Since I moved to Chicago at the end of July, my sweet love, Don has come to stay with me every weekend. But the realities of life is making a 2 week absence necessary. After a truly amazing and transformative weekend with him, I have 2 weeks without him near my flesh, holding me, and making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Well, I am still the luckiest girl in the world, but I am sans his physical comforts for 2 weeks.
Part of me believes this to be a good thing for us as individuals. I have lots of work to do for sure. In addition to working as a t.a., working in the Library, being a conscientious graduate student, writing reviews, and now an amazing internship at The Art Institute of Chicago, I am a busy woman. But work is good for me and I welcome it and this work is all so very right for me.
I am planning to finally get myself to some poetry venues to read. And maybe this absence will get me writing poems again. I have only written 3 poems since moving here, not nearly enough time with my Remington Rand typewriter.
I love you, my sweet dove and dare not wash your pillowcase just yet … it smells like you, something inexplicably beautiful.
I cannot sleep when Don’s not here, but perhaps his pillowcase shall help? But right now it is midnight and I feel at once like collapsing in tears of exhaustion and doing 14 or more projects simultaneously and never needing a pillow again.
Will poetry prevail in this absence? I am presently at work on a major research project about melancholy and art, reading now Julia Kristeva’s book, Black Sun. I am very much intrigued as an artist and as a scholar about the creature of melancholy and its connection to not only the depression sufferers among us (myself being one), but its connection to the object of creation and the loss that follows its creation. So in this loss of physical contact for 2 weeks with the love of my life gone from me … will creation prevail? In this current mania of creation, will I create? And then what? Loss? A black sun?
I can only wait and see … thinking of Don over there in his Michigan corner as the first man to ever truly love all of me … black sun, bright sun and all.