A Closed Open Book

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My feet are cold again and I’ve company in ghosts. The past is a tea best not seeped before bed. But here I am, cold feet and ghosts and thoughts better left in the past; tonight there’s little chance of dreams.

What I want to say, what I mean to say is… we really needed the rain.

I’ve been reading about hermit crabs. They have unusually vulnerable abdomens, but are born without a shell to protect their weakness. The crabs find homes in abandoned shells, hermits, in that they must live alone to survive. At various intervals in their lives they outgrow their salvaged home for a larger upgrade. Some crabs form vacancy chains, lining up from largest to smallest and switching shells. It is survival of the fittest. Hermit crabs are known for sometimes ganging up on one crab to force it out of it’s home for another to take it’s place. I feel an awful lot like a hermit crab in a transitioning phase. I’m feeling too small for all that I contain. I’m feeling vulnerable and it goes against the laws of my nature. And I’ve noticed that I do this, I find something objective and project my subjective thoughts on it from a psychological and scientific perspective. It helps me to not go mad with feeling, although now that I say it, it sounds mad in written word. I am mad– mad at myself for letting someone in who forced me out of my shell and left me vulnerable. Survival of the fittest, and I don’t feel fit for much aside from always the cheated and never the cheater, but I’ve never been good at cards and, anyway, I was talking about hermit crabs.

But I am ready for the summer. Long days and short nights.

I am having trouble sleeping. I don’t like the dreams. Because I shared my dreams, wispy and cloud-like as they may have been, and had “them crumpled at the curb’s edge”*. I would say betrayed if I felt a word could contain all 9 ounces of my heart, but it can’t. I’ve been thinking a lot about being bigger on the inside than the out. We are defying physics. Mark Danielewski wrote an entire labyrinth of a text about it in House of Leaves, a book about a house that measured larger on the inside than it measured on the out, a book that played with perspective and architecture and physics and psyche and fear to show that we are our own rabbit holes, a huge mind fuck of a book that made me question my sanity… because we are infinites contained in corporeal bodies,  we are more than we appear. And that is terrifying. We all have our Achilles tendon and I am an open wound.

I’d better just stick to small talk and the weather.

*reference to William Carlos Williams’ poem, “The Ivy Crown”

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