It’s not that I didn’t write a blog yesterday, it’s that I didn’t post it. I felt, more than usual, at a loss for putting my thoughts down in any way that might make sense. My Sunday morning was blemished by dropping one of a set of my beloved Frida Kahlo earrings down the sink drain, gone forever, and then having to tell a coveted journal that the poem they wanted had been accepted the day before by another journal.
I reminded myself (as I did when I lost my dead best friend’s amethyst ring on a Greyhound bus) that the ring (the earring, the lost object) is not really lost, just no longer in my possession. I reminded myself to be very grateful for the acceptance and to resolve to submit again to the longed-for journal. I composed myself, in much the way I might compose a poem. Made the best meaning of it that I could.
Then I went to a death, which reminded me how everything matters, but different things matter differently. I volunteer to assist people who wish to use Washington state’s death with dignity law, meaning I guide them through the process and am with them when they swallow lethal medication and die peacefully. If you are curious, you can read about our law here.
My feelings, thoughts, impulses are all quite confused today. I found a poem of mine that took me a good while to remember the title of, that might belong here instead of any clarity on my part. Something is found, in that case.
Things go missing
Odd things, like my duffel bag —
where could it be
when I need to unpack it?
Strange things like words
I’m sure I know,
swear I love,
You are gone
and I don’t even remember your name,
although faces are never gone. Although never
is a word to never use.
These things I seek are not vanished, just mislaid,
not here, not there, not where
I will ever meet them again. In flesh.
Matter/energy and all that.
There is a finite beyond
which I never question and there is that word
never again, because I can’t find a better one.
In my limited, limited, lost brain’s ability
to withstand all the things that are here,
I am pleased to announce:
things go missing.
from blinded by clouds, Hyacinth Girl Press