I do not want pretty, I am tired of pretty. Neon, glass, headlights, glossy leaves in a hard red light in a blur, these are not pretty. I am not angry. I am in a rage with papers strewn and towers of books and photographs. I am looking hard. I am looking hard.
***
I mean delicacy as opposed to delicate. The devouring aspect over the gentle cycle.
***
I am in an abject rage pretty much. There is work to do. Pretty does nothing but itself. I want the hard beauty ahead. Days on the road, thingness, and long writing. Everything, everything but itself.
***
They drove off this morning wearing jackets, carrying food. A long flight, a cold rain: they will soon arrive home with almost no memory of the chill in my house. I will follow in a week. By the third day going south I will roll down the windows and let the hot wind into the car. I will wear a plain loose dress and no makeup. I will look hard through my lenses. I will pack the trunk with books and paper and three changes of clothes. That is all. I will drive a full day in the desert and sip water and diet soda. I will sing and play. On repeat. And eat up the miles with my eyes and breath in exhaust and dust and the pollen grains of the six states between me. I will look for signs. I will send you my notes.
***
