homesickness weaves fabric for scarves, weaves fabric for blankets, weaves all sorts of things that aren't sentences. aren't journal entries. what I'm not telling you already know. at least I think you do. I can't tell the physical from the emotional, and I don't think it's good to sleep this much. my first anti-agoraphobia walk I had three visions of my untimely end, the second only one, and the third - today's - I only felt sense shocked, like the light was too present and the traffic too loud. good relations with my mother falter; peace treaties in negotiation stage. I've gone a good deal more than five hours without calling the doctor, but the mail's still empty of important names. I tell myself not to make calls during the week because then I only have to excuse myself from making them during the weekend. in the meantime, books build images, images build worlds, and words flap around and into the worlds like birds. making sentences. but not journal sentences. not right now. why? because first-person narration requires immersion in character identity, because my identity balances on my home, and I am homesick. because insecurities invade my brain dressed like constructive criticism. in the meantime, keep on. watch that movie; read that play. crochet. fabric for scarves and blankets and stories. every row a memory. every stitch a link.
~me