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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and

2003-05-20, 9:13 p.m.

i am the meteorologist of the heart

��������� �����whoever has no house now will not build one anymore. / whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time, / will stay up, read, write long letters, / and wander the avenues, up and down,

restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

rainer maria rilke wrote that, as part of his poem "autumn day." and yet, it's summer. and it feels the same. this is a night for quiet introspection & candlelight. boxes and boxes of candles. it's a misplaced evening, temperatures falling steadily from the upper seventies down. (why do these entries always reference the temperature? i am not a meteorologist.) i am the meteorologist of the heart? they're often wrong. it's very possible.

outside for a long time today. enjoying barefoot in the grass. enjoying sneakerfoot on the asphalt, the basketball court. some time with jason, much time alone, later, as the sun sank despondently behind the brick dorms. the hollow thud of the ball smacking against the surface - echoing in the courtyards. the cracks, following along like miniature faults. i began counting, shooting to the high basket from just-above the foul line. 1, 2, 3 in a row. then, less. 3, 2, 1. 0. -1. i sunk one. 0. sunk another. 1. then, a progressive downfall. 0. -1. -2. -3, -4, -5, -6, -7, -8, -9, -8, -7, -8, -9, -10.

i began to lose faith. stopped for a moment, breathed. no one was around. a facilities man wandering about talking on his cell phone. i'd seen mark & kristin go down the hill earlier. from my window i watched their backs recede, get smaller. smaller. so i'd gone back out. i resumed. -11. -12. refuse to give up. -13, -14. -15. -16, -17, (grit teeth), -18, -19 (when i get 20, i'll go inside, take the cosmic hint) ...

-20.

at this point. i stopped. stared around. saw myself hurl the ball across the court in my mind, and made the choice not to. walked away.

in all eventuality, i will become what i want to be. 'good cardio,' matt remarks online. and it is. laying out in the sun with jason and asa. andrea stopped by, paint-spattered.

tonight i feel underground. a process of tunnelling out begins, within myself - i don't know if i have the resolve. i need to bring myself back up. sick of trying to prepare spontenaeity. sick of being the Follower, of Feigning Interest. of Doing Things That I Could Do, or Do Things I'm More Interested In --

'if you don't like it, you can leave,' said jason offhandedly today. eventually. i did. 'if you don't like it, you can leave.'

it will be cloudy soon. chance of showers. chance of thunderstorm.

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�SEH