I’m thinking about being between things. Adrienne Rich died and it pushed me into a corner: to really face my poetics, my new place in California, and more. I got a chance to think about it here and I’m grateful that the Rumpus let me think through, begin to think through, what it all means. It’s stranger: I moved to Santa Cruz and, here, a favorite poet dies in Santa Cruz. I haven’t worked that out yet.
The place is so much more present here than when I lived where I always lived, even when I lived in Chicago, Prague, Venezuela. Somehow, this place–my new place–is so much more around me. Our new home, off the hill, has less corners, but the corners are places to fill.
California starts to soften.
Jesse asked, “Are you the type of person who likes to have all the lids for pots and pans together or do you like to have them with their proper pot or pan?” Is this what it means to know someone deeply? To be married? It’s no secret that I’ve struggled with the concept of being “wife.” Not of being with Jesse, of continuing to be partnered, tied, and tethered, but something less clear. These kinds of questions are oddly intimate.
As intimate as being able to hear each other think through things.