January 24th, 2014

And I have forgotten that I made coffee so it's a surprise when I
wander down to the kitchen and find the pot still hot and the smell
of coffee all over everything. And our landlord is beautiful and kind
and didn't even yell about the pipes freezing and the tub overflowing
and the seams of the ceiling darkening with water. And earlier while
I washed dishes, Brett swept the floor and we talked about men and
what I want or don't want. And this was a gentle conversation of love
and respect and he is both a brother and a friend, and there is a kind
of knitting together that keeps each thread distinct. And I am still sick,
but not so sick that I cannot move and so the day is open and I have many
things with which to fill it. And when Genna comes home from her day it
is like a reunion and we talk about what it means to be a person in the world,
only neither of us say in word that that is what we are talking about. And the
sun has not yet set but when it does there are many candles to be lit.



January 23rd, 2014


There are days that get swept under things and this was one of them.
But now, even though it was yesterday, as I reach under the thing it
was swept beneath, I feel its angles and lines and pull it out and dust
it off. It is a day that is a little bit limp and cut off from other days, but
this is because not many days have been limp. And it is okay to have a
day in which no revelation beyond the sureness of your bed is received.
It is okay to have a day in which you melt into the clothes you wear. I
slept and stayed under the covers all day and when they came home,
pouring into the house like orange juice into a glass on a Sunday morning,
I was glad to put on other clothes and a smile and join them in the kitchen.
Genna and I sat against the heater and my aching head and neck warmed
and ached less, and we ate every seed from half of a pomegranate and Josh
played music and we named things without knowing the power of this and
when it got darker still, I went back to my room and the sureness of my bed. 



January 22nd, 2014

I like your boots he says. Also, I like your hair. You don't see girls with hair like
that many times. He speaks with a heavy accent. What is your name? He asks. We
are in an elevator. His name is Miguel. His friend's name is Mike. I like that they
have the same name, and they laugh at this as the elevator opens to my floor. Once,
in the same elevator, a student looked around and said I have gathered you all here
to discuss our economy. Thank you for coming. The other adjunct night instructors
shifted strangely but I threw my head back and laughed and laughed and watched
the student smile in the mirrored ceiling. Tonight in class we get to know each other.
One man does not know if he even needs the class, you see he passed the other class
and might just go on to 101, but he sits at the edge of his seat, and when I ask them
to write, he writes and writes, and I feel his joy in this. I have stolen a dry-erase marker
from another classroom, but there are tricks of survival, and this is one. I look out over
Hartford and wonder if I will always look out over Hartford. I think I will not. But the
purple light that plays on the facades tonight seems to say There is something here. Be in it.