Thursday, June 13, 1996

Writing the Arc


My neighbor, Sonny is adrift in a hostile sea. I've not been to bed this night, I heard him come home long after the bars have closed. He's probably sipping peach schnapps from the bottle. He may be one of the best mouth harp musicians around, but the blues have got him in a headlock, and the only way out is down and out.

I had hardly graced the covers the night before, but sleep Insists upon its due. But I resist, wanting the fullest experience I can muster. I write long past the midnight oil hour.

And I rejoice in the fact that the words come unbidden – after so long, a silence, my art was weighing me down. The piece is finally done, but I worked on it some more, and I'm pleased with much of it.

It's an odd admixture of science, the flood, and the personal essay (love gone wrong), in the form of short prose poems: Building an Arc in the Dark of the Year. Every time I think I'm done with it, it comes back and insists upon another piece. Its had me in a headlock for six months, now.

I turned in a previous iteration of the manuscript to Jane Love for the Copperfield's Literary Magazine, along with some india ink artwork. This is the first official letting go, turning the manuscript loose. It's also the beginning of healing. I do feel vindicated, and relieved to receive the gift of such a powerful piece of writing—that came from a relationship that went so terribly wrong.

They say writing is the best revenge, indeed. Maybe writing the Arc saved me. But I miss Nathan, Sonny's young son. We healed each other, and the broken father was jealous of our uncomplicated love.


June 13, 1996

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