It was, at first, black as sleep. Then, after a moment, things faded into visual and aural reality.
It was a crowd of people, all preparing for some great migration. I was there too. We were gathering our things, only as much as we could carry, and moving along a path toward a boat or some other craft that would convey us to some other place. There was uneasiness, optimism, and a sense of novelty that comes with adventure. As we continued on this path in the city (surrounded by tall buildings or walls of a peachish color) there were women telling me (in Spanish) "Radio!" "El radio!" One of them pointed to an old radio on a high shelf with an antenna and a couple of large dials. Then I noticed that my glasses were broken on the ear piece. I thought to myself "Well shit. Oh! I have a spare pair of glasses!" Then I ran back to the place they were and I got them. Somebody looked at the broken pair and smiled, amused. I came back to the crowd again, and we were moving toward a large, shadowy structure that could have been the craft mentioned before (or not). The path had opened to a plaza not unlike a boat dock (which is why I assume the craft's presence) with broad stone staircases leading down to the main plateau of the plaza. A friend of mine who I haven't seen in quite some time was pushing a shopping cart full of things. Her hair was long and she was predominantly orange in color.
Then I think I woke up.
2/14/10
1/30/10
1/7/10
12/28/09
Safari in Pangaea
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.
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.
12/11/09
[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.
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