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(looking for) the heartbreaker

It has been more than two months sitting at the little white table in the living room, writing. Pushing out pages, fixing these pages, living with these pages then waking up and chewing them apart again, then adding on a new section. It is a mill, grinding the raw ideas down to a fine powder that may somehow rise and become bread. Or it may not. So many thoughts begin with "what if". What if they get stuck in an old elevator? What if she is not home when they come the first time? What if she is coming back from the market and passes them on the stairs? What if the driver is older? Or younger? What if his brother shows up instead? The questions are greater than the results on the page, the dialogue is whittled down to nubs of something recognizable.

There are cold cups of coffee, emails that go unanswered. The light comes and goes, and most of the work is done in the dark in more ways than one. Cooking dinner helps. Playing some guitar helps. If you are not careful you forge…

the black sands of Ureki


I wonder what might happen if we all measured time by how often we stand looking out at the ocean. The muscle of the sea turns in on itself, a clock, a pendulum, a rocking chair. All at once, the fragrance of salt and seaweed returns, that sticky perfume on the back your arms as you step into a cool elevator, and to the hushed room. There is a balcony, and almost a view. Trees are bending in a low wind. The sound of children laughing filters up to us.

V is jumping on the bed, more puppy than three year old. E is shuffling around the space as if she is measuring it, shoulders hunched in curiosity. N is already unpacking the suitcases, lining the shelves in the closets until she is satisfied.

There is black, magnetic sand here in Ureki. They say it has magic properties, that it can cure your ills. I see children that look like they have been rolled in black tar, with grandmothers spraying the sand off of them, as they shout from the cold water. The black sand scatters across floors, the insides of shoes. I imagine we will take a good amount back with us, without knowing it.

I get a proper sunburn on the first day, my skin staring back at me that night, that red face of mine in the mirror. There is a bottle of cold wine, with great beads of sweat running down its sides. A table on the balcony, a little chair that is already familiar. Here, I will write more of that new book when everyone has gone to sleep, when the only sound will be the scratch of my pen on good paper, and the sea.

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