camellia_drive kerry the morning after the first night i spent at jack’s house, i took my coffee out to the front porch and sat on the sunken loveseat alone, listening to the birds and the neighbors. my ‘94 nissan sentra was parked at the curb, blinding white and shining with dew. it surprised me to see it there, like i’d forgotten where i was and how i’d arrived. we were all waking up together on camellia drive. i noticed two books on the thrifted wood coffee table. one was a tattered paperback, a collection of poetry by john donne. the other was a brown leather journal tied shut by two ribbons. i hadn’t–still haven’t–read any john donne, except ‘the flea’ in a high school english class. i was so tempted by the journal. i knew, instinctively, that it wasn’t jack’s. the only reading material on his shelves was an old copy of ‘the magus’ and some guitar tabs. they belonged, therefore, to the_autodidact. i didn’t know him well yet, but i was intrigued. i wondered what drew him to john donne of all poets, how many books might be in his room and what words lingered in his mind. it was like i’d stumbled across a pirate chest. i’d judged him too quickly, distracted by the tattoos and backwards ballcap. we all thought he was just self-possessed, nonchalant. we didn’t know that what looked like stoicism was actually depression and how miserable he was in that house, how many hours he spent in his bed. i had no idea that he was walking an hour from camellia drive to downtown decatur to sling pizzas because his car broke down and his bike was stolen. he never mentioned it. even now, i’m still learning and discovering, quietly peeling him like an onion. much later i told him about that moment on the front porch. “eh, john donne,” he’d said dismissively. he’s stopped journalling, stopped reading poetry. his bookshelves are packed with chomsky and ursula le guin, history and philosophy. we visited camellia drive several years ago on a trip back to georgia, marveling at how little had changed but how difficult it was to identify the house, a little three-bedroom ranch that stands like a monolith in my memory. i think about it here and there–so much happened on that quiet street–but i know i’m romanticizing it, and that his memories are so much darker and complicated. we don’t talk about it much anymore but when we do, the name of the street spans an entire life chapter. 220308 what's it to you? who go blather from