Bread and Bandages
11/26/2005
Pissing Through the Window
Having lost my clothes to the void behind the dryer
I drape myself in linens from an old dowry chest,
staple doilies to my dinner plate breasts and wrap a dresser
scarf sarong around my waist. An envoy of velvet
lizards appear at the threshold of my dressing room
to inform me that the bathroom is now theirs, and
lead me to a summit with their Queen who lounges, thickly
purple in the tub. Having already lost the kitchen with
accompanying sink to the cats I resign myself to
pissing through the window. ¶ 7:10 PM 0 comments
I drape myself in linens from an old dowry chest,
staple doilies to my dinner plate breasts and wrap a dresser
scarf sarong around my waist. An envoy of velvet
lizards appear at the threshold of my dressing room
to inform me that the bathroom is now theirs, and
lead me to a summit with their Queen who lounges, thickly
purple in the tub. Having already lost the kitchen with
accompanying sink to the cats I resign myself to
pissing through the window. ¶ 7:10 PM 0 comments
Insect Bitten Ankles and Tear Duct Expectorant
Insect bitten ankles and recycled radio. We lose
patience, evaporating in after-dark vapor. I want
a pencil. I want a fucking pencil. I want
to masturbate. I want to be alone. The
music is too loud, the apartment too full.
Nothing sifts through my mind anymore. It is
stuffy cluttered. I don’t know things and
I want desperately to cry and I can’t.
I feel frighteningly close to hurting myself and
the floor pulls away from me at odd
and inappropriate moments and Jay and Andy
keep telling me how I’m so much
more here than I used to be and I
shudder to hear it. What makes it so
frustrating is I know I would feel better
after I cried and I can’t. I wish there
was tear-duct expectorant. ¶ 7:07 PM 0 comments
patience, evaporating in after-dark vapor. I want
a pencil. I want a fucking pencil. I want
to masturbate. I want to be alone. The
music is too loud, the apartment too full.
Nothing sifts through my mind anymore. It is
stuffy cluttered. I don’t know things and
I want desperately to cry and I can’t.
I feel frighteningly close to hurting myself and
the floor pulls away from me at odd
and inappropriate moments and Jay and Andy
keep telling me how I’m so much
more here than I used to be and I
shudder to hear it. What makes it so
frustrating is I know I would feel better
after I cried and I can’t. I wish there
was tear-duct expectorant. ¶ 7:07 PM 0 comments
Squeezed in Plastic Bags
Rice krispies spill sloppy from my bowl and the
cats follow me from room to room, lapping them up.
“It’s kind of a weird sadistic suburban thing that we do.”
Laundry dries musty in the washer while my roommate
and I argue limply over whose turn it is to hang
the clothesline. In August only undershirts are worn;
everything lightens a few shades without getting whiter.
Come August, everything is stained.
Humidity beads along shag carpet plasticine fibers, the
iron is hid beneath snowsuits, I have forgotten
how the oven works. “Those repeated attempts suggested
that it was suicidal.” Fans blow dust from room to room.
--I do not believe in emergency tampons--.
Dream of sweaters, of thermal underwear squeezed in
plastic bags. ¶ 7:04 PM 0 comments
cats follow me from room to room, lapping them up.
“It’s kind of a weird sadistic suburban thing that we do.”
Laundry dries musty in the washer while my roommate
and I argue limply over whose turn it is to hang
the clothesline. In August only undershirts are worn;
everything lightens a few shades without getting whiter.
Come August, everything is stained.
Humidity beads along shag carpet plasticine fibers, the
iron is hid beneath snowsuits, I have forgotten
how the oven works. “Those repeated attempts suggested
that it was suicidal.” Fans blow dust from room to room.
--I do not believe in emergency tampons--.
Dream of sweaters, of thermal underwear squeezed in
plastic bags. ¶ 7:04 PM 0 comments
The Last Breakfast
I dreampt I was hanging wet t-shirts on a cotton
line, my hands grew red and scraped with wringing and
when the sunlight hit the cloth everything smelled
softly of old grape candy, the kind that accumulates in
school locker corners and Halloween pillowcases. I picked
a splinter out of my pinkie and thought about all the
women for hundreds (thousands?) of years who stood outside
on a chilly day to hang men’s clothes to dry. I
thought about Jesus and wondered who washed
his robes. Which Mary was it, who twisted water
from the last set of linens he wore, was it the
Virgin or Magdalene, and as I wonder this I
realized the Bible was surely written by a
man, because a woman would have known
how incredibly important these details are, and
then I begin to wonder who will cook the last
dinner for my roommate, or wash curdled milk from
the last cereal bowl he sprinkles sugar into. ¶ 7:00 PM 0 comments
line, my hands grew red and scraped with wringing and
when the sunlight hit the cloth everything smelled
softly of old grape candy, the kind that accumulates in
school locker corners and Halloween pillowcases. I picked
a splinter out of my pinkie and thought about all the
women for hundreds (thousands?) of years who stood outside
on a chilly day to hang men’s clothes to dry. I
thought about Jesus and wondered who washed
his robes. Which Mary was it, who twisted water
from the last set of linens he wore, was it the
Virgin or Magdalene, and as I wonder this I
realized the Bible was surely written by a
man, because a woman would have known
how incredibly important these details are, and
then I begin to wonder who will cook the last
dinner for my roommate, or wash curdled milk from
the last cereal bowl he sprinkles sugar into. ¶ 7:00 PM 0 comments
Romancing the Stoned
“Never use the word susceptible in a poem.” I fear the
smell of my father’s aftershave. “I’m not nessesarily opposed
to it being a joke, one told in earnest.” Thighs
clench pre-piss; women’s bathroom smell of ammonia and blood.
Romancing the stoned. My boyfriend is allergic to my drugs.
I hallucinate after more than two drinks, what
happened to may water-glass whiskey days? “I object to
the adjective.” The professor carbonates my poems.
And alcohol is my lover’s drug of choice. A couple
glasses full of rum-and-coke (his weak and iced, mine strong)
I finished his anyways, washed my Wellbutrin down
with a mouthful too warm too fizz. My sister’s
boyfriend passes me a joint of Chronic. The
side of my face lands on my boyfriend’s chest,
on the way to bed my whole world disappears.
On this particuliar night he is still a virgin-
my k-yed fingers can barely wiggle
into him, it hurts, he complains, too young to
understand the best things do. On the way to
bed I begin hallucinating; I’m six years old
again, pressing spider-bit hands against the
backdoor screen. My parents are yelling at me
again, I’m afraid of being sent to bed.
Dimly again I hear my boyfriend’s voice,
his hand rests uncertainly on my back,
the world smells like warm aluminum and
flaking latex paint. Is this how seizures
work? ¶ 6:57 PM 0 comments
smell of my father’s aftershave. “I’m not nessesarily opposed
to it being a joke, one told in earnest.” Thighs
clench pre-piss; women’s bathroom smell of ammonia and blood.
Romancing the stoned. My boyfriend is allergic to my drugs.
I hallucinate after more than two drinks, what
happened to may water-glass whiskey days? “I object to
the adjective.” The professor carbonates my poems.
And alcohol is my lover’s drug of choice. A couple
glasses full of rum-and-coke (his weak and iced, mine strong)
I finished his anyways, washed my Wellbutrin down
with a mouthful too warm too fizz. My sister’s
boyfriend passes me a joint of Chronic. The
side of my face lands on my boyfriend’s chest,
on the way to bed my whole world disappears.
On this particuliar night he is still a virgin-
my k-yed fingers can barely wiggle
into him, it hurts, he complains, too young to
understand the best things do. On the way to
bed I begin hallucinating; I’m six years old
again, pressing spider-bit hands against the
backdoor screen. My parents are yelling at me
again, I’m afraid of being sent to bed.
Dimly again I hear my boyfriend’s voice,
his hand rests uncertainly on my back,
the world smells like warm aluminum and
flaking latex paint. Is this how seizures
work? ¶ 6:57 PM 0 comments
Possessing Jay
I dreampt about Jay last night. I dreampt he was in a car accident, it was a very bad dream because it was so very vivid. I was on the phone with his mom, talking and suddenly I realized he was. But the problem was, Jay didn’t know he was dead, I had to explain it to him, which was really hard because once he knew he was dead he would leave and I wouldn’t be able to talk to him anymore but if he didn’t find out in time his body would sort of dissolve away while his spirit hung around and he would be left bodiless. And that, in my dream, was how I understood that ghosts were formed, a spirit was left behind without a body and it needed one or it would dissolve too, so it had to take over someone or something else. I had to make Jay understand that he was dead. I don’t know if I managed to do it by the time I woke up or not.
¶ 6:55 PM 0 comments
Mushroom Friday
Friday a tropic-haired boy pieced silvered chunks
of mushrooms in my mouth and I sagged against his
chest and watched as his forehead turned clear and
bulged like a drugstore alien’s and I could see
pictures painted all along the inside of his skull and
wondered how they had got there and if I could
tatoo a picture of my face, but prettier and
green, inside his chin where it tucked against
my neck. I ran my hands over his thready
jacket to see if the texture would be different on
each of my fingertips and grew afraid
of turning into one of those drug-softened girls,
that run around campments hugging everyone. “You’re
not hugging everyone, you’re hugging me.” ¶ 6:51 PM 0 comments
of mushrooms in my mouth and I sagged against his
chest and watched as his forehead turned clear and
bulged like a drugstore alien’s and I could see
pictures painted all along the inside of his skull and
wondered how they had got there and if I could
tatoo a picture of my face, but prettier and
green, inside his chin where it tucked against
my neck. I ran my hands over his thready
jacket to see if the texture would be different on
each of my fingertips and grew afraid
of turning into one of those drug-softened girls,
that run around campments hugging everyone. “You’re
not hugging everyone, you’re hugging me.” ¶ 6:51 PM 0 comments
Breeding Fancy
I dreampt I used to know many years ago a beautiful
pink-haired boy who needed a name. I thought ‘Puck’ and
‘Mustardseed’ but those were already taken. His
hair was oink but for some reason I called him
Verdi. In retrospect it could not have been the right
name for him. It was perhaps the right name for
the dream, which I remember in mud-on-steel grays
and leathery blacks with bright deep splotches of
alcoholic green, glimmering in unsuspected places.
Sometimes in my dreams I am almost caught up
with him again. Sometimes I hear someone call my
name. More fool I, to fall in love with a specter,
I never dream the same people twice. And then I
remember as immediate as bloodcramps the web of
playa dust on his ears in the sunlight, or catching
the loop of his earrings between my teeth. I
remember kissing the taste of purple everclear in his
mouth and screwdriver under his tongue and his
hands grabbing at my denimed crotch as we hugged in
front of God and everyone. None of it, of course, ever
happened. Friday night, jealous, resentful, dizzy from lack of
food and sleep and wanting a cigarette I wandered
away from the tents to fall asleep by a bonfire
burning in the middle of the playa. And I dreampt
of the most enchanted children. I dreampt
the dream I always have, of the world removed
from everything and flooding under constant dust and
rain. There, as always, was the mud. And as
always in my dreams of after the world ends
there were three boys with whom I felt an immediate
companionship, kinship, connection, and why not. I’d
been dreaming them for years. There was, as always, the
violence, the inability to speak and all its frustration,
or even when speaking to communicate. I was slapping
and striking the prettiest boy as hard as I could,
enraged by his looks, but as in all my dreams there
was no force to my blows, or I could not feel
them at least, though the marks appeared by
magic on his face. And there were muddle conversations
of great significance and no sense. And of
course there was sex, but, as in all my dreams,
I can only remember a few stray scanty
details. I dreampt the most beautiful boy I’d ever
struck or kissed pushed me down and fucked me,
whispering in my ear, “I know you, too. I’m you.
I’m you.” I dreampt of things that are never
going to happen. I dreampt of two dis-houred
days with a boy I fell in love with because I
would never see him again. The sex is always less
important than you’d think. In dreams the sex is
always secondary. In the desert I saw a new race of
creatures evolve, with crystal skulls, the insides tattooed
with incredible scenes to hide their brains from
prying eyes. Boots and raincoats and cigarettes. A
sleeping bag of heavy canvas and a tent too cold to
sleep in. Strange drugs. People who wandered in and
out, intersecting on their own dream missions. Sometimes
I hear someone call my name, and grow confused; am I awake or
asleep. ¶ 6:48 PM 0 comments
pink-haired boy who needed a name. I thought ‘Puck’ and
‘Mustardseed’ but those were already taken. His
hair was oink but for some reason I called him
Verdi. In retrospect it could not have been the right
name for him. It was perhaps the right name for
the dream, which I remember in mud-on-steel grays
and leathery blacks with bright deep splotches of
alcoholic green, glimmering in unsuspected places.
Sometimes in my dreams I am almost caught up
with him again. Sometimes I hear someone call my
name. More fool I, to fall in love with a specter,
I never dream the same people twice. And then I
remember as immediate as bloodcramps the web of
playa dust on his ears in the sunlight, or catching
the loop of his earrings between my teeth. I
remember kissing the taste of purple everclear in his
mouth and screwdriver under his tongue and his
hands grabbing at my denimed crotch as we hugged in
front of God and everyone. None of it, of course, ever
happened. Friday night, jealous, resentful, dizzy from lack of
food and sleep and wanting a cigarette I wandered
away from the tents to fall asleep by a bonfire
burning in the middle of the playa. And I dreampt
of the most enchanted children. I dreampt
the dream I always have, of the world removed
from everything and flooding under constant dust and
rain. There, as always, was the mud. And as
always in my dreams of after the world ends
there were three boys with whom I felt an immediate
companionship, kinship, connection, and why not. I’d
been dreaming them for years. There was, as always, the
violence, the inability to speak and all its frustration,
or even when speaking to communicate. I was slapping
and striking the prettiest boy as hard as I could,
enraged by his looks, but as in all my dreams there
was no force to my blows, or I could not feel
them at least, though the marks appeared by
magic on his face. And there were muddle conversations
of great significance and no sense. And of
course there was sex, but, as in all my dreams,
I can only remember a few stray scanty
details. I dreampt the most beautiful boy I’d ever
struck or kissed pushed me down and fucked me,
whispering in my ear, “I know you, too. I’m you.
I’m you.” I dreampt of things that are never
going to happen. I dreampt of two dis-houred
days with a boy I fell in love with because I
would never see him again. The sex is always less
important than you’d think. In dreams the sex is
always secondary. In the desert I saw a new race of
creatures evolve, with crystal skulls, the insides tattooed
with incredible scenes to hide their brains from
prying eyes. Boots and raincoats and cigarettes. A
sleeping bag of heavy canvas and a tent too cold to
sleep in. Strange drugs. People who wandered in and
out, intersecting on their own dream missions. Sometimes
I hear someone call my name, and grow confused; am I awake or
asleep. ¶ 6:48 PM 0 comments
Universal Maze
I dreampt it rained and the water fell in my mouth and
slid down the back of my neck just beneath my shirt like a
high-school lover’s hand. All the people were walking in the
opposite direction I was going and their faces were smudged and
indefinite under the water. Raindrops gathered beneath the sparse
hairs on my head and formed tiny puddles on my scalp.
I entered a building, resisting the powerful temptation
to dogshake water all over the dry people sitting
around me. Eyes opened I was back in class in a
hard plastic chair and damp cotton t-shirt. ¶ 6:39 PM 0 comments
slid down the back of my neck just beneath my shirt like a
high-school lover’s hand. All the people were walking in the
opposite direction I was going and their faces were smudged and
indefinite under the water. Raindrops gathered beneath the sparse
hairs on my head and formed tiny puddles on my scalp.
I entered a building, resisting the powerful temptation
to dogshake water all over the dry people sitting
around me. Eyes opened I was back in class in a
hard plastic chair and damp cotton t-shirt. ¶ 6:39 PM 0 comments
Forever Doesn't Last as Long as It Used To
I have these dreams over and over again that I am
naked and lying/coupling with all these different
people, mainly women, not like we’re actually having sex
but just sort of lying against each other to see how
we fit....last night I dreampt about
a message, about something important I forgot to do, about
a missing piece to The Lord’s Prayer. I read old
letters from Alice, letters she signed “I will love
you forever.” Forever doesn’t last as long as it used to....
and that’s petty of me, because I know she
does still love me, but in a completely different
way. Sometimes I know I just really need to get
over it, and sometimes I think I’d give anything to
kiss her. I’m having my period, which doesn’t help,
makes me react emotionally to most everything. Damn
stupid hormones.
I fantasize about women and sleep with men,
god only knows what that’s about. And I like
men allright, I just....fuck, I don’t know. I like
men, but their bodes just don’t turn me on the
way women’s bodies do. Although of course there are
always glaring exceptions. Jay being pretty much it. I
don’t know. I’m tired. I’m lonely. I’m really
very lucky, just too bloody spoiled to appreciate it.
I’m failing a class in cannibalism and I have the audacity to
think I can be a bio. major. I just want to
learn. I keep feeling like crying, but then
when I try it doesn’t work. Andy, my roommate,
says I was horribly depressed most of last
year, and it got even much worse over the holidays.
I didn’t even realize it, I thought I was just
tired and overworked, which I was also. I asked
why no one told me and he was like - oh, you
can’t tell someone they’re depressed, you just have
to let them figure it out for themselves. So I
asked him if I still was depressed, but he wouldn’t
answer. I have a tendency to treat people like
oracles. I should try the tarrot cards
again. It’s been a year. ¶ 6:35 PM 0 comments
naked and lying/coupling with all these different
people, mainly women, not like we’re actually having sex
but just sort of lying against each other to see how
we fit....last night I dreampt about
a message, about something important I forgot to do, about
a missing piece to The Lord’s Prayer. I read old
letters from Alice, letters she signed “I will love
you forever.” Forever doesn’t last as long as it used to....
and that’s petty of me, because I know she
does still love me, but in a completely different
way. Sometimes I know I just really need to get
over it, and sometimes I think I’d give anything to
kiss her. I’m having my period, which doesn’t help,
makes me react emotionally to most everything. Damn
stupid hormones.
I fantasize about women and sleep with men,
god only knows what that’s about. And I like
men allright, I just....fuck, I don’t know. I like
men, but their bodes just don’t turn me on the
way women’s bodies do. Although of course there are
always glaring exceptions. Jay being pretty much it. I
don’t know. I’m tired. I’m lonely. I’m really
very lucky, just too bloody spoiled to appreciate it.
I’m failing a class in cannibalism and I have the audacity to
think I can be a bio. major. I just want to
learn. I keep feeling like crying, but then
when I try it doesn’t work. Andy, my roommate,
says I was horribly depressed most of last
year, and it got even much worse over the holidays.
I didn’t even realize it, I thought I was just
tired and overworked, which I was also. I asked
why no one told me and he was like - oh, you
can’t tell someone they’re depressed, you just have
to let them figure it out for themselves. So I
asked him if I still was depressed, but he wouldn’t
answer. I have a tendency to treat people like
oracles. I should try the tarrot cards
again. It’s been a year. ¶ 6:35 PM 0 comments
11/14/2005
Tired or Afraid or What
Taz complains/comments lately often how I
frequently don’t want to think about things
anymore. I answer “I don’t know....I
don’t know” to most of his questions and if
he continues I tell him I don’t want to think
about it. And, as Taz frequently points out
(lately) he likes people who think
about things. But more and more I find
myself wanting not to have to think about
anything at all. Did I do so much thinking
in college that my brain is shortly
burned out? Am I falling back into my
mind? I’m not hallucinating or anything.
Perhaps I am afraid of something. Of
finding something? It seems like I ought to
think about something. But lately everything I
fantasize about is not thinking. Lying in
someone’s arms – not thinking. Messing around
in bed – not thinking. Getting whipped until
I cried—the pain keeps me from thinking.
Am I tired or afraid or what? ¶ 6:05 PM 0 comments
frequently don’t want to think about things
anymore. I answer “I don’t know....I
don’t know” to most of his questions and if
he continues I tell him I don’t want to think
about it. And, as Taz frequently points out
(lately) he likes people who think
about things. But more and more I find
myself wanting not to have to think about
anything at all. Did I do so much thinking
in college that my brain is shortly
burned out? Am I falling back into my
mind? I’m not hallucinating or anything.
Perhaps I am afraid of something. Of
finding something? It seems like I ought to
think about something. But lately everything I
fantasize about is not thinking. Lying in
someone’s arms – not thinking. Messing around
in bed – not thinking. Getting whipped until
I cried—the pain keeps me from thinking.
Am I tired or afraid or what? ¶ 6:05 PM 0 comments
Maritime Morning
I opened my eyes this maritime morning to find
everyone I’ve ever loved standing in a wordless semi-circle
glaring accusations around my bed. Repentance came
early this year, I tried to think of appropriate
excuses, apologies. None came to mind. My favorite
part of falling in love is missing them afterwards,
during those weeks or months or occasionally years
when everything they ever did or said is amber preserved
as the highest example of man. When I know
everything unpleasant to have been absolutely my
fault. I love falling in love with people I’ll
never meet, people who will never know my name.
Paramours in an unfamiliar language. The faces
around my bed showed signs of fading. I weighed
the pros and cons of fears vs. tears. New Year, new lovers,
new faces superimposed above the old. Hair a little
shorter, skin a little paler, piercings in different
locations. Everyone I love will be the same. ¶ 6:01 PM 0 comments
everyone I’ve ever loved standing in a wordless semi-circle
glaring accusations around my bed. Repentance came
early this year, I tried to think of appropriate
excuses, apologies. None came to mind. My favorite
part of falling in love is missing them afterwards,
during those weeks or months or occasionally years
when everything they ever did or said is amber preserved
as the highest example of man. When I know
everything unpleasant to have been absolutely my
fault. I love falling in love with people I’ll
never meet, people who will never know my name.
Paramours in an unfamiliar language. The faces
around my bed showed signs of fading. I weighed
the pros and cons of fears vs. tears. New Year, new lovers,
new faces superimposed above the old. Hair a little
shorter, skin a little paler, piercings in different
locations. Everyone I love will be the same. ¶ 6:01 PM 0 comments
No Pennies for Charon
The wet is sticky. The water is glass and hair. The fluids are not. The ropes are conduits; the trees are steel and rust. The flowers are silver-stemmed and biteful, their petals waxy parasites. The leaves are mercury? The liquids seem quite often hollow and dense; maple syrup and silicone, glycerin and grease. Instead of soda there is Napalm in a Can. I think I woke up here from a nap....could only have been dozing while the journey began for I remember the feeling of being in a boat. Asea. My blankets turned into a small pod, half-kayak half-cocoon and I didn’t put up much fight. The ocean was made of shag and I felt its spray in my face, hissing in my hair. There were matches in my pockets but no salt; there is only sugar here.
¶ 5:53 PM 0 comments
Neanderthals after Dark
01.29.2005
09.29.2003
4:44 am (computer time)
I've noticed things sound louder in the dark and also late at night, especially when others are sleeping. It is as though just knowing that others are asleep triggers some sort of involuntary empathy of sound scale in our ears. And most people seem to sleep through those sounds the waking shudder at just enough to keep the whole thing grossly unpredictable. Which is not a bad way to sum up humans as a species, actually: humans as a species are grossly unpredictable, and perhaps that is why they are so fascinated with the possibility of prediction, of fortune-telling and odds-laying and advice of all sorts. This seems important somehow, this theme. Even religion is to a large part concerned with predictions, Christianity especially it seems, though that may just be my own experiential bias showing again. But anyways, on some level it’s thoroughly absurd, the whole history of the predictions business, because mostly it seems concerned with predicting what people will do, so that other people will not be caught totally unawares. That's really odd; no other species does that. No other species is so inherently unpredictable that it has spent thousands of years trying and failing to guess what its own members will do. It hardly seems possible for such a condition to develop that far, it seems like it would lead to extinction, or rather that the circumstances in which total unpredictability occurred would inevitably lead to species
evolving beyond recognition in response or quickly dying out, or both.
Perhaps that is how people came to be. Perhaps the Neanderthals
were human-bodied but instinct-minded, responding to and interacting
with their environment in ways that had been shaped by evolution over
generations, ways that would require hundreds or thousands of years
to substantially change, ways that were relatively uniform from
one Neanderthal to another, and thus ways that were utterly
predictable and exploitable, should any creature exist that could
pattern-identify them this way. And that is, after all, how humans
managed to get through the Stone-age and ice-age and all, right,
by noting the predictable behavior patterns of other animals, i.e.
the mammoth will run from fire and unexpected noise, all mammoth
will, thus any particular mammoth will, and exploiting them--
we will surprise that mammoth with fire and noise and
it will run from them into the pit, or over the cliff, or
the range of our spears, and so on. And these things
will be accrued enough that the mammoth cannot evolve defenses
against them, because evolution is a long-term
response to long-term conditions. yeah,
the Neanderthals wouldn't have ad a chance. Not under those
premises, anyways. Probably all nonsense but an interesting way to
think, and perhaps logic-worthy -- it feels consistent anyway. ¶ 5:30 PM 0 comments
09.29.2003
4:44 am (computer time)
I've noticed things sound louder in the dark and also late at night, especially when others are sleeping. It is as though just knowing that others are asleep triggers some sort of involuntary empathy of sound scale in our ears. And most people seem to sleep through those sounds the waking shudder at just enough to keep the whole thing grossly unpredictable. Which is not a bad way to sum up humans as a species, actually: humans as a species are grossly unpredictable, and perhaps that is why they are so fascinated with the possibility of prediction, of fortune-telling and odds-laying and advice of all sorts. This seems important somehow, this theme. Even religion is to a large part concerned with predictions, Christianity especially it seems, though that may just be my own experiential bias showing again. But anyways, on some level it’s thoroughly absurd, the whole history of the predictions business, because mostly it seems concerned with predicting what people will do, so that other people will not be caught totally unawares. That's really odd; no other species does that. No other species is so inherently unpredictable that it has spent thousands of years trying and failing to guess what its own members will do. It hardly seems possible for such a condition to develop that far, it seems like it would lead to extinction, or rather that the circumstances in which total unpredictability occurred would inevitably lead to species
evolving beyond recognition in response or quickly dying out, or both.
Perhaps that is how people came to be. Perhaps the Neanderthals
were human-bodied but instinct-minded, responding to and interacting
with their environment in ways that had been shaped by evolution over
generations, ways that would require hundreds or thousands of years
to substantially change, ways that were relatively uniform from
one Neanderthal to another, and thus ways that were utterly
predictable and exploitable, should any creature exist that could
pattern-identify them this way. And that is, after all, how humans
managed to get through the Stone-age and ice-age and all, right,
by noting the predictable behavior patterns of other animals, i.e.
the mammoth will run from fire and unexpected noise, all mammoth
will, thus any particular mammoth will, and exploiting them--
we will surprise that mammoth with fire and noise and
it will run from them into the pit, or over the cliff, or
the range of our spears, and so on. And these things
will be accrued enough that the mammoth cannot evolve defenses
against them, because evolution is a long-term
response to long-term conditions. yeah,
the Neanderthals wouldn't have ad a chance. Not under those
premises, anyways. Probably all nonsense but an interesting way to
think, and perhaps logic-worthy -- it feels consistent anyway. ¶ 5:30 PM 0 comments
11/12/2005
Past Perfect
Recast your past in the stories of friends of friends, guide and consent as if your life depended on perfecting theirs. Perhaps this is why priests are required celibacy. So that every confession can be met with the blank neutral silence of one who has not been there before you.
¶ 9:24 PM 0 comments
Tongueing Pills
Last night all the pills in the bottle sang to me and the years ahead were silent. Sylvestry the bear and I made our way downstairs and filled our mouths with Nyquil and bowls of chicken-noodle-soup before anything worse could get in.
¶ 9:18 PM 0 comments
I Woke Up Here
In an elaborate office building with multiple levels of swimming pools, workout rooms, miles of poshly carpeted hallways, rats and spiders. I worked pricing and mending Victoria's Secret underwear in a sweatshop just under the roof. The eaves leaked and we had to get dressed up to get dusty and dripped on.
In an elevator with Alice and a random white boy who was kissing the place between her breasts and she was so skinny I could see the ripples of bone poking through and it terrified me--the boy was trying to suck away her flesh but I did not look away. ¶ 9:02 PM 0 comments
In an elevator with Alice and a random white boy who was kissing the place between her breasts and she was so skinny I could see the ripples of bone poking through and it terrified me--the boy was trying to suck away her flesh but I did not look away. ¶ 9:02 PM 0 comments
11/01/2005
How I Disappeared
Once upon a time, a long time ago,
someone told me that if you make a wish on
the first star you see on the first night of
summer it will come true.
On the first night of summer I began
scanning the sky for stars at 4:00 in the
afternoon.
We ate dinner at a splintery picnic
table; charred steaks and wiltleafed garden lettuce
that we'd managed to salvage from the rabbits.
I spilled raw corn down my open throat
and scanned the sky for stars.
I lay on the grass and an ant
bit my toe and I watched for the star.
[switch places with following paragraph [sic]]
My sister and some friends started playing
a delightful combination of hide-and-seek and
firefly catching.
When the first star finally came out I
almost forgot to breathe. And I wished to
be invisible. And I ran inside up the
ratty brown stairs to my room and no one said a
word to me.
I looked in the mirror and no one
looked back. I forgot to ask to be
invisible to others. ¶ 12:44 AM 0 comments
someone told me that if you make a wish on
the first star you see on the first night of
summer it will come true.
On the first night of summer I began
scanning the sky for stars at 4:00 in the
afternoon.
We ate dinner at a splintery picnic
table; charred steaks and wiltleafed garden lettuce
that we'd managed to salvage from the rabbits.
I spilled raw corn down my open throat
and scanned the sky for stars.
I lay on the grass and an ant
bit my toe and I watched for the star.
[switch places with following paragraph [sic]]
My sister and some friends started playing
a delightful combination of hide-and-seek and
firefly catching.
When the first star finally came out I
almost forgot to breathe. And I wished to
be invisible. And I ran inside up the
ratty brown stairs to my room and no one said a
word to me.
I looked in the mirror and no one
looked back. I forgot to ask to be
invisible to others. ¶ 12:44 AM 0 comments
Bedstained Sheets Remind Me
Bed-stained sheets -- menstruation that never occurs on time. Mattress pad shifting half off the side, I dream I am sleeping on a hill. Too small at night my right leg smacks your sleeping knee, my left the wall, loudly but you only mumble and drop your pillow. What is it like to will yourself too sleep? I've tried everything but voudoun blood sacrifices for the kind of thick dreamless rest you lie wrapped in, thick as felt. The noises of a house at night jar my breathing. I don't sleep. I don't sleep. I lie awake through jazz recordings and radio re-broadcasts and try to drown myself in peachish bubble-baths and old novels. What am I going to do without you here to remind me?
¶ 12:31 AM 0 comments
