notes from the field

the writer reports in from real time:
the kind of night where i am finding myself trying to eat more than i did the meal before this one, feeling too much like a ghost and thinking it would be heavier if i were heavier, like i might not float away.  riding through cold streets, taking my little girl to a school concert - she's in concert black and wishing she could wear boots instead of velvet shoes, and the wind blows against her legs.  she is thin as a faerie on a night like this, but just enough to keep us all on the ground, riding into the wind and hoping we don't pick up the wrong kind of speed that could take us up.  it's not a good night for flying.  these last moons building up to this next one, coincidences and second chances are in the air, but i can't count them on my fingers, they float away with the tip of my thumb from another time altogether.  and if it weren't for her, i think i would float, that i would find myself floating, if i didn't have this spiral going through my lip.  it's a staple over my mouth, and i'm not sure what else is holding me together, but it might be that, with all of its multiple meanings, hooks and mermaids and locks on secrets, closets that hold more flesh than bone, and it doesn't matter if i am trying to fall apart, because this is keeping things together, just enough to remember how to do these things, with cold hands and a heart that wants to be anything but heavy on a night like this, weighing down and waiting and making things with my cold hands, watching for signs of what designs this moon is trying to call up from the depths of the ocean. 

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