Once I woke up with the words “your fried arm” stuck in my brain so I looked up how to say “I love you” in as many languages as possible, to make myself feel better. It worked, too.
And the lesson learned? That the antidote is love. It has to be, right? Say it, don’t spray it.
I keep careless careful track of all the weird dreamy image and language stuff that pops into my head. I have ten jillion notes on my iPhone and two hundred jillion on tiny rippy bits of paper scattered throughout about a hundred paper journals that I obsessively start but never finish and also generally sown around my bedroom, especially thick-laid on the headboard of my bed. If I close the door to my bedroom too quickly, a blizzard of snippety paper slips whooshes up and down and all around in a whirlygig assault of disconnected thought bits. Which is essentially a three-dimensional rendering of how it is in my brain, come to think of it.
Anyway, I’ve been doing all this fucking crazy writing lately, just opening myself up to making a noise, and this river of poetry has rushed out of me. I kind of feel like I’ve been fighting it for a long time, the river of poetry, knowing it was there but trying to ignore it because it felt too scary to let it exist. I’ve really kind of muzzled myself, in my life, for all sorts of reasons, and this thyroid thing has actually been incredibly useful, for true, in terms of deciding not to obstruct myself any more. The ailment became the prescription. Crazy, innit?
I’ve got adventures to go on, you know. And I’m going. Now and forever.