Something licks us up. December.

I do this thing over and over again where I check out the same four goddamn books from the library and let them get overdue and then pay the fine and then check them out again. I don't really read them, I mean, they're not the kind of books you read straight through for hours on end, but I need to just have them around. They are three Charles Wright poetry books and one dumb dictionary sort of guide to tarot cards.

Here is part of one of the Charles Wright poems, from Black Zodiac, the poem: Disjecta Membra, page 79. I assume it's one of his many poems about 'being sad and thoughtful in Charlottesville,' which, of course I really get off on.



Lord of the broken oak branch,
                                                   Lord of the avenues,
Tweak and restartle me, guide my hand.


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The only card I can seem to draw upright these days is the Knight of Swords. Knights of Swords, Knight of Swords, Knights of Swords. Shut up, already.

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I came very, very close to dying Friday--maybe as close as I've ever come. I was coming home on 81, boxed in by heavy traffic, and this double-trailer Fed Ex truck straight up merged into me. Not like, drifted fleetingly into my lane, but put on the turn signal and drove into me. I swerved entirely off the road into the grass, but the thing wouldn't move, and there was a concrete barrier coming up. My certain death seemed to take a long time and I considered it at some length as I tried to keep my car from flipping. I felt pretty calm and matter-of-fact--I thought, "oh, wow, this is it?-okaaay." I'd like to say I thought about the significant or sentimental things I'd never do again--sleeping in fields in the summer, making my mom hysterically laugh, that feeling that I get right when I know someone is thinking about kissing me, which is my only super power, but I didn't. I briefly considered the unhappy errands that afternoon I wouldn't get to.

I missed slamming head on into the barrier at 70 mph by mere inches and probably one second. It was really the lady behind me who saved me--I could see her freaking out, and she hardcore slammed her breaks so I eventually had room to slip back in behind the truck. For all my nonchalance, I found myself uncontrollably shaking with nerves for a good two hours after.

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One of my very favorite things that I like in Virginia is the New River. It's called the New River, but it's actually one of the oldest rivers on the planet. It's older than the Appalachians and the Atlantic Ocean. There are some very old insects that live around the banks of it, but nowhere else.  I've also, in my time, waded in and fly-fished its ancient holes in a floor-length skirt, and yes, yes, I am bragging.

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Today the light was milky and white on the mountains and I had this thought that the sheer fact of my continuing life was imminently good and wonderful and being alive was the just most incredible thing. I love the littlest things so dearly and richly. Looking at the bare trees on the ridge makes me profoundly happy. Once or twice this week the kindness of another person was enough to make me want to literally cry with gratitude and plum dumbfuck undeserved happiness. Then I thought: is that true, or is this just an exceptionally good sandwich in my mouth right now?

Of course it's true, but it was also an uncommonly good sandwich.

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This post sounds persistently upbeat, and I enjoyed writing it, but it's not really optimism I'm feeling or wanting to convey to myself or my memory or anybody who might be reading this. There is no telling me anything just now.