Summer is aching out slowly, the way it does here in Southern California. It gets hotter, the air thickens from the storms further south, insects explode out of their smaller lives to gather and fly. I keep the windows open, fans going and sleep with a sheet just as a reminder of weight because I like a little something on me in the night.
H moved in ten days ago. I am tripping over myself with joy. I feel like every time I open my mouth to speak birds fly out. I went up to Vancouver to pick him up. We spent a lovely week packing, spending time with his friends and family and preparing ourselves for this transition, from long-distance to cohabitation. Funny, to go from visits every couple of months to the intricacies of daily life: sharing a clothes hamper, deciding our meals, figuring out the space we need to offer the other and the space we fit into together. We laugh a lot. We've been working out. I'm impressed by his work ethic, how many hours a day he dedicates himself to writing and his craft. We sit on the balcony in the evening and have long discussions on writing, poetics, the edges we are willing to push ourselves past.
My summer was incredibly busy. I put my novel on hold and rarely even thought about it. A couple of days ago I printed out what I had and sat down and read it. What a strange act, to sit and try to read your own work with a critical eye. I haven't touched the book in a couple of months, it was nice to go back and feel hunger for my characters, their story. I saw where I can strengthen the plot and writing, though that won't be until the next draft. I was scared to look at it but at the end, I was satisfied.
Life is good. Busy. I feel poetry tapping, asking to be let out. I haven't written any poems in months but they're there and wanting out. I'm listening.