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binge thinking and other things in life
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There’s too much loneliness in this world, and around me. If only I could slice up my heart real nice and evenly, I would share it with everyone I knew so they would feel less lonely.
I would tell Father, I’d always be around and he could have all of me. I would tell Grampy, I was proud to have his eyes and his kindness. His wisdom ran in my blood. I would tell brother, he could share with me his love for Mother and the burden of existence never have to fall on his shoulder, I would carry it with him.

I have so much loneliness in me, so much more than I could bear. Mother gave it to me one night the first time she was standing on the ledge near the window in our thirty stories high three bedrooms flat. She was in love with heights, so every night she took the dragons out and played with them outside by the window. She’d learn to fly. And fall.
I got so lonely every time she did, for this grave feeling seeping through my skin, that she would fly (or fall) and would never find her way back to me (and Father). She had certain ways of seeing life and death. Most of the time, to her there was no difference in both. But at times she saw death as a release, and life was a cage in which one could only see what was not and could never feel what was real. What was real she saw in dreams.
She shared these dreams with me. She wrote them in a diary. Tell no one, she said to me.
In her dreams, I was born into her world. I was her.
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These are the conversations we could have had. We’d have a cuppa. I could have waited for you, with a notebook. You’d have yours. We would write together in one peaceful afternoon.
Let’s make that happen.
I’ll tell you my stories and you yours. We will share how we feel about them then and now.
We’ll come back to these moments as memories. Something sweet we remember as life carry us through.
This is personal, and private. It’s time. It’s long overdue.
Let’s chat, just you and I. Let’s sit together, learn breathing lessons, and observe our thoughts in our most loving selves.
I made this in PDF so you can print them out, but honestly, it works better here in the paperback edition.
Let’s write together, and for always.
Apply PRIV50 here. I’ll see you inside!

Hello. Just checking in here to share a rather emotional insight from a poet I really like, Maya C. Popa, upon her upcoming poetry book, If You Love That Lady.
I am sharing this because I feel seen, and I hope everyone in similar place feel seen as well, and those who are not, to gain a perspective and be kind in their discomfort. Cheers.
Dear Friends,
I wondered whether poets might simply not be wired for self-promotion. If it might be possible that the “poetry gene” is antithetical to the “promo” one. That would honestly be great, because then I’d be off the hook. I could leave promotion to the prose writers and not feel like I was shortchanging a step of the process.
Poets aren’t bad at self-promotion because we’re inherently humble, shy, and allergic to marketing, but because the habits that sustain poetry have very little to do with the habits required to promote it. In fact, the skills we cultivate by writing the poem—attention, interiority, precision—have almost nothing to do with the work required to share it. Promotion can feel like an assault on the inner world by the outer one.
We’re all familiar with a certain mythos around the “true” artist who is so pure, she doesn’t care at all about sales or self-promotion. In that paradigm, promotion is “selling out” and misses the true goal of poetry.
What I’ve noticed is that this belief often comes from the same constituency who lament that the country is illiterate, that poetry is undervalued, and that writers “shouldn’t have to” promote their own books.
We create a culture of shame around ambition or outreach while simultaneously disparaging readers—or potential readers—for not choosing us.
As always, I want us to look at these thinking traps with compassion. I am not telling you to feel differently, but inviting you to understand why you feel the way you do, and to encourage you to choose a more empowering story, one that puts your considerable power back in your hands.
Most poets don’t earn meaningful income from books, and that’s ok. Most poets don’t write for the promise of financial renumeration. My goal has never been to live off of book sales, and I am completely at ease with this.
I mention the financials of poetry simply because, I suspect, they help explain why self-promotion can feel like labor without payoff. And I think we might benefit from resetting our expectation of what promotion means and what it’s good for. Not for a paycheck or a bottomline, but for reaching readers who might enjoy our work and deepening engagement with our community.
Each time I send out a newsletter about my own writing, I am haunted by the thought of strangers rolling their eyes and unsubscribing. I am worried that people will think that I am hungry for attention, self-absorbed, or that I must think I’m so great to be talking about my own writing.
The reality is that promoting my books or my writing community means tolerating discomfort almost daily. I’ve realized I may never be fully comfortable with promotion.
If I’ve learned anything, though, it’s that discomfort cannot be avoided. There is as much discomfort in not speaking up and not sharing my poetry as there is in being visible and advocating for my work or teaching. And I often experience a sense of pride on the other side of doing something I find uncomfortable.
After I finished the book, I felt a renewed sense of momentum around simply acting, even in the face of unease. I was reminded how fundamentally normal rumination is, and how I can only choose whether or not to take it seriously.
So, if you also have a book forthcoming, I want to invite you to practice saying, My book is coming out, and I’d love it if you would consider preordering. Even if it feels counterintuitive, awkward, or pushy to let people know that a thing you wrote for yourself, and for them, is about to enter the world.
You may never feel entirely good about this part of the writing journey, and that’s ok. You can still take action: announce the class, share your recent publication, post the preorder link even if your brain tries to keep you “safe” by discouraging the actions that support your goals. You can withstand a few minutes of discomfort in service of your long-term vision and in integrity with your aspirations.
Love,
xM


Kindness grows teeth sometimes, but they’re made of sugar. They melt when you look at them too long. I hold one on my tongue until it disappears, and I think, this is what it means to care for something that doesn’t belong to you.
The clover keeps multiplying behind my eyes. I blink and it’s a meadow. I blink again and it’s a mirror. In it, I see myself saying ah, like I’ve just remembered a song I use to sing before I knew what words were.
Love isn’t for building or breaking or even keeping warm. It’s a cloud that doesn’t know it’s raining. It drifts into your mouth, and you swallow it, and then you have to learn to speak gently, because the cloud lives there now.
I think the beluga is still swimming, even when I stop believing in oceans. I think kindness swims, too — it loops around, forgets its name, finds it again in someone’s half-asleep voice. I think we go ah not because it’s easy, but because something inside us wants to be touched without being asked why.
And maybe that’s the whole idea— not for love, not for anything, really — just for the quiet sound of ah, soft as breath, soft as forgiveness, soft as learning to stay.
Kindness leans against the door as if it knows I am still learning to hold things without owning them.
Some days, my want grows wings. My want doesn’t go far, but it keeps trying. It circles the clover, small and dizzy, the way love circles us — shy, relentless, pretending not to care.
The beluga rises again in my mind. I imagine her exhaling a silver thread that ties the whole ocean together — my heart, your hands, the moon’s tired shoulder. All of it shimmering and infinite.
I think that’s what softness means — it’s willing. Willing to dissolve, to laugh in the middle of crying, to open your palms and let the meadow grow wild.
I keep saying ah, a small devotion, a secret handshake with the world. Ah for the clover. Ah for the sugar. Ah for the breath that stays kind, even when no one’s listening.


*this is a copyrighted work and is part of my book.
















these stories, they come to me in dreams the first time I fell asleep since they told me you’ve fallen into flatline
i dream you
sometimes in colours, green and oranges, purples and blues, and not bleak nor dark,
we are not in the shadows
in these dreams, our children they’re born. they’re not sucked to death, they’re not stillborn nor bled away
they live and we give
names to their innocent loving faces
the eldest has my eyes, her brother has your smile
in these dreams we’re not bitter
we’re not numb from pain
in these dreams you are standing tall
little daughter dances on your devoted steadfast feet
her brother clung to your arms, his head rests on your secure and sturdy shoulder.
he’s falling into another dream.
in these dreams, I dance with you under the chuppah and you recite a long vow, a song we used to hum before we went to sleep about lovers lost and again, found.
on years that are wiser,
on Letters to Lovers Lost
i’ve done grieving. i have moved on. thank you for the journey.
available, again, with new cover.
picture modified from Courtney Love’s diary/weheartit.com
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“Whenever I leave this world, whether it’s 60 years from now, I wouldn’t want anyone to say I lost some battle. I’ll be a winner that day.”

Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be
and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this:
Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain
I will keep it safe.
I will keep it safe.

To every day you could not get out of bed. To the bulls eye of your wrist To anyone who has ever wanted to die. I have been told, sometimes,
the most healing thing to do-
Is remind ourselves over and over and over: “Other people feel this too.”
The tomorrow that is coming,
gone
And it has not gotten better When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says
“I swear to God I tried But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back”
There is no bruise like the bruise of loneliness kicks into the spine
So let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of the looted buildings
You are not alone
these words are all from the lovely tender and magnificent Andrea Gibson, who has passed today. so long, Andrea…

Posthumous Post Script

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My soulmates are scattered all over the world, lost and shivering, cold and alone, or happy and warm, laughing and dancing, but still longing for me.
My soulmates are scratching and clawing to get closer to me, sometimes consciously, sometimes instinctively, sometimes without even knowing what they’re doing.
My soulmates are climbing up tiny blades of grass, anxious for a glimpse of my boots plowing through the green tangle, ready to grip the edges of my pants and climb, climb, climb to their destinies.
My soulmates can’t wait to bury their heads in my neck, breathe in my scent and then shove their entire heads under my skin and drink my red hot blood.
My soulmates say “Turn yourself into a tasty roast beef sub so I can eat it standing up in the middle of my living room.”
My soulmates say, “Send me strands of your hair in the mail with a note attached, handwritten, something about how you want me to clip your toenails and shampoo your carpets and clean out your gutters for centuries to come.”
My soulmates can’t stop thinking about me, even when they’re tumbling around in the dryer or drifting above the ground with their friends, waiting for the pressure to change.
My soulmates want more of me, more more more. They want to rain down on my head or keep the sunshine off my back. They just need to be closer. Everything bad about me is good to them.
“Every word you write belongs in a book,” they whisper as I’m typing another worthless newsletter post. “No one could ever tire of your words. Make yourself into a ham biscuit so I can rub it all over my face.”
My soulmates love me exactly as I am: the absolute worst, hot blood pulsing relentlessly through my unguarded neck, tangles of impossibly frizzy hair to climb, the stench of too much work and worry floating like a dark cloud around my head.
My soulmates wish there was more of me to go around. They know I have an ant bite or a tick bite on my neck that itches. They know I woke up at 4 am and wondered, “Ant or tick, ant or tick? Tick bites normally don’t sting. When I swatted at my neck, there was a crumpled black ant there.
My soulmates know I’m awful but that’s what they crave the most, my awfulness. They’ve longed for my terrible company for what feels like centuries. Of course I’ll be a big disappointment. That’s the whole point, that’s what makes it so romantic in the first place.
My soulmates want me to know that the things I consider romantic aren’t just empty novelties, reasons to work too hard for nothing, excuses to scrape and claw up a blade of grass, into the executive suite, across a continent, doomed from start to finish. … You smell like precious metals, you taste like springtime, you make me laugh until my tongue falls out.
My soulmates can’t get closer to me. They waste all day climbing one blade of grass and I never even walk by, or they write entire books about me that I never read.
They hum little love songs that they’ll never record because there’s just too much feeling there, or they daydream about me while spending most of their time with people they don’t like that much, doing jobs they don’t enjoy, wishing everything were different.
Don’t do that, I try to tell them. Be awful instead, and see who shows up. Your entire world is packed with soulmates and you don’t even know it. It ends up sounding so condescending when I say these things, but my soulmates love it when I condescend to them. It makes them growl and whine.
But I mean, look at me. Terrible. Pulling grass out of the driveway and then sitting there, shaking the dirt off the grass and scattering worms and mud all over my clothes with the solemn reverence of a priest swinging an incense burner through the aisles of a cathedral.
Or dancing in my ugly kitchen first thing in the morning, as if I believe that I’m a supernatural being who owns the sun and the moon and the stars.
No one can fuck with my good life. Nothing’s gonna bring me down. Nothing’s gonna change my world.
from Heather Havrilesky

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