I was looking for my body
I was learning how to cook a curry dish. I was trying to find an empathetic witness.
I’m “beginning” A Becoming with a poem that I wrote for members of what used to be called The Fraction Club — which I created as (at the time) my own version of Patreon, and have now decided to build here, through Substack.
[Additionally, I recently partnered with
— who is going to be so happy that I finally pressed publish on this platform — to share this piece for his online event Even Now which you can find video / event recordings of here.]Here’s the truth: a bunch of people have consistently supported my work in the world despite all of my inconsistency. When The Fraction Club began, it was founded upon a model that is — quite literally — what Substack has become:
I offered people writing in exchange for monthly support. Simple as that.
Over the last couple of years — in the midst of the explosion that life became — truth be told…? I delivered next to nothing to these people, and yet many of them continued to support Levi, the person despite my seeming inability to give anything of creative value as The Poet.
This is the exact worst kind of introduction to a new, member-funded endeavor, but it is — nevertheless — an honest one, and I wanted to begin by honoring the folks who have been patrons of my art since the beginning.
To those OGs and any newbies who might come across A Becoming, welcome [back].
My working model, for the time being, is to make all written content published here freely available, keeping open the possibility of binding the best of it together for future purchases in the form of a book or some other medium, while relying on the generosity of those who believe my work is worth supporting, financially, in the meantime. You read all about what A Becoming is, here.
Audio versions of all my writing — as read and recorded by Yours Truly — in addition to a variety of other perks, are available to paid supporters / subscribers of this publication, as you can see at the top of this post.
Alright, donor plate has been passed and announcements are over.
Thank you for your Presence… here’s a poem about my scouring the country for mine:
I Was Looking For My Body
And what do you say upon re-entry?
Clawing with your ghost-hand at a sheet
to throw over your absence, so
at least they know you’ve been thinking of how
to show back up, albeit beneath a fig leaf,
peaking out to see who’s there still.
And: “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know
this much time went by. I was in bed.
I was at the kitchen counter.
I was on a long walk in the snow, and
a few people called to ask how I was,
and I wasn’t. A few nights ago, I saw
Laurel’s dry-erase calendar
on the wall to my right. It has been
a full year since all the light got stuck inside
a crater in my stomach. Told Jen it felt like
divine amnesia. Carl called it the Potters Wheel
and maybe it’s pruning or maybe it’s just that
Wellbutrin was not the only option.
I’m sorry. I did not know this much time went by.
I was looking for my body. I was stuck to the ceiling.
I was dusting the baseboards. I was
learning how to cook a curry dish.
I was trying to find an empathetic witness.
I was driving again, tension
softened by the grip on my steering wheel.
We have a longstanding relationship but I admit
it’s codependent: it’ll help me regulate
if I run on fumes.
I was at a rest stop, revving my engine.
I was making peace with violence.
I was making peace, with violence.
I was 14 years old. I was 17. I was 19.
I was 21. I was 28. I was 31. I was ashamed.
I was alive, but not that often,
I was throwing candor to god in lieu of caution
and considering him today, at my age: Infinite.
At first, it was cataracts
and then: forgetfulness.
And then: “I’m sorry,” I got tired
of selling shortcuts as re-ligaments.
I didn’t know this much time went by.
It flies when you’re asleep.
I was on an airplane. I was driving to the coast.
I was boxing shadows. I had my eyes closed.
I was feigning surrender by demanding control as if
letting go counts as propped up by ego.
I was fragmenting myself and losing sight of the
whole. I was looking for a scapegoat.
I saw the future in slow motion and
could not speed up enough to prevent the trip:
powerlessness is only powerful if it genuinely is.
Anyway, I just wanted to say hello again.
“Sorry — I didn’t know this much time went by.”
I sound timid, slightly afraid.
Not the best thing I’ve ever written.
Kind of boisterous, and unable to avoid
overcompensating for the time I’ve been away —
clawing with my ghost-hand in the laundry basket
for a pillow-case or a fitted bed-sheet or
whatever might cover my
legs knocking underneath it all,
but here: clothed.
Most of my interest, writing and creative expression exists as an attempt to discover “language in service of the unsayable.”
In other words: giving bodies to ghosts.
I’ve been finding sheets to throw over them for almost fifteen years now, and none of it would be possible without you.
Since folks often ask, below are five ways that you can help me continue to find language for a living.
Become a paid subscriber of A Becoming.
Buy my book, “It’s All Worth Living For.”
Become a founding member and get my book for free.
Check out the rest of my work, here.
Let me help you with / coach you through yours, here.
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