She’s a Primitive Girl

by Marisa Siegel

The writing about is the writing and the thinking about writing is just another enemy of the writing. Spending hours thinking stories, thinking sentences. That wasn’t the point of this. I try to mostly always have a point of some sort. And keep promises. Deadlines.

I’m listening pretty much exclusively to the new Shins album, Port of Morrow, and M. Ward’s new album, A Wasteland Companion. (I try to mostly always impress upon people how important music is about me.) Later, E. points out that some themes in my writing are the same as some themes in Conor’s lyrics. I point out that my themes haven’t changed much since elementary school and I didn’t find Conor until college. I win.

(I am good at that. Winning.)

I found Conor because of a most important. But it doesn’t matter now, does it. I made it mine. Anyway, it isn’t what you think. I don’t wait anymore for forgiveness (yes I do). I don’t forgive, but it isn’t the same. It never is with me. Anyway.

I don’t care about only what can I see, only what can I touch. (I am considering turning off the comments here. Does my writing brain want comments? )

There is a problem with the memories circling. That’s one point. That it will be July again and I will write that poem. It is always July again, I write. I mark time obsessively: May isn’t what it used to be. Leaving the comfortable blue, leaving that possible line. And September. A death. Almost eight months.

I should start early with this. All I want to say today is: It happened. The death happened and it was everything gone again but so much worse this time. And I will keep telling to myself because I can’t see, can’t touch, can’t verify in the only way that will ever matter. I will be forever telling everyone everything because of what I can’t do. What I can’t have. I will instead create a story (later; another day).

Last point: Haven’t had a left foot in 6 weeks. Bones fusing. When don’t foundations shake? When isn’t it faulty? I did live in California. I do know earthquake. If only surgery was everything. And I looked at the scars finally at my last appointment. Like tattoos I didn’t choose. Like stories I won’t tell. Like a fault line in my foundation that is now visible.

Stuck. My least favorite, the no-choice.  And so, I stole the opportunity. Because I can be selfish. Yes, I have gotten far enough in 8 months to know that. To know that being selfish for the writing is also about the writing is also the writing.

And all the meadows wide —