Note to Self, plural, and other things:

We need this book. Personal Geographies and Other Maps of the Imagination.

And Lloyd, the Magician and myself in perfect union.

Night Poem

by Margaret Atwood

There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain

In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,

your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whispers.

You rock in the rain's arms,
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother,
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.

"Night Poem" by Margaret Atwood, from Selected Poems II: Poems Selected & New 1976-1986. © Houghton Mifflin Co., 1987.

Follow the adventure

I am in DC with my dear friend Jenny.
Follow the adventure here.

I have graduated from school.

I will write more soon.

I am off to Bennington in the fall.

love, jessieh