Wednesday, June 22, 2022


I used to think about writing a book. 

Something big. I wrote two sets of songs that were inter related: Cycles that told a story. One followed love from birth to death and then into the afterlife. It failed, but I loved it. The other describes my loneliness in terms that I only understood in my late 20s: It was as grandiose as I was and the little lump in my heart was a planet. I wasn't sure why its mass wasn't attracting anything and , simultaneously, terrified it might. 

Last night I sat up with RD and we talked about love. How it's not what you think. How it's work and it needs your care every damned day. 

And I though about what I have of love: I have piles of regrets, bad decisions and things I don't know how to say. There's joy and sex and memory: and at the end of the day you wonder if the failure of long term relationships is the loss of our willingness to go through those piles of good and bad. 

And I feel broken about it. Because if I think about a love starting all I think about is that same love dying. I live in a ouroboros of the beginning looking like my expectation of the end and I hope this isn't what getting old is. 

Because getting old has always been about gaining altitude, too. Getting above your own life and seeing more. I love that height; I love the view. 

For all the joy in that, there's heart break. 

And I wonder - is every heart broken? Is that what makes us what we are? Is that what makes us lovable? 

I used to think about writing a book. I have drafts and ideas and research. In the end, the beginning looks like my expected failure in the end -

      - so I never write it. 

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