the stillness here like what he sometimes finds inside her
Jeremy's not feeling very well at the moment, we think because of side effects from this one antibiotic he's on. He's going off it, and getting bronched in the morning again just to see what they can see. Anyway he hasn't been able to sleep very well at night, and so neither have I. He's napping now. I'm drinking rose-flavored white tea and listening to the wind howl outside. It howls very loudly.
Today is Raqui's birthday, and this past weekend was her annual birthday trip to Asheville, and I'm sad I didn't get to go. I missed Annie's in the spring, too, of course. It's autumn in North Carolina, and this is my first autumn not in North Carolina. I've been writing poems To Autumn in North Carolina since I could hold a pen. I miss being ankle-deep in acorns, and the violent crimsons and scarlets and oranges and lemons of the leaves. I miss Asheville, the mountains and the millions of deciduous trees and the nip in the air, hot milk with cinnamon and honey at Malaprops and hot curried lentil soup eaten outside on ironwork chairs at the Laughing Seed. I miss cutting short the sniffing of a thousand imps and the gleeful reading aloud from the latest book to gobble dinner before a concert and then going out for sushi afterwards and then for a last-minute truffle-and-latte run before watching obscure subtitled movies or cheesy chick flicks with pretty men in them, dozing off and then denying it when Raqui accuses me of not watching ("I'm listening with my eyes closed." "THE MOVIE IS IN CANTONESE!"), and finally bedding down on Raqui and Annie's sleeper sofa with eight thousand mismatched blankets they drag out for me from odd corners of their little house, waking up slowly in the morning to make tea and eat waffles and read Annie's tarot cards while Raqui's in the shower calling to us over the running water that there are kumquats in the fridge if we want them. I miss home, and my friends.
Soon. I'm going to call Raqui now.
Today is Raqui's birthday, and this past weekend was her annual birthday trip to Asheville, and I'm sad I didn't get to go. I missed Annie's in the spring, too, of course. It's autumn in North Carolina, and this is my first autumn not in North Carolina. I've been writing poems To Autumn in North Carolina since I could hold a pen. I miss being ankle-deep in acorns, and the violent crimsons and scarlets and oranges and lemons of the leaves. I miss Asheville, the mountains and the millions of deciduous trees and the nip in the air, hot milk with cinnamon and honey at Malaprops and hot curried lentil soup eaten outside on ironwork chairs at the Laughing Seed. I miss cutting short the sniffing of a thousand imps and the gleeful reading aloud from the latest book to gobble dinner before a concert and then going out for sushi afterwards and then for a last-minute truffle-and-latte run before watching obscure subtitled movies or cheesy chick flicks with pretty men in them, dozing off and then denying it when Raqui accuses me of not watching ("I'm listening with my eyes closed." "THE MOVIE IS IN CANTONESE!"), and finally bedding down on Raqui and Annie's sleeper sofa with eight thousand mismatched blankets they drag out for me from odd corners of their little house, waking up slowly in the morning to make tea and eat waffles and read Annie's tarot cards while Raqui's in the shower calling to us over the running water that there are kumquats in the fridge if we want them. I miss home, and my friends.
Soon. I'm going to call Raqui now.