in the beginning...

Last night I rambled along a hushed and steamy bus in the rain, quiet, tired, piano in my ears.  Quite abruptly, like some intangible darkness in my guts, I was hit by the sudden realization of why I am doing this.  Hopping a jet to never return, one-way; LEAVING.  I thought it was because I had such a profoundly broken heart I couldn't see myself healing it in the midst of the vibrating winds of home, sitting on the same old porch, like a goose.  I thought it was because I needed to create something even BIGGER, just for myself, so I could heal the confusion of what seemed a remorseless con-act (as I imagined the Universe laughing in great, roaring, star-shuddering hysterics).  But what came to me, whispering in my ear, direct from that inconsolable seed of self that resides hibernating, drooling, ready to strike up the viola of cruelest truth, was the knowledge that something inside me had died.  

THERE HAD BEEN A DEATH HERE, AND I HADN'T EVEN KNOWN IT - a belief in things I will never understand - unexplainable orchestrations of time and space had filled the galaxy of my whole life, a strange and fantastical storybook I had built around me, the curious ways in which I seemed to have always been carved the clearest path, my heart answering to some unspoken god inside myself I didn't dare pointing to or acknowledging outloud, sending me, express-trained, to strangers and friends and lovers out of what seemed an infinite web of what can only ever be called magic.  What a laughing stock I've become, I thought.  What a fool I must seem.  Nothing is real, the world is cruel, and you are lost.  

Stupid.  So fucking stupid.

There has been a death, and I am not quite sure what I want to do about it, I thought.  Sing a dirge?  I had already done that.  Pointlessly.  Throw my fists into something hard and loud, and bleed a bit?  Maybe just go get so drunk I could dance myself sick with the energy of just passing it through.  My eyebrows became sorely bent angles (and oh, poor hands that covered the face from tears shown to unconsenting riders!), causing me to see my own reflection in the window droplets - fingers, steam, and spit.  God help me.   

I need to write.

I have needed to write, really WRITE, since the years of hiatus I took up spent in mental conversation, waffling, distracting, arguing, creating so many projects I can't even remember them all now (because I didn't WRITE them down) - good and wonderful exploits necessary and proud, but none resolved, recorded, sewn - in word. Writing has ever only been my truest sanctuary, my dearest love, the sweetest breast upon which to lose myself endlessly.  

And so begins a kind of journey.  Back but forward.  And I'm going to dig for bones.