I am bumbling around finding poetry books and coffee cups and semi–guttered scented candles. My housemate at the age of 68 is going white water rafting on the Orange Riiver, I am sick with fear and try not to show it. We do what we need to do.
I woke up wishing I had someone to talk with. I am suddenly very lonely and uncertain right in the midst of my uncertain life. I talk to my beloved sober friends and they say nothing. I know they care for me. They don’t see the lostness.
One of my images of P ower is Maybelline, best reverenced by Chuck Berry. Not a gal to slow anything down. I suppose I am a stranger in an open car.
One of these day I shall be decisive and lucid again. I am right out in the Amazon, the Sahara, the strange hours before my friend Aletta died. Just bearing witness and checking for bed sores, sips of water, presence. How often do I think of Pam at her mother’s bedside.
The light shines more brightly in darkness.