it is possible that there is less meaning

I have not invented anything yet, too committed now to shaping scene, extracting essence, expanding size and expounding for weight. But I will say, I have been encouraging myself to develop new and/or better detail. If in fact he did not scar the lake with our initials, I will make him do so in story. Intention: to invent the world I want to live in and immortalize the moment I want accessible out of context of time. Memory is essential for living, otherwise one stops short with every step he takes. Even if I have to hover over time with thought, it moves me and instigates my going places, and of course, I hope it takes others some place secret, too.

10.20

Today I was happier. The weather changed while I was gone. He even laughed, how it changed for me. Thank you Manhattan, I remember loving you now. Air feels good now attaching to face. The class was impressed by my poetry, how far it has come in no time at all. I became overwhelmed by a pressure that rarely ceases when classmate said she would like to see me write on something else. No one else agreed, saying the point of entry changes every time. To write on so many other things makes me feel like I have to be out experiencing everything, even the things I do not want to contain, that I cannot be satisfied with what I am perceiving. As if I am one-dimensional. I can remind myself that I only began writing poetry this September (sans a rhyming poem written in the 10th grade), but I feel like that is an excuse. Even still, Sappho wrote on desire because that was her calling, her exploration. To feel and to have all eyes would be genius, but right now I have to work with what I have, which is the desire to answer and bring clarity to the specific fixation I am now continuously expounding upon. Things change all the time—it may seem like I will exhaust the issue I write on, but I won’t, at least not without awareness of doing so. Last year I did not write on eroticism. I wrote on density and dreams. When I am in love I cannot write upon it. I have myself live it. These topics I work on now are just other gestures pressing through a text I hope some day will be thick and inexhaustible.

Today, also, we decided would be our last meeting until the first of December. Under the weight of his ear, I forgot why I had cared about certain Miami ordeals. He could tell I was feeling like I had to place meaning into matters that did not mean more to me then what they were. “These matters don’t require soul-searching.” And he was right, it was unnecessary, things had unfolded as I wanted them to. Many females expect all females play by “the rules”. “Are there rules?” he asked. Supposedly, but I’ve never followed them. I feel like you have to be open if you want to give yourself any distinction. “So maybe you don’t sleep with just anyone on the first night, but you will sleep with the right person then.” It was something like that, but it clicked, and it was accurate and simple. I could try to expound upon why I do what I do, but sometimes you just do it and in the moment it was right, perfect even. I have gone home with barely known men (still no “one night stand” hhooolla), not with the intention to know or not to know more of them, but with the intention to take advantage of how I was feeling. The conscious of others can make you think that you, too, need to hover over your actions and define what they mean. Or you can recognize that you have no interest in conflating impulse with intuition. Even for me, the writer, searching for substance within any given moment—especially the physical—can be a nuisance. I slept with someone because I wanted to touch skin, because I cared for how a body may feel. Last weekend that was what mattered and I don’t feel there was more meaning beyond that. This evening it felt good to be okay with that and letting it be known.