[The beginning of what will be “Map of the Heart”, a project I am developing and publicly sharing in unfinished states]
I should have stolen your coat. I mean, technically, I could have and we wouldn’t have this little problem that we have now. Instead of sharing the story about how we met in such a romantically innocent fashion and following it with the story of how it “couldn’t work”, I’d tell people how I acquired a new coat with faux fur around the hood and a rock collection in the pocket. Those I’d tell would laugh with me and I’d still know how you smell and how it felt to be wrapped in your coat, but without you in it. It felt like your heart was in it, though. I know it was, or maybe it was a ghost of your heart. Since, that is really all that remains. But, do I really believe that? Our hearts are more complex and more than an organ or a figment of our stunning passions. But they can certainly be ripped out, can’t they [whatever they are]?
Matters of the heart:
What do I really believe about love? I know it exists and I know that I’ve had it before and it always seems to escape me when I’m most in it. It’s like a warm bath that suddenly drains, leaving you paralyzed in a cold, porcelain crib; infantile and flailing. That is what love leaves us with. You’re paralyzed and I’m paralyzed and we could be paraplegics together, but we’d never make love. And, that’s important to some.
I mean it. I mean it when I kiss you and I mean it when I touch you. I also mean it when I can’t touch you for fear of what it will mean to you: Nothing. Does it all mean nothing? Some days I think it does and other days the smallest moment can mean everything. It can make or break that day. My memory reminds me of the days made more often than those broken. On the broken days my hands become shy as my words hide somewhere behind my teeth. I will hide away. But my heart, whole or not whole, encourages me to create. Whole heartedly or half-assed, I’ll create.
Where would potatoes fall from? A moment in the form of a question that felt significant enough to note.
Probably not from the sky: An answer as ambiguous as love. Probably not from the mind. [I think too much, I thought right then and I know right now.]
And we both know that potatoes don’t fall. Who are you calling a potato, anyway? We are not potatoes and we are not falling. I’m holding onto my branch atop this tree and hoping you get here soon. It’s not a potato tree.
Stepping back and retracting the parts of my body I had offered when I thought it was safe. This branch is limber and it’s intimidating to look down as I sway here. I feel best when I look out, over the vast scape of my heart; neutral to my surroundings I’ve been surveying for some time. Safety is a strange concept and often a sham of an excuse to hold onto nothing and look too far ahead at what eludes us anyways. I’m safest letting go, but climbing all this way was exhausting; it’s best to remain neutral. I look out and not ahead.
Driving through the Salt Flats of Utah would be like driving through the heart that inhabits my body [soul] some days. It’s beautiful, to be empty and white at first glance. An Endless sheet that could easily be lifted into the sky just to watch it fall back into place again with more or less wrinkles. Evidence of those who have passed through my heart lie in the form of initials written in carefully laid stones along the roads for all to see. The heart is hardly as stable as the Salt Flats and it can be shaken like a sheet; it gets harder with all those stones, though. My heart cannot break, but it can be weighted down until I carry the stones away in a pocket lined with memories. The heart and the mind work together in this whimsical way; I can stow memories and let go the heartache to once again look over this lonely, empty [beautiful] scape.