by Peter Rock
Klickitat. Audra, she is watching me, listening. I miss her, and I feel that she is here, as much as she can be.
My hair has grown, but the last few inches are still black, reminding me of that time when we were last together. I’m stronger now, I don’t take any pills, I stay hopeful. Sometimes I feel I’m writing to her, and other times it might be for people I don’t even know. It keeps the agitation away, it keeps me balanced, it keeps me safe.
I used to be so snarled up inside, agitated, all these waves and words tangled on each other with no place to go, a pressure that kept building and building. Now my snarl is sounds, voices, words.
Here in the notebooks I’ve let it out, I’ve collected all these different words. The ones in the yellow notebook, they found me, they find me still. They are the words that came from beyond, because I was ready to receive them. And then the rest of the words, these words I’m writing now—they don’t feel so different, they also come through me. I listen in; I intercept them. I receive these words and send them out again, so they can reach the next person.
