to be honest / apr 26
Towards the end of the month, I have a theologic experience with the trees. It’s a sort of faux spiritualism that I used to engage in much more as a teenager. There was a weekend spent purifying stones in sunwater, in a windowsill, at the top floor of the house, for a boy I’d stop speaking to pretty soon later, who lived near where my dad worked. I don’t know what made me so sure that any of it would work, that if the sun could reach the egg-cup of water or that I was convinced I could become something more or that the boy’d like me by any means at all. I’d ask the rocks, have you changed? and I’d ask the water, are you more? and I’d ask the dog, do you want a walk? So, of course, at twenty five, I ask the trees, what do you want from me? And of course, they tell me nothing. I spend the month of April closing myself off from my writing, and fail to assume any of the heights that I’m after. I make a professional blunder, soon edited, and learn to shut my anxiety behi...