It’s like a scene from a satirical movie about the 21st century. Our phones have conflicting but equally mistaken ideas about how to get where we’re going; in their incompatible eerie voices they instruct us in ever firmer tones to take more and more wrong turns. We don’t want to silence them because who knows, maybe they’ll figure out where they’re going after a while, and anyway neither of us wants to be the first to admit that their phone is wrong, so we just yell at each other over the voices, adding two more layers of navigational confusion to the general chaos.
Still I feel no nostalgia for the previous millennium; for its unwieldy paper maps that obscured the forward view; for the necessity of squinting at the trickily intersecting lines representing our path; for the infinitesimal print that silently explained everything; for the way the driver–it was a different driver then–yelled at me to hurry up, to figure out where we were going, before it was too late, which it always, always was.
objects are closer
than they appear
I take my shoes off
to feel how hard the road is
all the pollen in the world the weight of him
of rotting rosehips…
the decision is final
It’s been a long week, and my brain’s full of stuff. Bad stuff, good stuff…the operative word is “full.” All the stuff is churning around in my brain as if my brain were one of those slightly insane overactive washing machines that you’re always a little afraid will actually walk out of the basement during the spin cycle. I sit down and try to let poetry settle out of my mind, work its way through the filters and the silt of my subconscious and gather in a clear quiet pool somewhere I can get to it, and–there my brain goes, shaking again, everything in a big muddy mess.
I might just need to sit down everyday and write to you guys. You’re remarkably calming. You won’t mind if I get all journal-y on you, will you? I mean, journal-y in a “yeah, there’s some poetry here, but I make no guarantee about its quality” kind of way? Thanks, I knew you’d understand.