in shade under the sheet there was an elephant the size of an elephant but smaller, about the size of a dog, but very grey and smooth and moving as if out of cartilage in every direction, perhaps because one day i said that instead of stars, i see elephants when i fall, dancing. sometimes lights. sometimes a field of flowers.
this elephant is aquatic.
trans-pacific transit, tatuaje y todo lo demás
26.12.05
15.12.05
close the door on light already
so there are many theories of the body. there is the statue, the monument the smooth exterior and the solid or hollow interior rooted there in the rock. the statue with the orifice of eternal slide, like in porn. the body of the mother young, bouyant and forgiving and made for nightgowns. the body of the mother old, only the arms still moving always with a purpose, and converting, everything, into piece of furniture.
then there is this image that i have of the bodies as a drinking glass made by some italian design company with little lacy holes cut out of the rim that render it slightly less than functional. pretty, until you curse its fragility, difficulty to clean and tendency to drip water everywhere and eventually its shattered and you replace it with a pint glass painted with a football helmet from a northern gas station that serves as faithfully as a labrador retriever. but this is not the body, it is a drinking glass.
the body like a drinking glass with holes: i just blew my nose and snotted all over fucking everything. sorry next set of grubby fingers that finds this computer! hope you wash your hands!
the body like a drinking glass with holes: my stomach is set to permanent liquify
the body like a drinking glass with holes: statistically, more strangers shake hands than fuck, so fucking is more intimate than shaking hands. except maybe in holland more strangers fuck than shake hands. how intimate is it if i keep thinking the entire time we are having sex like i am studying for an exam?
the body like a drinking glass with holes set to drain:
so he
says something about it being 115 and being back at 140
but i think i was in the shower at four and we were eating paella and drinking a bottle of rioja at five thirty talking about the mythology of the spanish heroin problem and what is now happening with cocaine and how the dying dictatorship used to let it all in through bilbao, to quell the radicals, and now there´s nothing because so many people died etc and then he went to practice and i walked toward home and thought about the things that i had not done today or yesterday like buy a black shirt and apron for catering tomorrow and wasn´t going to do because it was already late and bought a bar of almond cream candy, and walked for the next 2 3 hours. took my shot of coffee.
and now i am here
when i was walking. i was thinking of
memory. as a question of success or failure. in terms of loss
per usual
specificity of memories i have regarding food
neti pots
next.
i was sort of attempting to find the building where this apartment i was in once was, on the ground floor, lived in by an equally, if not more beautiful friend of edinburgo boy, with an equally, if not more beautiful siberian dog.
did not succeed with talking i can hear myself always making the same mistakes, ending verbs in between tenses so it can be neither here nor there, nodding when i misunderstand, and then being caught off guard when somebody actually stops to explain case in point:
special word for hotels in old monasteries.
comparing friends to types of fish.
exploding property values. how two years ago, if had arrived with twenty grand from japan, i couldda bought a beautiful three hundred year old apartment, with a relatively tiny mortgage, and
now well no.
there was a lanky spanish salary man who looked me up and down. one hand briefcase, the other hand joint, pants ever so slightly too short. we were walking together four blocks, in the border between neighborhoods. a rather long time to be together. he keeps looking at me, tosses the joint nervously and crosses paths with a boy of about fourteen, whom he paternally slaps on the back with the briefcase. still looking back at me.
yes maria, just picking jose up from school.
aisheteru wa because
i´m a girl i remember you telling me there was no way to say i love you in japanese.
and then learning that this was not the case frighteningly quickly
then there is this image that i have of the bodies as a drinking glass made by some italian design company with little lacy holes cut out of the rim that render it slightly less than functional. pretty, until you curse its fragility, difficulty to clean and tendency to drip water everywhere and eventually its shattered and you replace it with a pint glass painted with a football helmet from a northern gas station that serves as faithfully as a labrador retriever. but this is not the body, it is a drinking glass.
the body like a drinking glass with holes: i just blew my nose and snotted all over fucking everything. sorry next set of grubby fingers that finds this computer! hope you wash your hands!
the body like a drinking glass with holes: my stomach is set to permanent liquify
the body like a drinking glass with holes: statistically, more strangers shake hands than fuck, so fucking is more intimate than shaking hands. except maybe in holland more strangers fuck than shake hands. how intimate is it if i keep thinking the entire time we are having sex like i am studying for an exam?
the body like a drinking glass with holes set to drain:
so he
says something about it being 115 and being back at 140
but i think i was in the shower at four and we were eating paella and drinking a bottle of rioja at five thirty talking about the mythology of the spanish heroin problem and what is now happening with cocaine and how the dying dictatorship used to let it all in through bilbao, to quell the radicals, and now there´s nothing because so many people died etc and then he went to practice and i walked toward home and thought about the things that i had not done today or yesterday like buy a black shirt and apron for catering tomorrow and wasn´t going to do because it was already late and bought a bar of almond cream candy, and walked for the next 2 3 hours. took my shot of coffee.
and now i am here
when i was walking. i was thinking of
memory. as a question of success or failure. in terms of loss
per usual
specificity of memories i have regarding food
neti pots
next.
i was sort of attempting to find the building where this apartment i was in once was, on the ground floor, lived in by an equally, if not more beautiful friend of edinburgo boy, with an equally, if not more beautiful siberian dog.
did not succeed with talking i can hear myself always making the same mistakes, ending verbs in between tenses so it can be neither here nor there, nodding when i misunderstand, and then being caught off guard when somebody actually stops to explain case in point:
special word for hotels in old monasteries.
comparing friends to types of fish.
exploding property values. how two years ago, if had arrived with twenty grand from japan, i couldda bought a beautiful three hundred year old apartment, with a relatively tiny mortgage, and
now well no.
there was a lanky spanish salary man who looked me up and down. one hand briefcase, the other hand joint, pants ever so slightly too short. we were walking together four blocks, in the border between neighborhoods. a rather long time to be together. he keeps looking at me, tosses the joint nervously and crosses paths with a boy of about fourteen, whom he paternally slaps on the back with the briefcase. still looking back at me.
yes maria, just picking jose up from school.
aisheteru wa because
i´m a girl i remember you telling me there was no way to say i love you in japanese.
and then learning that this was not the case frighteningly quickly
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