Postcards. An update.


Let’s see.

This is neither poem, nor piece of writing-just an update of sorts.
Ideas linger, cling to my walls, have yet to form themselves into something of worth. Meanwhile, life continues, appearing in the small moments between mornings turning on the oven, and evenings turning it off.

These days, the sunrise is set to the soundtrack of Al Bowlly’s crackled voice, and Satchmo as always sings love songs. This is life in New York for me, endlessly in love and lust. The most gorgeous shade of misery.

It has been 5 weeks since my Hashimoto’s diagnosis. In that time I have, through sheer determination, lost 6lbs. Which is not much, but is made all the more significant considering my current thyroid levels. So let’s just say, I lost the normal body equivalent of 100lbs and I am the normal body equivalent of perfection. I began medication on Saturday, and I am optimistic that with continued effort I will return to my old body.

Which reminds me, I often wish I had explained to her that I understand what it means to be in the wrong body. Or to rationalize on some level that this is the correct one, though it surely doesn’t seem to fit. There are all these extra bits. To question who designed this.

On Thanksgiving my Aunt Francine told me of a woman she knows, who used to draw the illustrations for the packaging of sewing patterns. Which, it seems, is an exciting story to so few of us these days. I loved it.

Last weekend I entertained the idea of sending a postcard, I went through my collection and stumbled across the one my grandfather had sent me for my 18th birthday. I never understood the choice then, but looking back I realize it was a perfect conclusion he arrived at.

“Girl with the Red Hat.”

I mean, does it get more me than that?

So, on that evening I decided not to send her a postcard,
Instead, I called my brother.

I sort of cried at him for a few hours,
But he listened,
Which is a lot to ask of someone,
Especially at 2a.m.

It was a good thing, I think, overall. Our first real conversation in years.

Though there are still a million questions to ask, it seems I may move into Pa’s apartment. It is a rather lovely anxiety to have.

I have also been offered twice within a single week the opportunity to feature as a poet. Which is, just beyond exciting.

Oh, and what else? New muses have wandered their way in, all spectacles, bourbon, and testosterone.

Myself, I have begun to drink in that joyous cocktail, Oxytocin, Serotonin, Dopamine, Adrenaline.
Would be vastly improved with dash of Vasopressin, twist of Lemon.
Though those ingredients will take time to acquire.

pa postcard 2