Here again — finally after getting lost and a long bike ride uphill — able to write in my journal this time. Oh the sound of it, the Atlantic against all this rock, the deep boom that becomes more. All I want to do is be able to fly out there, my ashes spread, the deep blue of ocean and sky and sky mixed with ocean.
To be alive here — & then be dead, what I want, wanted. What does place mean? Why we “feel” some places more than others — to feel the edge of that.
I wanted to fly so they spread my ashes. If there is time is doesn’t exist here, the amazement in the young boy’s eye, what would happen if I fall.
To be that seagull, to be able to call the space between where I sit and where I might never sit home.
To be Synge and be here alone (or with Michael) and sit and be alone, desolate, how it must have felt, the ocean even bigger, more majestic.
I want to jump but you hold me back, the notion of life without you, even though I live without you now.
you body of sea
body of deap sea
made deeper. I wanted
to swim in you endlessly
drown in your rough waters,