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Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

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As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty, dir. Jonas Mekas, 2000.

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No one has taken anything away, Marina Tsvetaeva (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

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—Albert Camus

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Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

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Danez Smith, from "summer, somewhere"

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A bit of sun and a bit of blue with shades of green in between.

I’m seeing pieces of myself grow, weeds sticking out of cracked concrete, racing toward a newfound hope.

I’ve found a companion within myself; she holds my hand on the isolating path of transformation.

The light’s warmth embraces me, and for the first time, I sigh in relief, accepting what I can’t control and what is meant to be.

The grass is soft beneath my feet, and I ground myself in the present, welcoming the change I’ve feared.

I’m no longer afraid of the rotten parts of myself; instead, I begin to mend them with the good and allow each half to guide me toward who I’m becoming.

I give in to the power of trust and fall into the arms of belief, awaiting what’s to come and where I'm meant to be.

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"The seats… in my life… How should I put this? I don't want my heart to be affected by people who don't have a place there. Does that sound cold? Well, I guess there are also guys like you who brings their own chair and takes a seat." ~ Nobara Kugisaki

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hold on a second man…

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hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

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The prodigal daughter never returned,

a continuous disappointment to the father.

There is a hole that’ll never heal and expectations that will never be achieved.

No matter the distance or the age, I continue to ruin myself in my father's eyes, shattering any remnants I see of him in my reflection.

The untameable child who will never please him, the example he’ll never want to set for his other children.

I remain misunderstood, seen as nothing more than misguided and reckless.

I hope for my father's forgiveness one day so that I may forgive myself, and maybe then I will be allowed to move on.

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