This room is the color of Santa Fe, the color of the sand in St. Martinique, the color I imagine my womb. There is no color in the sky. I watch the sky hoping I could pinpoint the exact moment it turns from light to dark. Like, when I was small and I would try to identify the exact moment that wakefulness became sleep. I wanted to touch the divide. Every morning, I would wake up surprised that I had no history of it. We are something, and then we become something else. Sometimes you miss things.

The children are eating pancakes while I type. I read what I’ve written to my husband. I like this opening. It is random and without purpose. David says this post reminds him that there is no self. Self implies that you are who you are, that you never change. Things which do not evolve die off. I listen to him speak, and all I can think is that sometimes we dream like dinosaurs.

I just want to float like a fat white cloud in a fat white sky on a splintered green bench on the wet green grass. I want to be like Sexton and write, A Little Uncomplicated Hymn for Joy. I want to see Ntozake Shange’s poem, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enfu, performed. I imagine reaching the end of the poem with a crowd of listeners. Together, we would recite,

i found god in myself
& i loved her/ i loved her fiercely

I have been thinking about performance art, about progress. I like the idea that art is an organism that breathes. You read my words like an inhalation. The intent of my thoughts convert with each exhalation. Everything changes. This is and is not the theme. Simply forget theme.

Sometimes, I think of something that strikes me as beautiful.  I become a rush of fingers.