No matter what I am thinking about, I am mostly thinking about Oakland…
It is a rumor, a slapping of language. The avenues are silent and I can walk and think about writing. I can do so while holding a string, like DB, to get a measure of walking, or better yet, a measure of thinking about narrative. That is what a story is. I make hats out of stories counting each letter and knowing that each stitch is a folding of my tongue.
I can’t decide the scent of it, of Oakland. Like when I just wake up, my brain isn’t ready for the senses yet. Spring as the start of something new brings desire to life. I want you like Mars out of retrograde. Oh city, oh East Bay. I will come to you and knit a color of summer.
"somewhere I have never travelled gladly..."
I’ve grown accustomed to working my tongue into unnatural shapes. I’ve got speaking anxiety. No accent is “normal” anymore. I wait for those moments after drinking when anything comes out. It sounds inevitably like Spring. Such a season is obscene in this state. It can’t make up its mind. I vacillate from one feeling to the next, from a language to the other. God, I need to start writing letters
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