And here we come to a dividing line, a place where within are contained the constituent elements of each party otherwise separate. Its sutures are of a distinct and peculiar quality. (a nod) It is there, here, within that the rift becomes visible and yet is closed. The plate tectonics of the event represented by the thread, the aforementioned sutures, are likely the cause of earthquakes in china but leave humanity and the cosmos otherwise unperturbed. Halves, pieces. The portions are not of themselves a singularity. They are acutely aware of the nature of separation--the ache and the (yes I said it) desire wrapped up in a conjoinment, completion.
Pangaea. The continents shift and tie themselves together with pieces of yarn, pieces of thread and maybe (if it's laying around) a few vagrant lengths of yellow crosstitch floss into a patchwork sort of like that one one lady did in that one movie that Michel Gondry directed, yes. They get together and call themselves Pangaea. They capitalize it because of formality. They want to be formal.
"Proximity affords not one the ability to begrudge another no less proximal than the thumb and no less proximal than one's own indexical fingers." A character eeks into the narrative and, after a grotesque display of jazz hands, fades into the atmosphere surrounding Pangaea.
Dinosaurs roamed.
Then they all drifted apart again in the constant cycle of death and rebirth--expressed here by rocks and molten ore. A Buddha glanced to his left and right, muttering something under his breath. When questioned by the bodhisattva changing a lightbulb, the being stated frankly: "Told you so."
Of course, they all thought. Someone imagined repurposing the crosstitch floss for a mobile of constructionn paper animals and playing cards.
12/28/09
12/11/09
[yammer] I gouged out [yammer yammer yammer]
I gouged out an area for us to roam before I knew who you were and before I knew that you were a homebody.
I spent several moderately sized periods of time preparing the ground and thinking about what would be good or what would be appropriate for our means or for our needs. I thought about getting another job to pay for the trees or for plants and/or other landscaping.
I would have bought you a kitchen if I had known that you would want one. Or, perhaps, even a small animal of your choice that could conceivably have trouble using the restroom on its own and as a result would have to be handled with the utmost care and tenderness so as to avoid unsavory accidents or fussiness.
Although the distinct possibility exists that these efforts may not have been in vain, I tend sometimes (oftentimes) to think too much on these things. Especially given the wholly nonspecific nature of our eventual meeting our first sexual encounter or even the time we would eventually argue whole-heartedly and bitterly. “Listen to me yammer.” I would tearfully say perhaps, knowing the balance of my thoughts (oftentimes delicate and indistinct) and the realization that we both may perhaps feel that—followed nearly immediately by guilt and love. We would kiss one another’s faces in apology and because we would know, at that time, what it is like to sleep next to ourselves, to sleep by ourselves, and so we would kiss one another, I think.
But I digress:
I gouged this out now because I’m not sure what society’s dictates are on this matter (because our stars will probably cross in some misty future that we can’t possibly know—even though we do know secretly, completely that every other person we suck off or kiss is not… that.)
(And to think of the cups of coffee I’ve drank alone. They’re at least more than I could be able to count on two or three sets of hands and feet.)
People often give advice related to this matter, saying things about fish in the ocean or the insignificance/significance of individuals depending on the individual and how this individual is situated in space and time. However, some other advice that I tend to believe is applicable in this situation is something that I learned when I was a Boy Scout: When you are lost in the woods, it’s important to remember that if you are in the woods in Wisconsin, and you get ‘lost,’ you’re actually not lost because you know that you’re in Wisconsin. Also, if you are misdirected in your walking about, it’s a good idea to stay where you are. You are easier to find when you stay in one place, rather than moving all around.
That being said, I’ve got a serious case of wanderlust and these shoves have some history. Walking in the snow in Madrid. Walking in the snow up north. Down south in the dry or wet grass. To the east—
[and sometimes I am looking through a pane of ice and there is a blizzard on either side or falling leaves and a light yet steady rain I am not really sure about what these images indicate for me or what to think about their repetition and their various changeling forms prescribed depending on the mood one has and season though luckily enough for me some people look more handsome and more beautiful after coming in out of the bitter cold]
The moderate winter of illness is only part of the master narrative, though often one tends to lose sight of this in the face of minutiae, miniature celestial certainties, bodies, astrological meanderings of the future shadowing the things that we are now—or are in the somewhat future. And even though this may be the case, this is the now of camphor and melancholy.
I spent several moderately sized periods of time preparing the ground and thinking about what would be good or what would be appropriate for our means or for our needs. I thought about getting another job to pay for the trees or for plants and/or other landscaping.
I would have bought you a kitchen if I had known that you would want one. Or, perhaps, even a small animal of your choice that could conceivably have trouble using the restroom on its own and as a result would have to be handled with the utmost care and tenderness so as to avoid unsavory accidents or fussiness.
Although the distinct possibility exists that these efforts may not have been in vain, I tend sometimes (oftentimes) to think too much on these things. Especially given the wholly nonspecific nature of our eventual meeting our first sexual encounter or even the time we would eventually argue whole-heartedly and bitterly. “Listen to me yammer.” I would tearfully say perhaps, knowing the balance of my thoughts (oftentimes delicate and indistinct) and the realization that we both may perhaps feel that—followed nearly immediately by guilt and love. We would kiss one another’s faces in apology and because we would know, at that time, what it is like to sleep next to ourselves, to sleep by ourselves, and so we would kiss one another, I think.
But I digress:
I gouged this out now because I’m not sure what society’s dictates are on this matter (because our stars will probably cross in some misty future that we can’t possibly know—even though we do know secretly, completely that every other person we suck off or kiss is not… that.)
(And to think of the cups of coffee I’ve drank alone. They’re at least more than I could be able to count on two or three sets of hands and feet.)
People often give advice related to this matter, saying things about fish in the ocean or the insignificance/significance of individuals depending on the individual and how this individual is situated in space and time. However, some other advice that I tend to believe is applicable in this situation is something that I learned when I was a Boy Scout: When you are lost in the woods, it’s important to remember that if you are in the woods in Wisconsin, and you get ‘lost,’ you’re actually not lost because you know that you’re in Wisconsin. Also, if you are misdirected in your walking about, it’s a good idea to stay where you are. You are easier to find when you stay in one place, rather than moving all around.
That being said, I’ve got a serious case of wanderlust and these shoves have some history. Walking in the snow in Madrid. Walking in the snow up north. Down south in the dry or wet grass. To the east—
[and sometimes I am looking through a pane of ice and there is a blizzard on either side or falling leaves and a light yet steady rain I am not really sure about what these images indicate for me or what to think about their repetition and their various changeling forms prescribed depending on the mood one has and season though luckily enough for me some people look more handsome and more beautiful after coming in out of the bitter cold]
The moderate winter of illness is only part of the master narrative, though often one tends to lose sight of this in the face of minutiae, miniature celestial certainties, bodies, astrological meanderings of the future shadowing the things that we are now—or are in the somewhat future. And even though this may be the case, this is the now of camphor and melancholy.
12/6/09
Story Time
Some shit happened. People took notice of some of the shit that happened, sometimes when it was happening to them while it was happening to them.
Then it was December. It seemed hypothetical.
Then it was December. It seemed hypothetical.
11/8/09
But when she did speak it was as though she had spoken a hundred times before and would speak at least a hundred times again.
I was concerned because she had sat in silence for a good portion time after I asked her a question and I didn’t know how else to feel about it. It was almost sticky in my mind and when I tried to move the concern onto another finger to get it to stop sticking to my hand I found that I was just making it stick to my other hand or finger. But she did speak and it was unremarkable.
“I just… I don’t know.” She folded her hand as small as it would allow itself to be folded underneath her chin and she fluttered her eyelids as she broke eye contact with me. There was something else on the wall over there that made her blush. “I…” she made a concerned sound and looked at me, at the wall, at her shoes (all sullenly). She cracked her delicate knuckles loudly and looked at her fingernails impatiently. I didn’t know anything.
The wind blew a couple of times and if I would have got up and opened the window a stack of papers would have blown all over the floor and we would have got down on our hands and knees to pick them up, stack them, and shut the window again. We would have muttered apologies to one another and this bump, this rift, it would have done something different—it would have closed or flattened maybe. I was within walking distance to the window and I thought this and I noticed a coffeepot on the table by the window. And because I asked her if she wanted some coffee as an excuse to go open the window, she said that she had to leave and she refused to make eye contact with me.
I met someone else a few years in the future. It was the longest wait of my life.
Her name was Celia. The girl who left me, not this other one.
I was concerned because she had sat in silence for a good portion time after I asked her a question and I didn’t know how else to feel about it. It was almost sticky in my mind and when I tried to move the concern onto another finger to get it to stop sticking to my hand I found that I was just making it stick to my other hand or finger. But she did speak and it was unremarkable.
“I just… I don’t know.” She folded her hand as small as it would allow itself to be folded underneath her chin and she fluttered her eyelids as she broke eye contact with me. There was something else on the wall over there that made her blush. “I…” she made a concerned sound and looked at me, at the wall, at her shoes (all sullenly). She cracked her delicate knuckles loudly and looked at her fingernails impatiently. I didn’t know anything.
The wind blew a couple of times and if I would have got up and opened the window a stack of papers would have blown all over the floor and we would have got down on our hands and knees to pick them up, stack them, and shut the window again. We would have muttered apologies to one another and this bump, this rift, it would have done something different—it would have closed or flattened maybe. I was within walking distance to the window and I thought this and I noticed a coffeepot on the table by the window. And because I asked her if she wanted some coffee as an excuse to go open the window, she said that she had to leave and she refused to make eye contact with me.
I met someone else a few years in the future. It was the longest wait of my life.
Her name was Celia. The girl who left me, not this other one.
10/28/09
10/22/09
10/17/09
Limerick
The old fishing man fished with a pike
in the cold water, in pale moonlight.
He thrusts his spear down
at nary a sound.
You can stare at the blind all you like.
in the cold water, in pale moonlight.
He thrusts his spear down
at nary a sound.
You can stare at the blind all you like.
10/15/09
10/13/09
10/6/09
Angsty blog
A series of hypothetical facebook statuses:
-RC is lakefront property and you are a piece of shit.
-RC thinks you are a piece of shit.
-RC is listening to Sondre Lerche and you are a piece of shit.
-RC says: peace, you piece of shit.
-RC, you piece of shit.
-RC wants you to know that he is aware of your existence, you piece of shit.
-RC shit, you piece.
-RC is your piece of shit.
-RC wants pie.
-RC is lakefront property and you are a piece of shit.
-RC thinks you are a piece of shit.
-RC is listening to Sondre Lerche and you are a piece of shit.
-RC says: peace, you piece of shit.
-RC, you piece of shit.
-RC wants you to know that he is aware of your existence, you piece of shit.
-RC shit, you piece.
-RC is your piece of shit.
-RC wants pie.
4/6/09
A note on Frou Frou
She's the horse from Anna Karenina that Vronsky rides in the horse race. He ends up making a mistake while riding her and she falls horribly on her back after a jump. She breaks her back. The following passage ensues:
I find meaning in it. I'll let you decide why.
He barely managed to free his foot before she fell on her side, breathing heavily and making vain attempts to rise with her slender, sweaty neck, fluttering on the ground at his feet like a wounded bird. The awkward movement Vronsky had made had broken her back. But he understood that much later. Now he saw only that Makhotin was quickly drawing away, while he, swaying, stood alone on the muddy, unmmoving ground, and before him, gasping heavily, lay Frou Frou, her head turned to him, looking at him with her lovely eye. Still not understanding what had happened, Vronsky pulled the horse by the reins. She again thrashed all over like a fish, creaking the wings of the saddle, freed her front legs, but, unable to lift her hindquarters, immediately staggered and fell on her side again. His face disfigured by passion, pale, his lower jaw trembling, Vronsky kicked her in the stomach with his heel again and started pulling at the reins. She did not move but, burying her nose in the ground, merely looked at her master with her speaking eye. [...] To his dismay, he felt that he was whole and unhurt. The horse had broken her back and they decided to shoot her.
I find meaning in it. I'll let you decide why.
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