journal

November 16

“He whispered, his lips in her hand so that she heard the words as if she were gathering them, one by one, in the hollow of her palm:

‘Kira, the highest thing in a man is not his god. It’s that in him which knows the reverence due a god. And you, Kira, are my highest reverence...’”

November 17

the motorcycles in the street remind me of sitting in Marcie’s freshman year dorm room, late at night. talking about boys, beliefs, listening to Marcie’s songs. figuring Transy out. we were so naive then, and we thought we knew it all.

the heavy blankets keeping me warm remind me of A’oud Lma and the Driouich family — when I was plagued with dreams and spent a day in an olive grove. When I both struggled to communicate and had the easiest time of it I can remember. Reaching for the stars so thick that looked close enough to gather. eating freshly killed sheep. defecating outside for a week. little brothers and sisters.

Sufjan Stevens reminds me of Charleston, South Carolina, of exploring the city with Clay. Of being young and comfortably in love. Can I return to that with him? Will it be difficult to return to the point where we left off? Will it feel awkward? ‘Feel the Illinoise!’ tells me no. it tells me that being with him will be as natural as being myself has become. That loving him will remain my most beloved enterprise, missing him the most characteristic. i can’t wait to see him.

‘less than a month to go...’

‘that’s what I keep telling myself.’

‘I’m so excited!’

thank god we figured this out. I can’t imagine not having him.

“What the Fuck” (my stuffed owl... I’m not apologizing for his name), laying peacefully on the nightstand, reminds me of cleaning the basement with Clay, of him scaring me with the damned stuffed animal, of WTF’s christening.

I am reminded of Hilton Head, of blissful childish afternoons in the pool playing boat and baby koala.

Of pulling him into the Lucille Little Theatre green room kitchen to give him a note, and of him kissing me hard and purposefully as soon as the door shut behind us.

Being bewildered and confused by him all the time.

Loving and missing him more with each passing day.

growing in anticipation of a hug, a kiss, a face, a hand, a drive, a song, a gas station coffee.

the good old things of America.

DECATUR.

South Carolina.

North Carolina mountain passes.

“where they caught a wild alligator...”

his laughter, his loyalty, his love.

his eccentricities, his desires, his attitude, his way of being alive.

appreciate her (appreciate her)

stand up and thank her

It’s the great I AM.

decatur. Sufjan Stevens.

I fell in love again

all things go, all things go

drove to Chicago

all things know, all things know...

chicago. S.S.

Time is the most freeing

and most frustrating acquaintance

I’ve met in Morocco.

Why can’t it go faster? Why can’t it slow down?

Why do I feel it at all?