I know she has been dealing with a lot, and I wish I could have done more to help, if I am honest.  Hopefully, next time she has to go up there again, I will be able to join her to provide support more directly.

I Cannot Find It though I am certain where it was when I had it, the last time that I am certain I had it, but now: it is not there, is not anyplace I have looked. It must be here, it must be, I am certain it must be here. I would look more but it is better to be certain it is still here, even if I do not know the exact location. I do not wish for certainty if it is the certainty of its loss.

As mentioned, I am getting a stronger sense of the story I have been playing with.  I think I understand it in a more specific way, at last.  The main plot is about a world where it is realized that the universe is falling apart in some way.  It is not a physical crisis, I don't think, is not a threat that can be understood in that way, but is more the sense that the reality of the story's world is unstable.  The characters are seeking ways to change this, to save themselves, to escape.  I still need to break this down further, but I feel very good about where I am with it at the momebt.

Alhough There Are Choices but are any  of those options at all good? Escape from this does not seem to bring freedom, just a different trap, one that is unknown. Much is being taken, each day, it is stripped away, but who knows what will be gone if it is not this?  The alternatives do not seem to be improvenents.

I am feeling close with this new story idea.  The concepts are starting to make a certain sense to me, though it is still very nebulous and complicated.  I have a sense of a central story, of what might be the main narrative, though I also see that story will need to be a single of several threads.  The connections between those elements is still developing, but I have a sense about it, at least, which is more than I could have said before.  I am thinking it might have to do with time travel, or something of that sort, though in a sort of metaphysical sense.  I am not sure how to explain it yet, but the idea of the central story connecting to the others through some sort of internal/mental journey seems to make sense for this idea.  I am getting close and might well be able to start quite soon.

Now, With What Is Gone there is not balance, is an uneven ground, think, sinking, twisting, two strings vibrating in unfriendly tones, with what joins them no longer in the world, an absence, but not that, a growing of distance? a hole, ripped through and tearing wider, because what was there can never be again and without it, nothing will remain what it was, where it was, how it had.always been. It is gone, always gone, never again there or here or anyplace at all, only a hole, a drain, a spilling out, a place the world ends and drips away. It will never return. Can it be healed?

I am glad to say that, at last, my new bi-pap machine is supposedly on its way.  It should arrive some time next week, meaning that, at last, I should be able to get some real sleep, at last.  I am eager, even excited about this.  I recall well what it was like when I first was diagnosed with apnea and received my first c-pap.  Many people find it difficult to adjust to wearing a mask and using the machine, but, for me, the impact was dramatic and life changing.  I realized that, for many years, I had been only half awake, even waking without feeling rested.  Even after a single night, I felt so much better.  Over the last few years, even using my current machine, I have found myself feeling as I did all those years ago, and I cannot wait to experience that same transformation once more.

I Know It Cannot Be Undone As you knew, when you acted it would wrong me, but you chose this path and now you want things between us to be better, want me to forgive you for what cannot change and still causes me harm, tell me I must accept this, because it cannot be undone, as though that means you are excused, as though the impossibility of a correctiom excuses your actions.

 I had been hoping that Melissa would be able to come home this week, but, once more, events have delayed her return.  I want to go up to be with her, but I have a lot to deal with here at the moment and don't know when it will be possible.  It is no good, being apart this way, as I have said before.  As anyone who follows this blog knows, I haven't been sleeping, even beyond my usual difficulties in that arena, and I know that I have been less attentive to other aspects of self-care as well.  I don't mean this to blame her, or to suggest she has a responsibility for these things, rather, it is an acknowledgement of the influence of her absence on my mental state.  I need to try to do better, even when she is away, though it is quite hard when I am feeling her absence so.

The Real Problem Again it spins back to the same orientation, as always, the perspective returns, resurrects those same problems, a refusal to notice possibilities, a need to resolve the insoluble.

It is another far too late night and Ishould have finished my work hours ago so I could get to bed at a reasonable hour.  I have a number of things going on which I need to deal with tomorrow, so it would be better if I were up early, but it is five   right now and I haven't gotten to bed yet.  I am going to wrap this up so I can attempt to get at least a bit of sleep before I need to get going.

The Rules I have learned the ways, know what is to be done, what is proper, have been taught the rules to follow, what is to be done, what to expect. I have been true to them, have behaved as expected,  as the rules prescribed: see what has come of it, how others act, who has benefitted, was the point to know the rules, not to follow them?

 I am struggling a lot these days, while Melissa is still away.  It is one reason I am writing so late.  I lose track of time and pay no attention, then I realize I have work to do, and it is already well after midnight.  It is not only that Melissa isn't here, but having her around does a lot to help motivate me and keep me on track.  It is not that she does anything, it is that her presence inspires me to be better, I think, and also, that I have a lot more to do when she is here.  Since she is gone, I've largely been sitting around the house, not really going anywhere much or doing anything other than my writing and such.  I am hoping she will be able to come home soon, as I miss her a great deal.  If there is something that delays her, again, I am going to just have to head up there.

Are They Coming Tomorrow or will it be the day after? I know it was said it will be soon, will be this week, but when? It has been waiting, things have been ready and we are still waiting. I do not want to be a pest, do not want to cause trouble, but it has been so long, things have been waiting. There is a great need, now, to be through with this, or at least to know there is progress, not just more waiting.

I think that tomorrow I am going to work on some specific notes for this new project.  I need to work through some of the ideas and I think I might be able to get a lot more done if I can do that by dumping what is in my head onto the page without any worry about organizing it or communicating things coherently.  I have a lot of it already clear, and I recognize that more ideas are on the edge of my thoughts, just out of focus.  I think it will come together with a bit of coaxing.  It may be, as well, that starting to write a bit about it in this way will help me to find the specifics of the voice and various textual aspects.  If nothing else, it will provide me a chance to examine these ideas more closely, to review and refine my thinking.

What Was Before would be better than the halfway result that seems inevitable. It could have been left, could have waited: the energy  might have been put towards other uses. But it is too late to leave it alone, though it is clear it will be unresolved.

I am feeling a great deal of stress around publishing right now, though it is not the same as much of what I have expressed in the past.  This is much more convoluted and connects more to other situations in my life.  I have a very strong need right now to build something that feels real and which I believe is mine and comes from my own efforts.  For me, the only thing that I can imagine satisfying this need, at this point in my life, is through my writing.  It is a matter of feeling a fulfillment that comes from the effort I have invested already.  I tried for a long time to focus on other things in my personal life, but they keep getting more and more warped by the way others are treating me, and now it feels like the only way to regain control over that is through building my career.  I need something to start going well because so many things just seem to have gone wrong in ways that can't be rectified without shifts that only seem possible if I can find my own path towards suc

The Repurcussions I do not know what still remains, what must be done, what is waiting, but there is more, I know that, as I know much cannot change, much will be done, needs to be done, is planned, commitments are made. It was assured: you offered assurance, did not suggest there were concerns, not when it could change. And now: it is too late to make the right choices and we cannot bare the wrong ones, cannot bare  what will be wrong, though it is done, is fixed, immalleable. Find a way  to correct your actions, to change what was, to undo your missteps. The repurcussions cannot be survived.

I am working to dial in the idea for this new project.  Some of it is beginning to make sense for me, but there are many details that remain unclear.  Their is a clear sense of the the various story elements, but I am still organizing them as a story.  As well, their are elements that need to pinned down, and I am thinking of the organizing principles.  I am wanting to create something that will have a certain impact on the reader, and will involve them in an experience with the book, but that has to be rooted in the rest, or else it is not going to work.  I am close, though, but aspects of it still need to formulate.  I hope to be ready to work on it in the next few weeks.  If I can get it ready for nanowrimo, that might be helpful, as it creates an external pressure to keep me on task.

The Space Between It is too small, will not accommodate, is too little, is shaped wrong, is not enough, not right. It is what is here, now, cannot be changed or made again.  It is too small and cannot be changed. It is not as it should be, I'd nothing now, nothing that is of use.  Nothing wanted. But it cannot be gone, will always be here, too small for use but too big to be nothing.  

Melissa has been away in Ohio for at least three weeks and I miss her so much.  I am not sure when is the last time we have been apart this long, but probably not since she moved down to Florida, which is many years ago by now.  I am hopeful she will be able to return in a few days, but it is not certain.  If she doesn't come back, though, I am going to fly up there next week.  It is just too long to be apart.

The Twist Came Again, a lurch, a turn, a fast spin that dropped us, once more, left us falling, not knowing where we would land, not certain at all of much besides the fact, once more, of broken trust. The choices we made, you have turned them wrong, you mislead us. We had other options, once. The floor here, where we have fallen is hard.  I think it is solid, but I have been wrong.

I am finishing my work early tonight, thankfully, as I am quite exhausted and really need to get to sleep.  I was having trouble keeping my eyes open earlier while trying to write.  I am so tired, and I still haven't been able to even get an update on the new medical equipment I need for my apnea.  I have been given information on who to call, but it does not seem that they are willing to talk to me about the matter.  

This Morning a breaking, a snap at the point of union, what was one is two and each of those is nothing of use, is a fragment that cannot be restored. It broke, do not ask how: there was no trauma, nothing dropped or smashed, it did not shatter apart, was a gentle cracking, came away without violent incident, though that does not matter: it is still as broken, will not be mended, will never work again.

I am thinking quite a bit about the idea for this new project.  It is still unclear how to explain it beyond a general concept, which is to consider the book itself, reading of the text itself, as an event, and to enlist the reader to be involved in the act of creation.  The plot is built around an effort to enact some type of invocation, conjuring something(I am not yet certain what), and, at some point it is clear the book itself is the tool for that act.  The goal is to guide the reader to a point of choosing, of being asked to accept the possibility of a magical act in a way that causes it, in a way, to become real.  I am not certain how to explain what I mean by "real" in this sense.  It is not that I am suggesting manifesting some physical reality, more that something imagined is shared in a way that makes it "real," as a sort of shared experience beyond the story itself.  I need to continue thinking about this idea and how it would work as a story, in terms o

Brotherhood I do not want to feel the hurt you cause or to see yours when you consider, at last and too late, the impact of your actions. You harm me and my expression of harm is harm to you. What pulls us apart is what holds us, is what we keep between us, a line, a center across which we reflect, a twisting into the other, and I see it now, see the line, what we is there that distorts us to each other, but what will that allow? Is even this enough?

Well, it is yet again late, and I am once more glad to be finishing up my writing for the night.  It is a running theme, recently, but I am also finding myself contemplating the idea I discussed a few days ago, though I am still not certain how to approach it quite yet.  Earlier today, I did begin to get more of a sense around it, in terms of the structure and the various aspects that need to be brought together for it to work as I am imagining.  I am hoping that I might have a good sense of what I am intending soon, as I do have the urge to work on something of a larger scope.

Preliminaries It was in my mind today to begin what we discussed, or, rather, not to begin the task itself, but to explain what the task will be, to consider it, weigh and measure, determine what is needed. I meant to do that, not even to start but to prepare, to think, to share with you what I see as an answer, to explain it to you so I might understand, but I was not ready, was not able to find it, yet. I have tomorrow, perhaps by then... perhaps.

I have found myself slipping back to writing quite late.  It is better than not writing, as I have said before, but I should try to alter my schedule tomorrow.  It is a matter of executive function, I suppose.  It is always strange to consider, for me, the ways I am not in control of myself, of my difficulties in organizing and managing myself.  It is not surprising, being severely dyslexic, but it took me a long time to recognize the issue and find ways of coping with it that didn't rely on external resources, such as imposed deadlines and such.  It is late, but I have still done my writing for today, have earned whatever rest I can achieve.

He Holds Doubt as a doll, as comfort: to trust, to take a leap, to choose commitment is never a choice to be considered, is invisible.  He speaks of wanting a path, mentions repairing, growing, making better, but none can come if he will not choose to go towards them, to make them what must be and be resolved, but he prefers doubting, prefers the comfort of trusting his doubt over his own potential.

I am glad to say that I got myself to work far earlier tonight and will be able to finish up at a far more reasonable hour.  It is often more a matter of getting myself to focus then anything, and that can be difficult, even at the best of times.  In many ways, this is why it is so important for me to have the kind of routine that I do, where I write each day and focus on keeping to that practice.  While I have a good deal of difficulty getting started, I am not going to back off from the larger effort, so, at some point, I have to do it.  It is not sensible, I suppose: I know I don't have to, that it is a choice, but the commitment is something I value in myself.  That is, it matters to me on a deep level, almost at a level of personal identity, that the promise I made to do the work will stand, and I know that I need to keep that promise each day.  It is true, of course, that I have slipped a few times here and there over the past few years, but, for the most part, I've writt

It Is Now A Stone One that remains, a stone, pushed deep, pressed in, trapped there, where it shouldn't be, and not moving, never moving, stuck, this stone, blocking up, closing down the path: it has become lodged, will not wiggle loose, not a bit of budge, it has become a stone, and a stone that will not move.

I am still struggling because of my lack of sleep.  I was hoping to get an update related to filling my new prescription and getting the equipment I need, but it didn't come this week.  I will have to call next week, but it does trouble me that there might be a new problem.  I do try to sleep, but when I do, it is extremely superficial and I wind up waking up still as tired.  I have to hope that I will get my new machine soon...

The Circumstances So much, already, has been given over, is no longer here but gone, so much. It seemed best, the choices were considered, were made with care.  But circumstance turned.  The changes: who could know it would be this way? If it were known, if, before, it had been known... Now, what was done cannot change, none of it can change, but it is still different, is the same decision, but not what was ever wanted.

I did not sleep well last night, and I am up late tonight working.  It is a circle where my being tired makes me slow, and then I am up late working because I am slow.  I also am still waiting to get the new equipment to treat my sleep apnea, indeed, I have been waiting since last week for an update on the status of that process.  I am glad to be finishing up, though.  I don't sleep well, but I am eager to give it my best effort tonight.

Push It Back And Away, do not allow it  to gain, to be present. If it is allowed, it will be all, will be the center, will extend to the edges. There is more that might be, more to know and choose, to expose, to reveal, but if it is this, the rest will be gone.

I spent some time today thinking about the idea I have mentioned for a new, larger, writing project.  Ostensibly, a novel, though, as I have said before, I want it to be something else in a way that I have been having difficulty articulating.  I think I do have a better sense of what I am thinking about, and may be able to explain it a bit more clearly.  This is still just me working through the idea, of course, but doing so here might help me articulate it, even to myself.   A large part of the idea is to do with creating a sort of intimate encounter for the reader, an experience that is more like a performance than a traditional story.  The reader is being guided through something by the narrator, and is in a direct relationship with that speaker, not just reading it abstractly, but seeing it, in some sense, as a conversation they are engaged in.  Not that I expect the reader to respond, but in terms of the kind of encounter that I am hoping to develop for the reader.  All this still

What Will Make It Possible You will not commit to making it better, you make it clear you cannot commit. You tell me: I do not believe it can be fixed. You will say it is my fault, that you are certain I will not accept any solution, but you must see the first thing I need is the commitment, the willingness to make the effort even if it does not work, to make it fully without walking away. You must choose to be committed even if you are certain it is impossible. That is the first step. The rest will come, It will never be better until it is clear I can trust you to be here, laboring besides me even if it seems it cannot change. I will always strive, will break myself with this work if it must be so. I have chosen it because you are my brother. Even if I were certain it was impossible I would press forward, would hope and struggle, but I am afraid you would give up.

I am still out of sorts tonight, but I am writing, and, what is more, felt better writing.  I still had a slow start, but once I focused, I was able to get going, and the work seemed to flow.  Their are many things that are contributing to my current mood, Melissa’s absence, issues with my family, this house, not getting real sleep, any number of other things, but I feel far better now that I feel realigned with my writing practice in some way.  I need to keep in mind how important my daily practice is for my own mental wellbeing, and to be aware: when that routine is suffering, it is  a sign worth attending.

What Was Chosen was not only a thing but a chance, and what was destroyed was not the thing, no, that is still here, will remain, still has the same hold, none of what was given to gain this can be returned, there is not a way that leads towards restoration. It cannot be released, though it is nothing it was to be, can never be what was sought, not now, no. It is here, but the chance  was destroyed.

 It has been very difficult getting to work tonight.  I am not certain what has been dragging me down, though it may largely be that I am quite tired.  I did my writing, but it took along while and I was very tempted to just skip it for once, which is not something I even contemplate most nights.  I need to recharge my creativity, I guess.  With Melissa in Ohio, I am thrown off a bit, and there are other issues coming up right now as well.  It is getting to me, I suppose, but I hope that, maybe, tomorrow I can take a day off from some of the stuff that is stressing me out.

The Only One Home When you are gone, I think of the cat, again.  He was company, was good company, and I know when he was here we would miss you together.  Now, I miss you, and missing you reminds me again that he is gone, though I know that, I always know that.

 It took me a long time, tonight, to get myself started with my writing.  I was upset earlier, am still upset, to be honest, and it was not easy to get myself to the page.  I often allow myself to just write out my thoughts and feelings, if only as a strategy to get started, but it wasn't working tonight.  Instead, I just needed a bit of time to release some of that, even if only for a few minutes.  The hardest part was returning to the page afterwards.

They Tell Me I Should Do as They Do, should enjoy it, should be the same, doing as they do. It would be good, they tell me: they are certain. They enjoy it and are certain it would be best for me as well.

I am playing with an idea for a new project, a larger piece that I am not yet sure how to describe.  Part of the issue is the idea is about breaking the boundaries between different traditional literary forms and concepts, and about asking what else might exist.  Is there a long story form in fiction, for example, that isn't a novel?  I don't know what would have to be true for a book length piece of prose fiction to be something other than a novel, if that is even a sensible question.  In some sense, book length fiction is the definition of the novel, of course, but even if the idea I am pursuing ultimately is classified within that same framework, the question underneath is not irrelevant.  There are levels at which the novel is an agreement between the writer and the reader, but can that relationship be shifted?  I am still in the space of possibility before things take real shape, and that can be full of energy, but I know I need to bring it into focus and begin to put that

Sleepless Nights Day will come, will arrive: the sun is there already, the world curves, twists and rolls through space. It will not be delayed, will come at a time that is known, determined. It is not longer, is not dragging, trudging forward with reluctance, no, that is not happening. No matter how long it seems, an hour is an hour and there are only so many until the dawn.

 It has been quite a long and busy day, with home repairs starting early in the morning, a visit to the doctor, errands and various other activities, and now, finally, I am done with my work.  I hope tomorrow will be a bit less hectic, so I might get a bit more work done.  I have a bunch of things I would like to start thinking about, and it would be good to spend a some time on those projects.

You Speak of Destruction that will come if there is change, but things already are destroyed, are due for restoration. You think nothing must be taken, not from you though things you have came at costs that others paid. came at costs others have paid.

 I am not feeling all that great tonight.  It is, I think, exhaustion, for the most part.  I know I need to get some real sleep, and I am hoping that will be possible soon, but I am still waiting for the new machine that will replace my current CPAP.  The machine I have now is not working for me and I have the testing that shows this, but it is still taking a long time to get the replacement.  Until I do, even when I do sleep, I don't really get very much benefit.

I Wanted to Return, but it was not allowed: I was sent here instead, was sent away. You were allowed, were granted the chance. I was not.  But if I speak of it, if I tell you, you will not see, will repeat again that you get nothing, that it always goes my way.

I have been asked to consider the possibility of something that is larger than what I have been pursuing in my career, and which goes outside the systemic limitations I am straining against.  It is not an easy thing, to be honest, and I don't really know how it could be possible, in a certain sense.  The best I have found is the possibility of focusing on an artistic effort, on creating something that seems significant to me.  This, of course, does appeal to me, and I know it is possible that placing a larger focus on that effort might alter my current paradigm, taking energy from my current frustrations and giving me a sense of achievement in terms of the work itself.  I know, however, that it is not a real solution, that, in some ways, it is just postponing things.  I mean to say, if I create such a work, having done it will not be enough; the same desires I am now confronting will return and I will desire to get the work into the world in a way that seems meaningful to me.  I wa

It Was Not Time, not for that, it was time for this, but I started that: I did not notice what was undone, did not think of it at all, because I was ready for the other thing. But I noticed, I caught myself: I am here now. I did begin, but I came back before I finished so I might restore things, restore the proper order: I will return to finish what was begun when it is time, when this is done and it is time.

I am quite tired tonight.  I did get an update about getting my new apnea treatment machine, but it was not all that informative yet.  Hopefully, there will be positive news tomorrow, but I was told that my apnea is severe enough that most of the machines don't produce sufficient air pressure, and so it may be more difficult to handle the order.  I really hope that it works out alright tomorrow and things can move forward, because I am far too tired, and I am not getting real sleep at all.  I really hope I get good news in the morning, that they are getting the equipment and it will be here soon, but I am trying to be prepared for the reality that this may take longer than I would like.

It Was A Demand You asked the question, though it was clear, had been clear for so long, what I would say: you asked, asked as if it were asking, but it was not, I know that, you know it too, knew it then, knew it when you asked that you were not asking were demanding, telling me I must give the answer, must permit this. You asked me, but when I said "no," when I still said "no," you did not listen. You want credit just for asking, not for listening to the answer.

I think I may have come up with the core of a new story.  It involves the idea of simulated worlds, and the question of what is needed in order for such a thing to exist, as well as some deeper ontological concepts, and I think that I have a pretty good idea for a sort of conceptual twist, a reveal that would reframe things, but will also make perfect sense in the context.  It has to do with questions of consciousness, and with the idea of what makes a universe "real", of what is and is not a simulation. Some of this came from thinking about the philosophical experiment that contemplates the potential of this world being a simulation.  This is an idea I've played with in the past, and is central to one of the novels I wrote, and I think it has an interesting twist on that notion.  This new idea is deeper and more complex.  To offer a bit of the origin of it, and some of my thinking, it is important to understand the argument posed around this particular hypothesis.  The g

It Will Not Be Right, but it will be what is needed, perhaps, or a step to ease what must be done, a choice.  It is not the escape, or if it is, it is not an escape to what is better. It is not that. What is needed, though, what is necessary, for things to be better, to be improved: it does not seem it will be at all. This is what can be. There must be better than what can be, than what remains of what can be.

I do feel somewhat enthused about the acceptance from Atlanta Review.  It is a journal that I truly respect, and I am quite proud to know I will have work there.  Beyond this, I want to believe it is a step forwards in a deeper sense.  First, I believe it might facilitate a relationship with the journal.  I know I am going to send them more work in the future, and with a renewed optimism.  As well, I find it, as a result itself, affirming.  I know the caliber of work that Atlanta Review publishes, and, beyond the sense of gratification of having my poem accepted, it is meaningful to have confirmation that the editors recognize my work as worthwhile.  It is easy to fall into, either, feeling the work is terrible and a waste or that it is excellent and those who do not see it are idiots for missing the point.  Any writer can fall towards one or both of these, by turns, and I've known a few who veer hard in one or the other direction.  I have certainly had times when one or the other

After You made those promises, guaranteed you would be here, would help, would prepare me, would guide, would assist, even. There would be opportunities, you said.  I recall the words, do not think I do not know what was said, do not think I can be confused, can come to believe it is me, is a fault in my mind, that I misconstrued. I know what was said, what was promised. It was all clear. What am I to do now? What is there, can you say? None of it has come, nothing was done. What did I do to slip away from your care? I know so many others, too many of them, who you retained, nurtured, continued to care for. I was left behind, left to be alone. I do not know why. What am I to do now? You are gone, and I am here, still waiting, still needing what it was you offered, what I was certain of. Was it already too late even before?  Had I done something, to cut me from consideration? There will be no answers, just as with the rest, it is too late for anything, but I continue still, even if it i

Melissa is still in Ohio, and things have been difficult for her.  She has expressed that she is glad I didn't go with her, but I wish I could do more.  I want to talk to her tomorrow to ask if she wants me to join her soon. 

Bedtime, With Apnea It will be time, again, soon, as always, another night will bring me to bed, to try sleeping, but it is never sleep, is an illusion. I fear it, but it is needed. I wake without rest, still tired, body stressed from breathless danger. I feel it, each night.

Those who follow me on twitter will likely have seen already that I received some good news: an acceptance from The Atlanta Review for my poem "They Say This Is Your Year."  I am excited, of course, and it is nice to have received this good news right now, when things have been rather bleak of late, but I also have to admit that I am worried about being too positive with it.  I want to believe it will be a sign of more good coming soon, especially as it is the second acceptance I've received in the last few months, but I don't want to get my expectations raised.  It may well be that I will receive another acceptance soon, but I may not, and I already received another rejection today: I don't want to get myself psyched and just crash down when I get a bunch more of them.  Acceptances may be coming, and I want to be hopeful about that.  I do feel extremely proud that I am going to have work in the Atlanta Review, even just on its own, and I am celebrating that.  It

Even The Silence Is Different The house is quiet without you here: even the silence is not the same, is only mine. I miss you, miss the silence that is yours, that is ours when we are home together, but in different rooms. I do not hear you, then, but now, I hear the absence of not hearing you in another room.