love was- entire excellently steep

I do my best writing in the car. The road palmed flat before me, windows down rushing in the brink of fall air, words and sounds fleeing from the speakers: maybe it's because I feel free, there, untamed and entirely capable of going wherever, however I want. I rarely do, except for that one time in Florida.

My mind produces more thought than what should be humanly possible. I prefer it over mental stagnancy, but when I can't morph the thoughts into written sense, the struggle overwhelms itself. Today, I was thinking in linear bursts.

Tonight, I had a head-on collision with my filing cabinet.

I was looking for artifacts to take to grad class tomorrow night (stages of my literacy history: I chose my first book- written in Grade One, my second book- written in Grade Seven, though my About-The-Author states/lies that this is actually my fifth book [I lied a lot as a kid; I apologized to my mom about this tonight and she said: "Finally"], and a paper from my senior year of English, where I scored a 3 for writing and 5 for format). I wasn't looking for anything else- I never consciously am- but my hands soon grew heavy with Love & Memories and The Weight of It All.

The Weight of It All is everything non-romantic in my past. Featured, tonight, was The Master Poet, or: one of the most influential people that's ever been in my life, Len Roberts. He passed in the spring of 2007, but not before I was able to workshop with him for a handful of months. It was pure chance, that opportunity, and I still am not sure how I lucked into it. It was there and then that I met G.C. and happened into a few whirlwinds that would eventually reroute my life in ways that, at the time, I didn't imagine possible. I tugged the red folder from my filing cabinet, and out spilled marked and unmarked poems, an envelope, and a few packets. I once wrote a poem titled "Most Days," and I can't remember why it is so named, but Len's comments are what struck me tonight. Three years ago, it wouldn't have made sense to me. Tonight, I understand what he meant by writing "*Rimbaud" in the margin, and "surreal" near the top. Rimbaud. Rimbaud! That's fucking crazy! Now that I've studied Rimbaud, along with Baudelaire, I'm a little shocked/stoked that Len scrawled that very name in the margin of my poem.

Not fifteen minutes later, I found a box of school supplies from my first year of teaching. Sitting on top was a bright orange folder with a Dodge Poetry Festival, 2006 label on it. I have no recollection of receiving this folder; I went to the 2008 festival and have my red folder, but I wasn't at the 2006. I have no idea where I got the folder from, but: I opened it tonight, and the first handout on the right hand side of the folder is of Len Roberts, poems and bio. I had no idea (did I? I can't remember, now) that he read at Dodge that year, or ever. When I went to Dodge last fall, Len was heavy on my mind. I accredited to the simplistic connection of poetry-poet, but apparently the depth of thought runs deeper.

I also happened upon some Love & Memories tonight, and I felt nothing. I thought about removing the rubber band from the stack of France correspondence, but decided I didn't feel like rehashing all of that. I did read a piece of notebook paper littered with red pen that remarked on my traveling to see her, and how I meant "so very much" to her, and that she wasn't going to get mushy in the note; she would save that for the weekend. I don't know when it's from, but I'm thinking the winter of 2007, pre-2008, pre-first significant break-up. It doesn't matter. I read it and put it away.

I don't regret any of it, for the record.
It's become a part of what's happened in my life.
It just is.
Perhaps it just was.
I don't want love like that.

The Obscure Object jolted me out of... something... this weekend. She with the words- I love when it comes out of nowhere. I love when she comes out of nowhere (she always has). I love the taste of chance and happenstance and possibility. I very much like the idea of her finally starting to not just listen, but hear.