Freight: Day 1


There was a time when I wrote. Stories, novels, poems, and a stack of truly horrifying journals I can neither bring myself to read nor burn. I wonder, now, if I haven’t spent the last decade asleep in my own words. Was I that safe, that sure? Could I have been?

Were you?

My solipsistic insularity has grown threadbare. I keep trying to wrap it around myself, but foul winds whistle through. Then there are times, like now, with the train crying in the night-fallen distance, that I fear it isn’t the wind that is coming in, but rather that it is me seeping out…


4 thoughts on “Freight: Day 1

  1. I’ve certainly felt this. I too have piles of notebooks and sketchbooks, washed up in the corners of my apartment, much of them containing attempts to catch and preserve what I perceive to be living organisms from slipping through the cracks of some inexpressible whole. My head used to be a fish tank. But the cracks are now too big to save everything. In fact there are gaps now, holes, and shards of glass scattered all around me.


    1. What strikes me most about old journals is twofold: first, my younger self was quite maudlin and second, that my ‘recitation of fact’ was overtly raw. So, sometimes it is the sentimentality makes me cringe, and others the hyper-exposure of what (of course) turned out to be a passing emotion. I no longer try to save everything.

      I imagine, with the tank shattered and emptied of water, you breathe easier now – a net improvement?


      1. Yes, I do breathe easier now, in a sense. Klutz that I can be, I stepped on glass and cut my feet. Healed now though. I’m a little less tense, more give and take in my interactions. Less perfectionist, more accepting. In this venue, it’s not about artfully outdoing each other, but sharing in the creativity. You fling the spark into my terrain, I do something with it, then I fling it back into your terrain. I trust that you won’t burn yourself. It’s evident in your intelligent sensibility that you know what to do.

        I have mixed feelings about your word-game-playing behind masks and different names, though I understand it. I’m not going to call you anything. Calling you something you’re actually not makes me feel silly. Speaking of mathematics, you’re like the variable. Brand the sign on your forehead, strap a helmet to your head with a metal rod extending toward the sky, to conduct electricity, climb up onto a rooftop, and while waiting for the storm sit and spin which way the wind blows like a weathervane.

        Or perhaps I should call you Pi. Archimedes is dessert.

        Funny thing about the fish tank: it’s not ordinary – it grows back around my head, and grows larger and larger, slowing filling up with water, creatures spawning in it, until it cracks and starts leaking again. The effort is continual to keep my head in the real world. Quite often after imaginary journeys, I turn and look in the mirror and there it is: the fish tank has grown back.

        When I look back over my old notebooks, I have similar sensations and reactions that you appear to have going over your old stuff. A lot of wallowing is in my own. Embarrassing stuff. Flailing around, things falling apart in my hands, terminating in melancholy and nihilism. Yet, my sketchbooks – there are some starts there, ideas – seeds. It’s a matter of separating the wheat from the chaff, panning the gold out of the stream of diarrhea. The process indeed can be quite hard to stomach. I hold my nose and my eyes water. I like to think however now of all the stuff we churn out which in hindsight turns to shit as compost, mulch for the garden.

        Out of waste comes the flower.


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