I meant to bring with me, but I forgot my boat home, and have had to swim out here all day. Waiting for some boatsman to fish me out and dig his hooks into my lungs. You've got to spear the lungs and the kidneys, and you're good. The people you keep home go out of their way to lose you. Is he in love, d'you reckon? Little glaze of vicarious living. Am I too polite for my own good? These games are awful cheeky. Is that her? And does she know they're talking about her like this, over coffee? Would she have gone out on the ice to meet him if she knew he'd talk like this? I'm getting dragged, quartered, and derailed. I'm getting old. I miss the things crystallizing around me. Make a list of the things worth hooking in next year. And doesn't the Universe drag in just what it needs to? The anatomy of betrayal and the clinking bells of trust. My boat. I wasn't supposed to tire out my arms.
What plans for the present? 2026 is a long time away. It's a strange period of immobility - how to swim? How to survive? Do I need to plan out next year, and turn into a witch just because I've been exiled from the village? I'm tired of guessing. I feel like sketching. Maybe 2026 comes intuitive-led. Maybe it's time for leaning into what I'm unsteady on.
I'll carve out a boat. I'll carry a hedgehog on my shoulder. I'll uncrook my back and get off my own bony hips. I'll be a boat and sail away so that I'm never caught off my guard and off my home. Next year.
