I’m listening to Julia…

I'm listening to Julia Fordham's Concrete Love, an unexpected present from journal-reader Jim, found (along with Magic's Price) in the pile of Tiptree books. I was a little confused until I read the note, since I was pretty sure Jim had already sent me a birthday present -- they turn out to be housewarming gifts, how lovely and unexpected. Thank you, Jim!

I'm making slow progress on bringing coherence to my life. That's the word of the day, 'coherence' -- one of my cousins called me for English homework help, demanding to know how to write coherences. I eventually figured out that what she really wanted to know was how to "use transitions to increase coherence" in her paragraphs. I could tell her how to do that, which was good, since I have no confidence in my ability to write coherences. Sounds like a good skill, though.

Made dinner. Loaded the dishwasher. Opened my mail. Figured out (with Kevin's help) that the download problem is probably on their end, not mine. Finished the third eBook. Have two novellas left to read -- hopefully they'll get back to me with the other two books tomorrow so I can read them and mark this assignment done.

Periodically, I go and snuggle Kevin. He's intermittently watching tv and doing computer stuff. I don't really have any interest in the tv that's on -- I got out of the habit a bit while staying with David and Jed, neither of whom watches much tv. (Jed doesn't watch any, I think, though he occasionally does stick a movie in the VCR.) But it's peaceful, lying down on the futon next to Kev, curling up behind him, wrapping my arm around his chest. Just breathing.

I just got an e-mail from someone who wanted to know if I'd actually written flowers and branches, and if not, if I could point them to the person who had. And I was just a bit bewildered, because if there's one poem that's pure autobiography, in detail, it's that one. Not that they could know that, of course -- not unless they'd been following this journal obsessively. I have to remind myself of that -- so much of my life is on public display that I think I develop odd expectations. I meet people whom I know nothing about, but who know quite a lot about me and Kevin, for example. I imagine it would be even more disconcerting for Kevin, if it happened to him. Luckily, I don't think it often does.

I read the poem again. I don't know when I wrote it, exactly. More than a year ago -- before the May (June?) 2001 breakup. I'm still not so clear, most of the time, what's happening here, what's going to happen. But right now, tonight, that ending feels true, feels right.

I also re-read Wild Roses tonight, since my author copies of Ripe Fruit were also in the stack. I do know when I wrote that one -- last summer, after we'd broken up. It's about a relationship that broke apart, and another one that stayed together, and maybe about the first one coming together again, for a little bit. In some ways it's a poly love story -- but mostly, for me, it's about appreciating each other over the years, whether you're together or apart.

I'll take that, please. Sometimes it seems like it'd be easier not to make the attempt at all. But I think that's just tiredness talking.

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