I am feeling proud of myself this morning, perhaps bolstering my courage for the winter months ahead. The plan is to write a book of nonfiction, requiring time alone and not alone. In conversation with other texts, friends living and dead, surrounded by students, baristas, other writers, farmers. I will not be, as I thought, accompanied by my photographer boyfriend. As I recognized in a previous story
, he was not head over heels, nor did six months topple him.
It feels brave to admit that, as it did to insist on a deeper level of access than he was offering me. It's a wonder I could see the limitations of our relationship when the surface was so rich. You've seen his pictures, the lure of what he was capturing. Could've fooled anyone. The camera was in love with me, gave me hard evidence that he might be. Pride is a humbling thing, finally.
Which means it might flower. After all, even if he wasn't swept, I could see how he could have been, why. Perhaps I need another word. Tenderer. What's the one for a kind of vision that suffuses itself?
* Thanks to Richard Buckner for the title, which comes from his song Blue and Wonder