1.30.2010
Death
I finally feel alive, which is why all I can think about anymore is dying. I almost didn't leave the house because my postcard of that eerie self-portrait of Edvard Munch fell off the wall and was sitting on my bed, staring at me. I don't want to drive because of that dream one of my exes had about me dying in a horrible car crash, my bracelets melting into my skin, my body twisted and crumpled. I'm beginning to realize how easily a bullet passes through a skull, cracking like an eggshell, gliding through the brain like the electrical jelly that it is. I've finally got so many things to live for: writing and reading and eating banana crepes with my roommates with the sun streaming in through all the windows of our fucking beautiful house, falling asleep to your voice and having it sink into my psyche. Everything's so amazing, why do I have to feel like death is all around me now?
1.16.2010
The Fog
When we got out of the concert, the fog had descended over Kansas City. The parking lot lamps were well-defined, sharp-edged spotlights and we were the stars of running across the black ice and hopping into my freezing cold car. I had been yawning all night, and when the last band came on and the whole building started shuttering with their alt. rock mediocrity, we both understood it was time to go. Even if you did have to write a review for the newspaper.
At first everything was purpley-red - or maybe red purple, I could never tell the difference between those two crayons. “Maybe the whole planet was swallowed by something while we were in the concert. It feels like we’re in the bowels of the beast.” Very Jonah and the Whale, very Pinocchio, but let’s not mix metaphors, although they all seem a little appropriate; I’ve been feeling pretty lost lately, although things are beginning to get a little clear. Write a creative thesis, get an MFA, become a bestselling author and live in a well-maintained turn of the century house.
The fog comes in waves wisping over the windshield. We discuss the merits of the almost forgettable final scene in Men In Black where the galaxy is part of a game of marbles. We feel small – we are small. And then we’re alone on the road and the fog is swallowing us up completely. The red has turned into smoky grey, and I can only see two dashes ahead on the road. All the cars disappear for a while.
It feels like we’re on a bridge! I feel like I might fall off! It’s just like Banshee Boardwalk. Except the giant fishes arching overhead are the eerie floating lights of cars unsupported by bridges, even unsupported by cars.
I begin to freak out, but you’re in love with it all, and if I weren’t too busy being responsible, maybe I could see all the beauty, too. Which I guess is sort of our story, which I guess is why we couldn’t live with each other for a while. And then once you were gone, it was just me in the house alone with my bitterness, and that’s when I knew it was always my fault.
We reached the toll plaza, which floated out of fog in mere seconds – nothing, and then something, with chips and cracks and grooves and dents. Beyond, a curtain of satin gold cast down from the yellowed highway lights. And beyond that ...? I roll down the window for the toll, and then keep it down with my arm out and drive through the low-lying clouds. It feels like the perfect cold, velvety with wetness. And we smile and laugh with our arms out, and for a second it’s clear - there’s still hope for all of it yet.
At first everything was purpley-red - or maybe red purple, I could never tell the difference between those two crayons. “Maybe the whole planet was swallowed by something while we were in the concert. It feels like we’re in the bowels of the beast.” Very Jonah and the Whale, very Pinocchio, but let’s not mix metaphors, although they all seem a little appropriate; I’ve been feeling pretty lost lately, although things are beginning to get a little clear. Write a creative thesis, get an MFA, become a bestselling author and live in a well-maintained turn of the century house.
The fog comes in waves wisping over the windshield. We discuss the merits of the almost forgettable final scene in Men In Black where the galaxy is part of a game of marbles. We feel small – we are small. And then we’re alone on the road and the fog is swallowing us up completely. The red has turned into smoky grey, and I can only see two dashes ahead on the road. All the cars disappear for a while.
It feels like we’re on a bridge! I feel like I might fall off! It’s just like Banshee Boardwalk. Except the giant fishes arching overhead are the eerie floating lights of cars unsupported by bridges, even unsupported by cars.
I begin to freak out, but you’re in love with it all, and if I weren’t too busy being responsible, maybe I could see all the beauty, too. Which I guess is sort of our story, which I guess is why we couldn’t live with each other for a while. And then once you were gone, it was just me in the house alone with my bitterness, and that’s when I knew it was always my fault.
We reached the toll plaza, which floated out of fog in mere seconds – nothing, and then something, with chips and cracks and grooves and dents. Beyond, a curtain of satin gold cast down from the yellowed highway lights. And beyond that ...? I roll down the window for the toll, and then keep it down with my arm out and drive through the low-lying clouds. It feels like the perfect cold, velvety with wetness. And we smile and laugh with our arms out, and for a second it’s clear - there’s still hope for all of it yet.
1.08.2010
Flying's a miracle; try not to crash
I’m a terrible writer. The more I read about the processes of other essayists the more I realize I’m not cut out for it: I don’t have the memory and I don’t like to lie. I can’t remember the details well enough to tell even the stories that mean the most to me.
What was it that you said when we were sitting in front of Luncheon of the Boating Party? And I said “Who would go to Georgetown?” and you said “Touché,” which is one of the best-suited words for you. I can’t remember what you said, and I hate it when people forget the joke and remember the punch line. And we laughed because you hate Georgetown and I hate the dog woman, and neither of us really wants to believe that beautiful things are so rotten inside.
There’s not enough time, for Man Ray and African art, for you to be sullen or me to be withholding and not sit back down on the couch. There’s not enough time to wait another 3 years or another decade, but there’s not enough time to worry about it, either. The future is so bright! We could die tomorrow! We’re so free!
On the plane I’m sitting here trying not to crash, but all I can think about is how you said flying’s a miracle. I didn’t expect you to believe in miracles; I don’t, but when the plane shakes, I close my eyes like I do when you kiss me, and I’m not afraid.
What was it that you said when we were sitting in front of Luncheon of the Boating Party? And I said “Who would go to Georgetown?” and you said “Touché,” which is one of the best-suited words for you. I can’t remember what you said, and I hate it when people forget the joke and remember the punch line. And we laughed because you hate Georgetown and I hate the dog woman, and neither of us really wants to believe that beautiful things are so rotten inside.
There’s not enough time, for Man Ray and African art, for you to be sullen or me to be withholding and not sit back down on the couch. There’s not enough time to wait another 3 years or another decade, but there’s not enough time to worry about it, either. The future is so bright! We could die tomorrow! We’re so free!
On the plane I’m sitting here trying not to crash, but all I can think about is how you said flying’s a miracle. I didn’t expect you to believe in miracles; I don’t, but when the plane shakes, I close my eyes like I do when you kiss me, and I’m not afraid.
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