Love is a cracking open. Not in the way I think most people assume. It is not necessarily that your beloved makes you fall to pieces, when you fall in love, though this is how it has been represented, time and time again, in art, in literature, in songs. And this can certainly happen, usually not for the best. Instead I think that the vulnerability love requires asks that you crack open. This is a fine distinction. One involuntary, the other voluntary. One is entirely based on the beloved and what they can do for you, the other based on your own availability, your own openness. It is so tricky, knowing whether you can or should trust. Getting over your own wariness, getting over yourself, choosing the one that you love. Choosing them, over and over again—what a risk, to put yourself in that position, walking out on that ledge, trusting that they will be there to balance you. Trusting too, that you will want them there with you.

How much you could lose. 

Love is the particular. The particular is what erupts and bubbles up and calls you back, imposing a horizon on your imagination. It is what sticks. 

How things are done. What they mean. What is discussed. Who is there with you. 

The question of who is a question of how. How you were known to each other. That’s what is lost, and what feels impossible to replace.

Calculated waiting. The well to obstruction. I ask the question three times and receive the same answer—the odds of that are astronomical. The I Ching is trying to tell me something. It is always trying to tell me something, whether or not I am willing to listen. The obstruction has always been my own. Give up anger. Lives have been ruined by it (my own lives). Now it says calculated waiting. Wait for a sign. Open yourself to waiting. Attend to your attitude (it is the only thing you can attend to). Love will follow—in whatever form that may take. What do I want now? What I want is out of my reach. But perhaps that’s always been true, for everyone, at all times. It finds you, it changes, it appears in unexpected ways.

All false infinities are hell. It rained last night, or this morning. It’s raining now. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to leave everything I brought with me in the car. My phone, my jacket, and almost my suitcase. I had already left my keys plugged into the computer in my brother’s office. I think that I have never read anything, never in my life picked up a single book, and then I see an image that reminds me of an image from a chapter in Sebald’s Vertigo. A porcelain hand that Stendhal kept on his desk, a hand which would often move him to tears. Then I think, “I knew about this resonance when I took the photo.” (Of my own hand.) In the past year or so, hands have meant a lot to me—as entrances, as indications, to call to the core of another’s being. (“My mother always said that someone would love me for my hands.)

In the morning I try to remember my dream. It’s a form of devotion, to not forget the person you were in the night. In my dream I was trying to put something back together. It was broken and the person who had broken it had decided she wasn’t going to tell me about it. There were five or six people sitting on two couches. I recognize the couches but not necessarily the people. The couches are from one of two homes: a springtime cabin somewhere remote, or a house in Forest Hill. But when I got up to turn off my alarm this morning the halo of the screen stuck in me: a notification from a friend. That was all I could remember. I went to bed and thought about what the notification meant. Then I remembered that I should try to remember my dream, as a form of attention and devotion. Now I’m sitting at my computer, noticing how much my bedroom is slanted back from the window: as I type my chair starts to roll backwards. Until I am far from my desk. How did I never notice this before? I noticed, but maybe I was not paying attention. Only incrementally did I become aware.

We might say that the moon has two distinct properties, these being:

a) cold
b) distant

And that these two properties in some way limit our ability to experience the moon. But what is distance? Is it not true that the moon may be visible at all times during the periods of the day it is active, even when it has waned to shadow or outline? Seeing the moon can one not imagine his or herself on the moon? Can one not hold an image of the moon in one’s mind? Can one not imagine oneself on its surface? And of its coldness, can one not view the moon from the comfort of one’s bed? Is this not done? But we were speaking of a physical coldness, a physical distance. Coldness and distance in their real sense. But are there not systems for mitigating cold? Can the distance not be traversed? Yes but to touch it one has to wear a suit. And what is a suit? Is it not just a covering? Is there not something underneath? If a leg touches a table through a pair of pants do we say that the leg is not touching the table? Or do we say that only the pants touch? To travel to the moon is of prohibitive cost. But is it not done? Is the cost truly prohibitive? Is travel to the moon so dear that no one has undertaken it?