by nat raum
dear diary, within me there is a self that has become obsessed with cycles and by extension, circles, rotations, velocity of spins, pirouettes both performed and in nature. was my first obsession not tornados—in a timeline where obsession and fear mean the same thing, at least—and did i not fixate the top of the treeline against the sky as it went blue and pink and orange and then blue again, all the spectrum a backdrop to the gentle tipping of branches in the wind, their very presence a surety of impending disaster? dear diary, never mind that i live in maryland, i’m still a little terrified when the thunder cracks too loud and dead limbs drop from treetops in the squall, and maybe that’s also climate change talking but i am supremely justified in my terror, i believe. and that’s to say nothing of the reverse effect a hurricane had on me—what started as your standard wikipedia hole turned into genuine excitement every time i read the words a tropical wave moved off the western coast of africa and understood exactly what was to follow. dear diary, i promise i don’t have a deep unbridled love for destruction; i am just in awe that something so massive can develop so quickly, expire just as fast, and leave behind all that it broke as it dissipates into drizzle. when irene came to maryland, i wanted to watch it happen and set up a tripod. but then, when the storm woke me in the wee hours, i caught the backyard maple in a heavy breeze, the most of the maelstrom i’d see. dear diary, i know nothing but forces of nature—the tornado. the hurricane. the feeling inside my thorax when there is nothing to do but worry and nowhere to go but inside of myself, pacing circles in my veins.
nat raum is the poet laureate of the void; their corporeal form lives in Baltimore. They’re the author of this book will not save you, random access memory, fruits of the valley, and many others. Find them online at natraum.com or astral projecting inside a Royal Farms.
