Last few days I’ve been prying up boards inside my mind, windows have broken by themselves. An old voice from a non-lover returns to criticize my decisions, decisions he didn’t understand, but maybe no one could understand. I was stuck in outer space, once. Does it make things clearer if you imagine me floating there, in darkness, before maps existed? I am fighting hard against these boards and all the while I’m not sure these are the right boards. They take forever to come up, I’m doing it all by myself and I’m not sure this is how you do things. Some people build palaces, did they look like I look today once? I am frustrated by the number of my years. Why wasn’t I a smart Silicon Valley brat that did everything before age 25? All is lost and gone from that trajectory. Old cats mutter nonsense next to garbage bins outside, they had far worse shots than I and have no interest in boards. I hope that I am doing something right for once. I feel small glimpses of recognition in the shadows underneath the floor sometimes, but what am I looking for, what am I after, where’ll all these boards go once I’ve gotten them up, am I even in the right house to be doing this, none of that is clear from the flickers underneath. Has someone invented maps yet? No, the wind howls, only critics of decisions, only harsh voices mocking paths that led from space to not-space. I can’t even really tell, some days, if I’m back in space again. I resent may ancient self. I resent her for not being brilliant enough to see ahead through brick walls, for being resilient against the pounding of hurricane storms, the shrill voices of medusa. There were goals once, wrongly given, wrong advice has led so much further down wrong roads. Does the heart have an answer? What feels like a solvent of a crooked past, what feels like an antidote after a long period of stifled growth? Will I live long or well enough to make motions better- those non-movements of the non-silicon girl? These last few months I’ve thought often of the creature from non-silicon, that washed up on shore someplace and never figured out why. This hurt beast, I’ve criticized it myself, I’ve added wind to the knockers at the windows and the angry bees. Dents in the roof. Surveillance systems. Being unable to spell in one’s own language, unthinkable in some places. I’ve done so many things unwell, perhaps I’m not good at them. I agree the successful will have done only what they love for the greatest amount of time— I have crawled out of self-convinced false joys that took years to operate, I am so good at convincing myself I am joyful. This prying up of boards- I am so willing and able today, but will I have done all this prying to have found no more sparks beneath? There are so many boards left in this floor.

oct 14 16