Late Echo by John Ashbery
Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.
Beehives and ants have to be re-examined eternally
And the color of the day put in
Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter
For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic
Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting.
Only then can the chronic inattention
Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory
And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows
That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge
Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.
"It is necessary to write about the same old things/In the same way, repeating the same things over and over."
I think I write about the same things: grief, longing, loneliness. I can be a broken record, but these are the things that occupy my mind.
If I'd had a different life, I would write about different things. Maybe travels and lovers and possibilities.
I write unbearable things. I don't even share it all. If I wrote everything I feel, everything I live, no one could read it.
Lately, I only have enough energy to work, but that's all. In the evenings, I crawl into bed and weep for hours.
I lie on my back, stare up at the ceiling, and my entire body shakes from terror as I have flashbacks of my mother dying last year.
I don't know how I go on. I just don't know.
I find small things. I ordered a candle advent calendar. It's simple, but I like imagining myself opening a candle each day. I like imagining its glow and scent filling my bedroom as I crochet. Maybe I will live for those candles.
Today, I crocheted, baked some treats, and watched history documentaries. I listened to the new reissue of Hiroshi Yoshimura's Quiet Forest, which is finally on streaming services. These are the small things that sustain me.
The holidays will be terrible. My mom loved this time of year. I have no idea how to survive it.
Without her, there is no meaning. She was all I had in this world, the only person who unconditionally loved me, the only person whose eyes lit up when I entered a room.
No one comprehends what I have lost. Can you blame me for crying in bed every day? What else can I do?