8/5

In Lenders in the Temple Conor goes, "Hello, patterns in my mind now moving slow," and I always just plummet my sorry soul into this ridiculous trail of yes we are all connected, yes these mosaics are beautiful and ruinous and I wonder why we aren't still trapped in them. Later, too: "Smoothing out the edges of the stone," and that is it, that, my dear friends, that is my life and my world and everything and nothing that I've been trying to communicate for forever and for two weeks. We like the edges. Love them, even, the serrated, broken coasts and lines -- moments that would have been momentous had they lasted just a little longer.

And still we want to destroy it. Destroy it all, really. Because there will always be something heartbreakingly beautiful about tragedy at its torn-up core, and we will relentlessly pour our eyes and hands into whatever reaches that level, that element. It's not cynical, particularly, I don't think. Just accurate. Just pretty.

The northwest is not more wise, only more potent, but there was an air of freedom there that you couldn't deny, a piece of glass or cloud that made its frightened way into your palm and prompted you to look up at the trees. The trees are patterns. The sea is patterns, licks and dips of patterns. We are patterns and these ties are getting too prominent to ignore, too obvious to hide in our pockets and tuck in our hair. My friends are leaving. The ending of Empire Falls was a cop-out. Are those patterns? I'm drawing them out, I am, and they're crossing and falling and hurting. Why do we know aching. Better than smiling, I mean. I bought a new dress.

I'm looking so despairingly for a God that never meant much at all to me. In order to search, too, for this balance, I first need stones to smooth and hands to hold. A lesson to learn. If my head hurts because I am fasting then how is this cleansing, please, Christ, fucking God how is this cleansing. My friends were talking about packing, lugging out boxes, picking up things, pulling out belongings and treasures. I'm not packing. Where am I going? Nowhere. Nowhere, right now, really. Not right now.

If I miss you, well, that's my fault. That’s my fault.