I can’t find my notes
I can’t find my notes
I know I put them in here
I know that they’re here
It’s hard evidence:
A letter, in your handwriting
There’s no way that I’d throw it out.
You said that thing
That thing I love…
But I’ll remember it wrong for the rest of my life
I only remember a word of it here or there…
I remember the feeling,
But I need my notes.


Reflections on Rochester II


You are greater than fiction, my darling
You’re the archetype that gives birth to
every word that’s been spoken about
every character I’ve ever loved on the
and in the flesh.

I met you more than one hundred years ago
and we meet again
and again.

My Rochester, my Heathcliff, my Darcy:
I seek you out in your multitudinous forms;
I dare you to find me.
And then I dare you to betray me,
my grand delusion
Only to leave you
And again.

It hurts every time; the thumping, rotating machine of history
like clockwork…
as I attempt to outrun its metallic arm
it threatens to catch me
and I anticipate that heavy thud of it hitting me on the back of the skull.
Running me over.

Reflections on Rochester


Pain, absolution, pain, catharsis.
chasing that high:
tension, release.
Resist, surrender–
The exhilaration of experience:
an object of desire so abundantly meaningful…
elevated close to total importance
to the extent that the pleasure of longing for it sometimes exceeds the pleasure of obtaining it.

A wise person once said that love can be defined as “the acute awareness of the impossibility of possession”
This is true.
I skirt along the border of attainment,
feeling the thrill of nearly
and the ecstasy of almost.