The sun is coming into the kitchen so blondly.  Today, I’m wrestling with the hard knowledge that both projects I just turned in are crap.  But they’re done (for now), and I’m in the kitchen, and the sun comes down so blond.  I’m wrestling with severed connections, how shaped I continue to be (in more complex ways) by different small losses.  I would rather loss was not part of this universe—or any universe.  How strange it is to be walking around, making a daily life out of my new living conditions, and feel those losses like small recesses scraped out of my side.  Put my hand in there, feel around.  (They’re gone.)  (No doubt.)

But I’m trying to create, too.  (Not just lose.)  I have now planted all seeds and all seedlings in my possession.  They fill with sap, stand straighter every day.  Flower sprouts appear, appear, appear.  (How I need the flowers to appear.)

This is all for now.