I live the game of replacements. I find one thing to consume my attention for a time and then I give it up for another. I write lists during the lulls to dull the sense of loss, transition to transition. I do this for people who come and go as well, but I call those "poems" and the people who inspire them "muses". Finals are over. I am fairly confident of my grades. I am writing lists, trying to ignore the absence of things. Trying to ignore that I am mid-amusements, so to speak.
I begin filling the gaps with paper. $100 worth of the finest art paper and book-binding supplies I can gather. I may or may not make good on these projects, but the calming texture of the paper between my fingers; that is something.
I spend an hour reading about approaches to the seven mountain peaks that now seem daunting. The snowfall along this spine of range over the last month does not play into my plans to begin the ascent, and since the open wounds on my lower legs have only just healed over from Easter's climb of the Squaw I am feeling resigned to lower altitudes.
I give myself a 5-to-1 ratio rule for poetry--read five, write one--for the entire summer. I feel this is equitable. I tell myself I must read for an hour each day, from a book, that I hold in my hands.
I try to ignore the fact that my husband is ignoring every attempt I make to contact him about signing the stipulation, about getting me the tax info so I can apply for next year's PELL. I try to forget that I am married, and that I'm having nightmares now, and that I have nothing to push away the fact that I am legally bound to a monster.
I try to forget how much I loved the study of philosophers and their ethics.