I lied to the Make-A-Wish foundation. When I donated to them I told them I was an Admiral. Now when they send me mail it says Admiral Sean Taylor. Maybe that's my wish.
As we got older we stopped taking our shoes off at the front door.
There was something romantic about what we brought in. She told me for days, years ago, that I wouldn’t be able to do this forever. She said, they will run out of trees, or you, you will run out of back.
Her sisters told her, never marry a lumberjack, there’s that global warming, there’s no job security.
Every year in late November I move the best Spruce, Pine and Fir trees from our back lot to the front lawn alongside the highway. I fasten them into oversized green plastic bowls, my arms spin with heat in the winter.
I'll never forget her brothers, asking me why, when I built our house, doesn’t the front door face the highway?
I told them the noise would keep me up.
Though in truth, I hoped, that when we got older we might stop taking our shoes off at the front door. That we would rather come from a Christmas tree farm, than a highway. There was something romantic about that.
She says, “When I get out of the shower I feel like a cat that fell into a sink of water.”
The way taxi drivers circle blood donation centers, weak riders are easy prey.
I think I'll just take up mapping the bottom of the ocean.
Oh, thats real deep.
On sadness and watching Casablanca on repeat.
I always paint myself as Rick. But I've been Victor Laszlo, I was just too busy being Victor, to appreciate it.
Everyone wants to be Rick, and Rick wants to be Victor.
Right now I'm definitely Rick. Who knows if I'll get to be Victor again.
Perhaps Victor is just short for Victory.
Fuck I miss when I was Victor.
This is where I have decided to live, in the space between the pronunciation and exclamation of Anais Mitchell. She chokes me, when she is true. Her album ‘Young Man in America,’ is all of the empty shovels of agriculture, split-seconds, before they hit their crop.
And in every swing we see fruition, and yet we keep on swinging.
And when it comes up full, (when she comes up full) we will choke. Our eyes will team with our nose, to water a feeling something like some gold.
We will discover the relationship between our mind and our knees, as we go weak. This is where she helps us bend. This is where she teaches us to both fold and find strength.
This is where I have decided to live, inside the exclamation of Anais Mitchell. She moves at the speed of a flashlight down a late night trail, between thickets, to the rushing stream, that kept the frogs, that kept you up, when you were camping, when you were ten. This is exactly the speed that she travels through my head.
I want to live there with you.
I want to vacation in the first forty-five seconds of her song Annmarie. I can see you dipping your toes into it. I’ll only buy you white towels, and only fly them as my constant white flags. In my sleep, the words of Anais will slip from me, “Annmarie, have mercy on me.”
The song ‘Tailor’ is a calendar I’ve hung outside my door, something I study everyday, though it never changes.
‘Shepard’ is the song where it all began. I can’t break glass eyes better than this harmony, and yet still, feel so welcomed within.
This may be the best way to take terrible news.
This is how I will take my terrible news, in a false sense of reverie, in the forgiving soft truth, of Anais Mitchell.
“Every lump inside your throat
Every crumpled little note
Every idle dial tone
Every hook you hung it on
Everything you should have said
Everything you said instead”
-‘You are forgiven,’ Anais Mitchell