Today marks one year since I got clean. It happens to fall on 4/20, the supposed pot smoking day, or whatever, which I guess is a little ironic. It's not like I chose this day as a good day to have a holiday. It was just the day when my luck ran out and I opened my eyes in Oceanside, California.

This rush to die and all the vibrance in my head. To live above water.

Or rather, when my luck started.

It's not living the momentous path of your life that's hard -- it's the day to day.

Today I woke up "late" at 7:30, carried my bike out of the basement, rode to Wilshire Park, drank a bottle of water, and rode back. It takes me fifteen minutes to drive to work so I should give myself at least forty-five minutes to bike there. The job is great, coworkers and customers are perfect. The free food and coffee is delicious and after the morning rush it isn't too hectic. My hours during the week are 7-2; on the weekend I work 8-3. I love waking up before sunrise.

I am faithfully, casually in love with this moment.

So after my bike ride, Donna and I drove to her storage space and got my old dresser and this Italian table Lee gave me years ago. Then we went to Stumptown and shared some quality espresso while reading through Donna's journal from 2003 which we had found in storage.

9 August 2003. She rises out of the bathtub and into the robe the villain was holding for her. If every day life had that disturbing kind of grace.

I did heroin for three years, and now it's been four years since I started. It seems longer than that, though. Donna thinks it's because the whole time, we both kept thinking "this has to be the end, this has to be almost over, it has truly reached the breaking point" ... But then it kept going. Every time it seemed it might end, it didn't.

I, on the other hand, think the three years seemed longer because the whole time, no matter how much I wanted to be clean, I could still see down the other path, to the other future where it Just. Didn't. Stop. Always that part of me that wanted to free fall, to the lowest point, to see if I could get any lower. I was simultaneously certain I would get clean and just as certain that I would never get clean. That door is still open to me and I don't know if it will ever close all the way.

"It's easy to stay clean," Chris told me, when he had been sober for two years, "because you know it's always there. If you ever really need it, you can do it, so it's easy to stay away." Soon after telling me that, he relapsed, and I jumped in with him. That was four years ago.

Count the boards until the middle. Center yourself. Run and let your body give in to invisible eddies. An ungainly stride and a clear mind and lock into ritualized beauty accessible only to you, when you turn on yourself to the distant flying over a city. Fledgling changeling tilt tilt. Enough nonsense to disappear the pain. For what is this phenomena.

A friend left the country for a few weeks, someone I've yet to meet. He left me this message before he left. I was sleeping. And I'm sure he'll think I'm silly for quoting this in full: "Hey Becky, it's *****, um, it's almost midnight and my ass has gotta be getting to bed cause I gotta get up at five, so I just wanted to say goodnight, and wish you well, while I'm gone. So, take care of yourself. Take it nice and easy. And, we'll stay in touch, I'm sure I'll find a computer over there. But yeah, yeah, have yourself some fun. I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

Sight. Inner eye. Line of sight. I get glimpses of the whole (ha!) spray of light all the time now, or more of it. Think of others/yourself as if they were children. I love him in a way that will wad up all experience and smear it. Red stain. Red self.