Notes from the bus 1/22/14

Rising early to ride the bus to St Petersburg. After an hour, the sun is finally shedding light on the palm trees and flowering bushes. We pass a waterway and I imagine it's ancient form, dark skinned peoples navigating their way through it on wooden canoes. They heard the earth, they felt the migrations of animals and knew by looking at the clouds everything they needed to know about survival.

I told him I used to be able to cry on demand by thinking about my father being hurt or sick or worse- dead. I told him about the nights I worked as a dancer sweet talking CEOs and Wall Street bankers, getting inebriated to convince myself I was okay with what was happening. Once I lost my boots in a cab, I came home crying and barely clothed. My sister and our roommates took me to the diner downstairs from our flat, right in the middle of Manhattan in the sea of winter. I don't know why I told him these things, they're things I'm ashamed of, that I don't even like thinking about myself. 

What does it mean to love? Is it faithfulness? Naïveté? Blind eyes and cold, lonely hands? Is it immediate, in your face or across the oceans of the world? Can it fizzle? Ignite? Come back from the death of your first two children? 

The inside of my left ear is throbbing, a painful heartbeat in my head. I'm wondering if it's to do with the removal of my wisdom teeth? Or from that night I got too drunk and fell down. I crawled into my bed from the floor where I ripped my ear open on a bottle cap. Nick, Jess and Cory sat in my room for a little while talking to me and as they smoked, I fell asleep.