Clarice Lispector was born on December 10 (my birthday) and died on December 9 (my birthday, as well – I was born in Germany around 2AM, December 10, and so my birth certificate says December 10. But I’ve lived in America for most of my life and the moment I was born it was still the evening of December 9 here in America, which might explain why I’ve never been able to experience what it’s like to be in one place at one time. And is that a home? Home is whenever I’m with you but you are so far away.) 

It’s not a big deal when I was born. I hate that I try to make it a big deal. I hate that I hate that. My god it never stops. 

I do like that my astrological sign is Sagittarius, for several reasons: S is my favorite letter. Flip it sideways and you have a wave, and I am like that, always either coming or going, always crashing into some shore and then folding back in on myself again. Isn’t this what we love about the ocean? I bet she’s fucking exhausted. It’s good that we love her. If the ocean was a person she’d be very difficult to live with. 

But I am not an ocean and now I hate that I compared myself to that. The existential question Who am I? is really starting to bore me. I’d rather not talk about it anymore. I’d rather not try so hard to exist. Like my therapist says: “You don’t have to try to be a good mother because you already are, in everything you do.”

Is it totally inappropriate to send your therapist flowers? Because I’d really like to. The man at least deserves a bright red poinsettia and a new coffee mug. 

I also like that I am a Sagittarius because it’s symbolized by a half-man half-horse wielding a bow, though I’m a woman so I chose this photo from Google images: 

And that’s hot. I mean look at that – there is nothing she can’t do. And all that fire – Sagittarius is one of the fire signs, and yes I am always burning. I am both ocean and fire. At the same time. One big impossible contradiction but still I am. I burn through everything and I am always thirsty, my throat always parched. And when I am happy my body literally burns –  I burn calories like a madwoman and barely eat or sleep because there’s so much fuel inside me, bursting forth from the core of me, which I imagine resembles the core of the earth, some bright golden sphere of light. In yoga this is the innermost body, this is Bliss: The Divine Body. Anandamaya kosa. I think it’s what people mean when they talk about Jesus, living in God’s light, though I’m not sure if I’ve ever met either, and I don’t say that in a remorseful way. I enjoy mystery. It leaves something to linger on, move your tongue against. 

That core is what burns at the core of every poem I write. It is why I write. What I try to capture when I write, even though I never really will – you can’t hold fire in your hands and not lose them, and I like my hands. They’re good for holding and touching.  

When Greg and I first started dating I was so happy I burned 10,000 calories. I dropped five pounds in a week, just from feeling. I told him this and meant it as a compliment, but he was very concerned. But of course the fact that he was concerned made me burn even more. It just never stops. 

I forgot what I came here to write about. I think I was just going to tell you about the book I started reading this morning, Clarice Lispector's Near to the Wild Heart. I came across some passages that made me sweat (again, the burning):

I was studying math and suddenly felt the tremendous, cold impossibility of the miracle. I look through this window and the only truth, the truth I couldn’t tell that man if I went up to him, the only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that’s a bit much. I remember a chromatic study by Bach and my mind strays. It is as cold and pure as ice, yet you can sleep on it. My consciousness strays, but it doesn’t matter, I find the greatest serenity in hallucination. It is curious that I can’t say who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can’t say it. More than anything, I’m afraid to say it, because the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel but what I feel slowly becomes what I say. Or at least what makes me act is not what I feel but what I say. I feel who I am and the impression is lodged in the highest part of my brain, on my lips (especially on my tongue), on the surface of my arms and also running through me, deep inside my body, but where, exactly where, I can’t say…. Sometimes it becomes sharp and wounds me, colliding with me. Very well, thinking now about the blue sky, for example. But above all where does this certainty of being alive come from? No, I am not well. For no one asks themselves these questions and I… But all you have to do is be quiet in order to discern, beneath all the realities, the only irreducible one, that of existence. And beneath all these uncertainties – the chromatic study – I know everything is perfect, because it followed its fated path, regarding itself from scale to scale. Nothing escapes the perfection of things, that’s how it is with everything.

Because there is white space here I feel the need to comment but what is there to say? Clarice Lispector has been dead for years but she knows me better than most people I’ve encountered in my life. Or maybe it only feels that way because she wrote about it. What would I feel about you, friends, if you wrote about yourselves more? 

My god I exhaust myself. And I just learned that December 21st is the last day of the Sagittarius sign, which was yesterday, which was also the first day of winter, the darkest day of the year, and how fitting, that it all falls into the realm of Sagittarius. I hate most the time of year I was born and I hate that I hate that. I just love the sun is all. It is so fitting that Greg is from Florida, the sunshine state. Of course! Right now he is there and I am not there. I also love that Evelyn was born at the end of June, on the longest day of the year, the first day of summer, the brightest day of the year. This is also very fitting. I have so much hope for her. 

And now it is December 22 and we are no longer in the dark realm of Sagittarius and every day there is an extra minute of light. I cling to this desperately. I realize I might sound depressed but really I’m not. I’ve had waves of sadness but I haven’t been fully depressed for some time, which is remarkable, all these cold dark days. I am happy and tired. I didn’t mean to write a blog post. I have so many things to do and as soon as I’m done writing I’ll feel overwhelmed and rush around the apartment, trying to catch up with myself. I’m already sweating thinking about it. But I was overwhelmed before I began writing. And so I write. Even when I don’t mean to. All I wanted was to take 10 minutes to tell you about Clarice. But some things I cannot control. I am learning that. I am learning to let go. I am learning to stop trying so hard. My red hair is not natural and yet it is the most natural thing about me, one of the only true things about me.

Things that I know: My red hair. Writing. It’s Sunday. I am and I love you. 

But I’m tired, in spite of my cheer today, cheer that comes from goodness knows where, like that of an early summer morning. I’m tired, acutely now! Let us cry together, quietly. For having suffered and continued on so sweetly. Tired pain in a simplified tear. But this was a yearning for poetry, that I confess, God. Let us sleep hand in hand. The world rolls and somewhere out there are things I don’t know. Let us sleep on God and mystery, quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, behold sleep.