to Erin Elizabeth Birgy, 10.24.09

Last night I went to a mask-making party, which actually just ended up being an Irish poet named Simone & myself sitting in her apartment, her typing little poems onto old photographs of French women, & me making a clay vase with raised letters that spelled out, "TELL THE TRUTH." Both of us exercised poor posture, & we only spoke on the surface level. It was fine that way.

Later, more people arrived, most of whom I might've labeled as wankish snobs, but when they spontaneously broke into Folk standards I had to realign my judgements. I left at two in the morning, leaving my vase behind on purpose. I walked the twelve blocks to my loft; when I breathed, my breath became visible. More unsolicited proof that I'm alive.

Swallowing my jealously & longing, I loved reading about your recent adventures, both down the coast & through your artistic pursuits. Sans-jealousy, it's been a great relief to see you doing the things you need to feel fulfilled. It certainly took a lot of walking in circles in a desert of bummers to get there.

Oh, & I remember mentioning those strange, uncalled-for dreams I've been having. Well, it pretty much has to do with being one lung in a pair. Why do I still dream about that?

Just now, I came upon an entry in the pocket-sized High School Musical notebook Victoria gave me. It's from the first day I spent back in Spokane after leaving Olympia for keeps. Yuck.

Here's what it says:

I suppose I'll try to write some real shit during this pause. There is a good chance that I will stop before I'm finished because I usually get bored by the tangible parts of my life. That's why I've never really kept a journal. I'm intimidated by the idea of documenting the true events that back up all the things I make up. I wish that weren't the case, because with my overwhelming fear of dying, documenting the life I'm sure to lose seems like the second-best solution.

Or, on second though, maybe it's the third-best:

1. never dying.
2. Leaving something behind that people I'll never meet will remember me by.
3. The above possibility.

I'm already getting bored by this . If i do finish, it will only be to prove a point to myself. It won't be sincere.

Two days ago I left Olympia, where I spent the last three years becoming deeply rooted & dangerously comfortable.

I actually liked living there, & I mostly just want to stay. But I left so could break my back working this summer. I will spend this summer breaking my back so that I can afford to move to New York City in the fall.

There are six million people in New York City, & I don't know a single one. I know one person in New York City, but she is married, & won't see me.

So I'm leaving my little community of big-heart buddies to be swallowed up by distance & loneliness in the capitol of the world.

Why?

I'm not completely sure. I'll be attending the New School's graduate writing program, but that's just the means. That's what made this possible. I'm just using the New School to get to New York like the girl you go on a date with because you want to meet her friend. But there's something I am supposed to do there. I think it may be important.

I get the feeling that all the isolation & fear I've felt before is just the start. In a way, I'm excited to meet some new extremes, the likes of which will surely sit on my chest & keep me from sleeping at night. By the weight of them, I'll have to focus all of my energy on just breathing. Nevermind the rest.

This is what I'm expecting. It is not what I am hoping for.

But what I've learned about hope is that for it to mean anything, it has to be attached to a lot of struggle. Hope is the breath you take before climbing a mountain, & it is the exhale when you reach the top. All the time in between, though, you've got to keep on holding your breath.

I want to do real good, & I want to do it in New York, because if you can change New York you can change the world.

Also, I want to fall in love again. Is that so wrong?