Would you rather.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. Kind of. Almost.

It has been days, weeks since the idea of even gracing this page with flying fingers has even crossed my mind. I have been a bit distracted, to say the least. I type this with a loopy grin stretching across my creased morning face. Many things have changed and since settled within the last couple of weeks. Much to my own surprise, I am living with my parents in their lovely home for a few weeks before I am set to leave for the woods. My tent is ready, I have my supplies, my clothes are packed for the most part and I am technically ready, save for a few hundred rolls of duct tape that I have yet to charge at the store. Thanks dad.

Yes.
Yes.
Yes.

But.

There is always a but. Last night when I set up my tent in a smoky haze while my parents ran around their giant yard trimming this and burning that in the half hearted rain, I lay on my back inside of my tent in the garage and questioned how in the world I will be able to do this. It is not the work that scares me, it is the missing. The great and deep missing of things, of neighborhoods, of my bicycle(s), of the man who has made my eyes turn into constant constellations that are so bright even strangers burst out laughing when they see me at the post office, in the grocery store, at the shop, on the sidewalk, rolling ceilings. I took down the tent quickly, it was an easy set up. It is a two man, even though the box it came in swore it was three. Two person tent. Instantly I am in a white living room with Billy bookcases as one of two people inside a two man tent with starry eyes. The idea of leaving just became one buhtrillion times harder.

The weekend. I am a weekender now. I pack my faux Louis Vuitton duffle bag strategically at every week's end and try to think of everything I will need for the weekend in the city. Last weekend, all I needed was a kimono, a book of poetry (Beth I found you the perfect book of all time), tiny tennis shoes that look just like Grandma's, and my good chopping knife. Wandering around town and standing in a forever long line laughing at the Italian butcher, perusing the aisles upon aisles of books and judging their covers, eating oranges peeled behind my back and grinning nonstop. Good weekend.

"What is it? My dear?"
"Ah, how can we bear it?"
"Bear what?"
"This. For so short a time. How can we sleep this time away?"
"We can be quiet together, and pretend--since it is only the beginning--that we have all the time in the world."
"And every day we shall have less. And then none."
"Would you rather, therefore, have had nothing at all?"
"No. This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere."

-A. S. Byatt, Possession

When I read the above excerpt last night while tucked into my childhood bed in my home away from (no) home, the air in my lungs held fast and without a fight my mind went to a room of white and wood with a canvas hanging backwards on the wall.

I do not know how or where to begin.
I am full, I am full, I am full.

More to come; I am back from the grave of the uninspired and am slowly, slowly shaking off the dust. Elbows out, chin up (and very red), kid gloves, too long bangs, giant heart, Cat Power in my ears, the Architect on my mind. Off to chase my mother with a paintbrush. I have always wanted to be a painter. It sounds so romantic--I just wasn't picturing this. Better money. Also, below, introducing the man causing all the commotion.

Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.

See you C. U. Kornelson, Megan