October 26, 2016
Since I moved back to my hometown, I’ve become a ghost woman. I am haunting my old places. My bedroom is freshly painted but the house has the same bones. I can walk the deer path behind the house in a night without a moon. The last leaves holding on to the trees are suspended in the dark by invisible strings.
My haunt is not always a melancholy one. It’s warm and curious and disgruntled. The abundant acorn crop this year prevents me from any certain footfall. The ground is covered in the small soldiers. I can feel them through the soles of my shoes as I walk to the barn and they scatter my balance without any effort or intention. These nutrition packs not good for much until you boil them, and even then, providing such bitter meat I cannot eat more than one.
In this new/old place, I am missing my old friends from the city. They clamored for attention and gave me strange ideas and strong emotions. Together we stirred up storms. The country is beautiful and lonely, and I knew this as a child but I could not put it into words until I moved away. A person living here can stay the same until they die. I can walk to work without seeing a human. I am isolated and soothed by my own geography. My mind is loud here. This is a place for recovery and dream-hatching.