070717
I found my favorite place by accident, a microscopic oasis in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico. Or maybe, it found me, perusing through the dating profiles of men old enough to be my father. Either way, there it was. Impossibly fragile and eternal.
I find myself, here, thinking of Borges: The Immortal.
His jeep didn’t have any windows. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the desert wind tangling my hair. It hurt me to leave.
In his house: a lemon tree, an acoustic guitar, a keyboard, some wine I couldn’t pronounce, books on interventional radiology, trauma-induced coagulopathy, floor cushions, hardwood (slippery), white walls, a window the size of the moon, city lights, late summer air.
We watched Gasper Noe’s Love.
& neon lights became a symbol for something restless growing inside of me.
Just a perfect day
Drink sangria in the park
And then later
When it gets dark, we go home
My skin started to peel off, a sort of psychosomatic metamorphosis.
I spent weeks lying on the ground in a drunken stupor, counting: non-stars (plus) the number of times my mother beat me (plus) the number of times my father closed his eyes (to the power of) closed office doors (minus) cocaine pseudo-invincibility (plus) the bloody, ceaseless coughing.
I went to see a therapist the day after murdering my parents.
In the best interpreted dreams we often have to leave one passage in obscurity because we observe during the interpretation that we have here a tangle of dream-thoughts which cannot be unravelled, and which furnishes no fresh contribution to the dream-content. This, then, is the keystone of the dream, the point at which it ascends into the unknown. For the dream-thoughts which we encounter during the interpretation commonly have no termination, but run in all directions into the net-like entanglement of our intellectual world. It is from some denser part of this fabric that the dream-wish then arises, like the mushroom from its mycelium.
We take a break here to ask three very important questions. Think carefully before responding.
1. What is your favorite color?
2. What is your favorite fruit?
3. What is your favorite body part?
I became addicted to the brief moment of lightness after therapy. I began throwing everything away: clothes, books, art, furniture, friends.
If it weren’t for Mexican food, I probably would’ve dropped out.
I slipped out of Wonderland and slipped into Her. The one class I attended all semester felt like a lucid dream in a sea of something I couldn’t grab on to.
Drowning something to feel something.
I was convinced that moving out of the dorms would change everything. Of course, I’d still be tied to [redacted] in obscure, inexplicable ways but I could pretend.
In his apartment: heavy curtains to block the incessant sun, a bed always made, paper lanterns, a desk, the stacked library of an English student, the graphic novels of a lifelong nerd, a television, a glass bong, a rainbow of lighters, dusty bourbon, a bathroom with a too-bright light and a too-loud exhaust fan, a shower with low water pressure, roommates that reeked of fish and cigarettes, nights spent: gorging on junk food, watching mindless tv intermixed with films that knew and shook us, driving circles around town, not sleeping, fighting, crying, touching each other in the darkness.
(We get mistaken for siblings a lot.
& lovers. We’re a bit of both.
& more. And nothing at all.)
When home becomes a person and that person walks away or maybe you walk away because you really have to pee or something and then you don’t have a place to stay anymore or a place to wear your fuzzy socks and it’s so cold all of a sudden and you wish they didn’t leave or that you could hold it in forever but you can’t but God do you try.
The nights where he fell asleep before me were some of the loneliest I’ve ever had.
Tangerine moon. Dreaming.
Some people, were born to sit by a river. Some get struck by lightning. Some have an ear for music. Some are artists. Some swim. Some know buttons. Some know Shakespeare. Some are mothers. And some people, dance.
Do you still love me?
I liked to sit in the very front of the classroom and look where I wasn’t supposed to look: eyes instead of screen, bulge instead of eyes, fantasy instead of reality, within instead of without.
My safe word is panopticon.
Hovering, in the empty space before and around me, little droplets of amber. I lapped them up one by one. Some I saved for later.
Reflections like unsent love letters.
I looked for him everywhere, saw him in you, and masturbated to the amalgamation of potential, lost and found.
Death of the author.
Death of another semester.
Death of naivety (in retrospect: not).
Death of paradise.
Death of death // I want to live forever.
—
The linearity of it all is starting to bother me. I want to move the way thoughts move. Let me weave in and out of your fabric. Let me entwine my red in your blue. Let me inflict violet.
Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would kindly remove your robes. It is time.
My doctor tells me my lungs are smaller than the average person my sex and age. I wonder how it affects the rest of my organs, whether they consume the extra space or shout just to hear their voices echoing back at them.
Is man anything without his desire? Is woman anything at all?
My first apartment sits in the middle of a very important road constructed for very important people and their wives. The traffic light hovers above the toilet. I watch the impatient tapping of the wheel, the impulse, the flash. There are dotted lanes and solid lines and so many roundabouts. Some people get angry because they are getting nowhere; they call me a tease. Nobody enjoys the traffic, nobody knows how important it is.
The touching comes last.
The beginning can be one of two things: really easy or really hard.
Then there is (and always will be) the indifference of the world. & it will strike you, over and over again, until your cheeks are tender with misunderstanding. You’ll probably cry but you’ll hope you won’t.
Existential angst: Standing on a cliff, a sense of disorientation and confusion cloud you. Not only are you afraid of falling, you also fear succumbing to the impulse of throwing yourself off. Nothing is holding you back. Dread, anxiety and anguish rise to the surface.
I possess no genitalia. Instead, there is a pulsing.
Before you jump to conclusions, allow me to decorticate.
A free association game:
Apple // Banana
Sky // Rain
Warmth // Fireplace
Night // Possession
Eye // God
Love // Pass
Beauty // Plato
Remember // Remember
Sex // Wilderness
Hair // Shroud
Dream // Immortality
Fear // Alone
Motherhood // Poison
I imagine transforming into a swan. I imagine all the lengths and shapes of men I could devour.
An afterthought: the kind of bitterness that hits you in the jaw.
He said he never fell in love so fast. He asked me if I felt the same. I asked him to tell me his daughter’s birthday again, to whisper it in the nape of my neck.
I remember the begging (as if my name was another word for please).
There is a small circle on my mons pubis in which no hair grows. I invent childhood trauma to make up for my inconsistent womanhood.
I taste my mother on my tongue and vow to never have children.
What do you know of the Sublime? The Grotesque? The Kafkaesque? What do you know of hunger? How long can you hold your breath?
Addiction, a list: purple flowers, the dreams in between snoozes on the alarm clock, bourbon, putting off graduation, flamin’ hot chips, fluffy dogs, fluffy babies (preferably Asian), cutting coke, being gagged while cumming, movies that make you cry, poker (the game, the people, the loss), craigslist personals, cello music, ginger ale, disappointing people, chocolate cake & the rain.
I also have a thing for red-headed women.
Rape fantasies. Starfish.
I spent two weeks finger-painting with cinnamon— effortlessly, gracefully. Following my desire lines led me to a dead end.
Thursday.
In his cabin: string lights, a wood-burning fireplace, remnants of ash (trees, otherwise), a round rug, international copies of Le Petit Prince, Cig Harvey’s soul, birthday cards, plant journals, space heaters, reposado, a lingering smell of sage and American Spirit.
A self-contained weekend.
& a sorta fairytale.
After every excursion, I need a moment to swallow. To lubricate my lips, take a deep breath in, blow nicotine waste out. I need a moment to watch the swirling. A moment to remind myself of my insignificance. A moment to try and be okay with that.
There is a preface. It is absolute, unadulterated rage.
A study of irrational fears—
On the first day, I think nothing of it. On the second day, even. On the third day, my brow furrows and stays there. On the fourth day, I consider drinking tequila for the first time since the last time. On the fifth day, I do. On the sixth day, I feel betrayal growing in the womb of my nostalgia. On the seventh day, I realize: it wasn’t even Helvetica. On the eighth day, I bleed, at last.
I throw myself into accomplishing just enough, but not quite. The discontent turns into restlessness quickly and I know I have to return to the place it all began.
A circle has no beginning.
The rain envelops me and there is no road and there are no stars and the windows are closed and the desert is breathless.