States, as in United, are cut up into invisible lines, each with its own rules and regulations in face of general adoption of the Federal—nonetheless, dotted with individual courthouses, capitals & city hall chambers.

Similar lines that divide the states within the SELF of me, invisible and sometimes blurred to others of me that peer in and try to “right” the course. States of joy, overlap with states of burning eyes, and one part rules me to dive into what feels right and another to be more disciplined—demand, my critic, released on him, or me?

I’m having the darndest time getting the captain, the crew, from rowers to cooks, fly rod, crotch rocket, folding-chair and where to go? I effing hate the way in which I can’t even make up my own mind!

“Yes, she is in a state again.” That’s what I imagine someone might say.

And, to be a real writer, it is best to show not tell, some kind of tableau that you can leave this page with, that is, if you’ve forced yourself through.

Me, in newly bleached pants, went to see my ex last night, have smoked salmon dinner and talk. We haven’t laid eyes on one another since January. Me, this morning, messy-haired after a toss and turning night (in my own bed) half asleep, and half dreaming, aware the dynamics behind us, and ahead of us, are as complex as they’ve ever been, got a morning text from him saying there was some surprise in the mailbox.

I carried my white oatmeal bowl with me down the steps, opened the box to find it filled with blue hydrangeas, a Bryan Ferry forty-five at the back, B side the best, Valentine.

Photo Credit: Pete Lambert/unsplash