Jocie

Dear Jocie,

I got your letter, thanks. We saw Ryan the other day. He was lookin' oh so sad Joce. Joce, what do you do to people?

Like your mama would say baby, you zoom right into their light and trap it. First for them then for the forest, the sea, the ocean. All the physical expressions of our world hungry for light when darkness falls. And you give light Jocie, you give light but it was never yours in the first place.

I miss your face next to mine in the forest, out in the woods when we slept under the stars with wooly blankets and spiked wine ready out on the farm. The dusty sunshine and the knotted morning. 

Visit us Joce. My baby is getting bigger and needs a little of your magic.

Love,

Maria.

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I bin the letter and get ready for the day. I've been living and working in Maine (Portland) for the past 12 months. After Ryan, after that whole bit of transition. The reason for Maine was simple: the sea, time to think, to heal. Time to put it all into perspective. Time to deal with the unknown in a monotonous environment. I've been working for a local newspaper. Love it all really - the police stations, the on site work, the courtrooms, all the people I meet. I need people like sunflowers need the ...light. See what I did there?

I've been dating someone unlikely. Paul - met him a while ago at a party in New York. Some mustard carpet, or was it sofa? Some Manhattan terraced property. Lovely greenery, lovely trees. Authors and musicians. I was meant to be an upcoming young author. He's meant to be a musician. We were both meant to be at another party. 

Paul is an island. His curiosity satisfies him on a daily basis, he makes beautiful music and he is incredibly dependable. My sadness has become more manageable because of him. His talent and his strength of character coupled with his incredible aloofness has enabled me to trust myself again. He is a very healthy reference point. Our activities are straightforward and my growth is indubitably related to the frank nature of our relationship. No bullshit, no sappy romance, no mushy tendencies. At the bottom of it all lies an incorrigible attraction that perhaps can't be explained. If Paul is the island, then perhaps I am the water.

I am the water and, thirsty, I keep coming to shore for the salt, the shine, the sting.

Creatively, I am stuck. I thought Maine would mould me, transform me, keep me looking forward. But I want to stay, to remain, to alight and build. My research has also come to a standstill. I can no longer trace my linage. I know Adam worked for a while in New York. I know this since Portland Town Hall keeps all records of European ancestors that came into New England before the 1900's. The rest are scattered throughout Vermont and New Hampshire. Some ghost town establishments no doubt delegated federally to rot in black ink on white. The more research I do, the less I want to write about my family. The more I want to write about the world. The unruly fierce savage lakes in Vermont. The beautiful autumnal colours adorning New Hampshire forests. It tears me inside. How was there ever a world before the Americas? 

Tonight Paul and I have a tiny book meeting to attend. We are looking for publishers for me. I am nervous, scared, and totally bluffing. With half the book written, how dare I sit there with my rust tweed skirt (Dior) and triple layered organdy blouse (Givenchy) and pretend to be ahead of the game? Holding Paul's hand (white) and watching his eyes (grey) scan me before telling me I can advance in the world (forward) I march on (forward). Unafraid, cool as a panther (black) in waiting but never waiting (flash flash)