I am in love again. This time with Joan Didion’s Blue Nights. Not so much with the story (though it is achingly, eerily beautiful), but with her words, with the cadences, patterns, circles, the flow of the folding, unfolding, enfolding. This “in love with Joan Didion’s Blue Nights” is a feeling which seems at the moment best described by the haunting heart-press of Post Malone circa Better Now. Uh. Which is to say, something like crying during meshing-love-sex. Entering the other as the self. An overflow. Lost. Found. Melancholy? Overused. But there. Deeper and with more meaning though, than that. A looking seemingly back…things, people, places, times, feelings…quite shockingly and abruptly, just gone. This isn’t hitting it, but it’s all I’ve got right here. I’m no Joan Didion.

I know there is no I.

But this being in love in this apparent body, intensely vibrating, alive, life sitting here, typing, doing the very thing in which I discover, uncover, unmask this I, becomes a physical experience this I enjoys very much. A depth of having lived–whatever that is. I tend to discount what this I experiences and try to boil things down. In doing so, the experiences get thrown off like worn clothes into a pile on the floor, disregarded. Irrelevant. This throwing off is a mostly harried search for truth, for what is real and somehow inherently valuable. And yet, sitting in the middle of the floor amidst the cast off and crumpled clothing, in love with Blue Nights in this Post Malone dream, yesterday’s conversation with BW like a small mound of sand weighting me here–each grain weightless but the whole thing holding me in such a lovely way to the floor…I look around and see it’s all the same. Lifting and holding in turn each t-shirt, scarf, pair of jeans. I love them all. The glow of the sun on the ocean in Hawaii. That’s not right. (Sigh–oh language, you broken-winged dove). Excruciating. Each moment. Each judgment, each thought, each action, each line, each “error” or wrong turn, each child, each conversation, each forgetting, each remembering. Beautiful. Worthy. Fucking fuck there are no words. Words cannot.

I see, this morning, that I’ve swum much of life, happily, gleefully even, engulfed and buoyed in what Lonely Island might call a “dream world of magic”. I find immeasurable beauty in this too. In the conceits, the fantasy… Gorgeous. How can I not be in love with all of this beauty? How can the I apparent, who is not, not fall to its knees, head in hands and weep for the loveliness that is everything. I am home.

This then, is where to stop. Tears running down my face, fingers full of crumpled clothing…dream world…of magic. Inhabit the I, inhabit the world that isn’t here…love with all you are. It is all incalculably, unendingly, immeasurably opulently, heart meltingly beautiful. It is Love.