"Remember the naked poet, and when you�re upset with someone talk to your very nicest friend. Not your best friend or your mean friend, though it can be fun to talk to those people. Talk to the friend who always does the right thing. The one without a mean bone in his/her body (that you can discern, and you consider yourself a good judge of character). Talk to the friend who you would most want to be, if you could be someone. Then wait 24 hours. Then sleep really well and don�t play video games in the morning. Shower first, and brush your teeth, and go to work, or write for a while if it�s early enough. If it isn�t early but you don�t have to be at work yet, remember the times when you woke up early and you were out in the city and the buildings were enormous like relics of a lost civilization and the streets were empty and the light was even and the sky was blue and the sun was just poking above the concrete horizon and how it felt like falling asleep in a row boat on the middle of a lake. Write about that, then go to work. Poets have short memories for failure and don�t need the things they think they need after a while. Remember the naked poet."

--Stephen Elliott

i am trying to let every muscle relax, to keep breathing, to let out each breathe like i'm blowing out a birthday candle, but slower. easy.

but i'm not good at that, really, so instead i put on skinny jeans and my olive jack and gold and run around town with the windows down, erranding and come home and make caprese for lunch with bernard the basil plant and go pick up boxes for the move and go click click click through various tedious tasks, healthcare and cable and phonecalls. then to zumba to dance and dance and dance (but still look at my watch once or twice). hang the shower curtain back up, take a long shower. read and text my love and feel so much calmer at a distance. i love him but goddamn i love solitude, true solitude, not waiting for someone to get home from work but knowing no one is coming and you get to be alone all night. the whole bed to yourself. typing away like somewhere inside of you is still sixteen, still windows down driving, still listening to pete yorn, still loving your own silence.

as narcissistic as that may sound - that piece of peace. owning it. good night.


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