Good morning says the turtle. He says quietly taking off the shell. How to explain such a long gap and so much cold.
If life was a canyon, we would have fallen longer ago than our memories, but I don’t remember anything about that.
What shrines have we collecting and dissecting:
We have one drawing composed of four abstract pen lined sheets of paper sewn together tinted painted and adorned in every sense
In every technique possible at the same time
In a fiendish desire to make a story, to always look towards something finished. Sweet even.
A cell, open inside its walls.
Encapsulating, pain is a flower.
Like this one, and that one and that one.
But small, hole, and polished. Yes forget me, screaming towards rebirth.
How they come together:
There once was a ghost, half lion and half spider. He spun a web, I fell in. In a tower, in the corner. Along came the wind, witch, wicked and unsparing and swept it all away. Before it ever began, over and over again. On the beach. Morality and mortality. Nudity amongst the bathers, nipple colored glasses in the sand.
Nights of sleeping nothing in the golden light of streetlamps
And waking up once again, days later beneath a pessimistic swan, cloaked in cast off sails unsure of the year. As if every moment had been the same had always been the same for much time or rather every moment constituted its own static reality disjunct from its neighbors, just as your neighbor could be your constant companion, were you to whittle away a small hole in between the floors. A hole is far more intimate than a window. The gradual realization that one is an alien, that one, like everyone, is a complete stranger from every other, the more intense the realization, the more specialized the construction of windows and attempts, to export ones own personal little world to the world at large. Architects, for example, are not like the rest of us.
trans-pacific transit, tatuaje y todo lo demás
26.2.07
11.6.06
13 thoughts
The house smells like burning, the first job of a housewife is not to burn the house down. I walk in and nothing is burning in my house. Today, mild success.
I still think of him in terms of termination, I think, take, I want him to leave himself permanently except for when I need to iron his shirts or wash his dishes, I want him to leave all his desperation in my body with a gesture of quietly explosive resignation so I can do something useful with it like make a baby, I want the table to always be in front of the window, I don't need to talk.
I feel this way because he no longer exists, perhaps never did, except in memory. Doesn't every woman want to give birth autonomously, to an invisible father, all-powerful but contained within the limits of untouchable reaches of the mind.
I think of him whether the window is open or closed, but I think of him with more intensity if there is a breeze floating across my skin.
Our washing machine is Italian, it is compact and always gets stuck mid-cycle. It has a metal basin with a plastic lock, all the wet clothes settle to one side and if any water stays, it sends a charge through all the clothes and you reach in and it electrifies your whole arm until you discharge by tremulously touching something metal which reaches to the ground.
The quietest moments must be dredged up from the loudest.
The window blocks all the light when the shutter is drawn. It could stay drawn for ever, I could lie in this bed forever, I am still lying in this bed if I shut my eyes in another bed with another person and that's it, there were no details in his apartment, apart from the architecture, so it is very easy to remember: Enter, ante room with floor-length window, floor-length mirror across, one chair one table one metal square ashtray, fleur-de-lis stone tile, two glass doors to the bedroom, which contained, a bed, a shelf, and one white block of wood with indecipherable numbers directing an unknown person to its position in an unknown building, which is not the building it is in now.
We sit on the bed, an indeterminate period away from sleep which is not still grasping the sensations of waking.
If you thought this was building towards a conclusion, you're wrong: I can say that the light comes through the window, that light is light the same way realtors think beige is beige, the light doesn't change but how it reflects does. I remember the same things every day in a different order, I enjoy feeling that reality just touches me lightly on the shoulder. It could ask me to dance if it wanted; but I just told it to sit down and do another line, I just told it that speaking was equivalent to not, possibly the unsaid is richer.
I don't hear voices from the salon in my bedroom, nor do I hear the door open into the apartment when I am seated in the salon. When people sing in French, I don't hear words because I don't know French. I hear singing. I hear the baby crying in my room, the people fucking upstairs in his room and the man snoring in his room and the children shouting across the courtyard in the salon. The overheard from the other apartments mandates a certain course of action in the apartment. In my room I cough and sleep and wake and it is always cool and dark and empty and preverbal; in his room we always have sex whether we continue reading or talking or doing whatever it is we were doing. In the kitchen I always think how I would like to stay and how the calendar on the wall is as dishonest as a tabloid because i am doing dishes and watching a pot of something simmering and this activity is without time, and in the salon I am waiting for someone to come home and make noise again, because the quiet is so pregnant.
I want desire without expectation but this is impossible.
I still think of him in terms of termination, I think, take, I want him to leave himself permanently except for when I need to iron his shirts or wash his dishes, I want him to leave all his desperation in my body with a gesture of quietly explosive resignation so I can do something useful with it like make a baby, I want the table to always be in front of the window, I don't need to talk.
I feel this way because he no longer exists, perhaps never did, except in memory. Doesn't every woman want to give birth autonomously, to an invisible father, all-powerful but contained within the limits of untouchable reaches of the mind.
I think of him whether the window is open or closed, but I think of him with more intensity if there is a breeze floating across my skin.
Our washing machine is Italian, it is compact and always gets stuck mid-cycle. It has a metal basin with a plastic lock, all the wet clothes settle to one side and if any water stays, it sends a charge through all the clothes and you reach in and it electrifies your whole arm until you discharge by tremulously touching something metal which reaches to the ground.
The quietest moments must be dredged up from the loudest.
The window blocks all the light when the shutter is drawn. It could stay drawn for ever, I could lie in this bed forever, I am still lying in this bed if I shut my eyes in another bed with another person and that's it, there were no details in his apartment, apart from the architecture, so it is very easy to remember: Enter, ante room with floor-length window, floor-length mirror across, one chair one table one metal square ashtray, fleur-de-lis stone tile, two glass doors to the bedroom, which contained, a bed, a shelf, and one white block of wood with indecipherable numbers directing an unknown person to its position in an unknown building, which is not the building it is in now.
We sit on the bed, an indeterminate period away from sleep which is not still grasping the sensations of waking.
If you thought this was building towards a conclusion, you're wrong: I can say that the light comes through the window, that light is light the same way realtors think beige is beige, the light doesn't change but how it reflects does. I remember the same things every day in a different order, I enjoy feeling that reality just touches me lightly on the shoulder. It could ask me to dance if it wanted; but I just told it to sit down and do another line, I just told it that speaking was equivalent to not, possibly the unsaid is richer.
I don't hear voices from the salon in my bedroom, nor do I hear the door open into the apartment when I am seated in the salon. When people sing in French, I don't hear words because I don't know French. I hear singing. I hear the baby crying in my room, the people fucking upstairs in his room and the man snoring in his room and the children shouting across the courtyard in the salon. The overheard from the other apartments mandates a certain course of action in the apartment. In my room I cough and sleep and wake and it is always cool and dark and empty and preverbal; in his room we always have sex whether we continue reading or talking or doing whatever it is we were doing. In the kitchen I always think how I would like to stay and how the calendar on the wall is as dishonest as a tabloid because i am doing dishes and watching a pot of something simmering and this activity is without time, and in the salon I am waiting for someone to come home and make noise again, because the quiet is so pregnant.
I want desire without expectation but this is impossible.
sweeping
for those of you learning romance languages: in the case of a compound word composed of two nouns, the gender follows that of the first noun, becasue the second is considered to be a modifier of the first simultaneous with its role of noun.
so like, el sofa-cama, or la mesa-arbol, or el arbol-mesa...
the next question for this is when you have a compound which is spondeic both in form, and metaphorically- like for example, blue-green,or arbol-mesa, what do you call it?
what does it matter?
why does this seem to me me to be of trancendental importance and amusement at three in the morning?
why can´t i sleep when i want to. i come home at five or six this weekend, clean as a whistle, un drunk, and i run around the house for two hours clearing the table, hanging the wash, emptying ashtrays and sweeping
because i am too nervous to sleep
because my brow is permanently
I do know that the first peaches of the season here are beautiful to look at, pale, tiny as golfballs or Lolita tits, but they are mealy and over-sweet; nothing luscious or slippery or acidic, unlike mangoes.
If I knew French.
I also know that translating the gender of death from a romance language is a terrible affectation, and that gender is not so conceptual as we would like, making peach, for example, masculine, which makes for a society which allows for homosexuality.
The man in short shorts at the bar has his paisley shirt casually unbuttoned, the fat around his knees is like a woman's, but not any woman's, most likely, it is very similar to the fat around his mother's knees. In same way I have my father's legs and wouldn't fall off a horse and could carry big baskets of potatoes. In this way our bodies are both witness to and bearer of histories which pertain to us but are not ours.
I spend the last week without company, without work. The lack of continuity amazes me, sometimes washing dishes takes on a metaphysical ahistoricity, sometimes it doesn't. I drink coffee and it puts me to sleep, I nap with all the windows open in the apartment between the two courtyard which allows the sound to bounce in and out until I wake, convinced that someone has opened our door and is about to catch me sleeping. I steep cherries in lavender and cardomom, gratuitously perfect and yet I still want to smoke.
I wait. I sweep.
I still want to smoke even though my throat hurts and my breath tells me I smoke too much and I cough and I want the time to pass faster or slower but please, less like water and more like scaffolding or wood or fabric, or something with its own form which is immutable and impenetrable, something masculine, paternal and foreboding. But it soesn't pass like that it remains, open soft flexible and warm, slowly suffocating, incomprehensible.
so like, el sofa-cama, or la mesa-arbol, or el arbol-mesa...
the next question for this is when you have a compound which is spondeic both in form, and metaphorically- like for example, blue-green,or arbol-mesa, what do you call it?
what does it matter?
why does this seem to me me to be of trancendental importance and amusement at three in the morning?
why can´t i sleep when i want to. i come home at five or six this weekend, clean as a whistle, un drunk, and i run around the house for two hours clearing the table, hanging the wash, emptying ashtrays and sweeping
because i am too nervous to sleep
because my brow is permanently
I do know that the first peaches of the season here are beautiful to look at, pale, tiny as golfballs or Lolita tits, but they are mealy and over-sweet; nothing luscious or slippery or acidic, unlike mangoes.
If I knew French.
I also know that translating the gender of death from a romance language is a terrible affectation, and that gender is not so conceptual as we would like, making peach, for example, masculine, which makes for a society which allows for homosexuality.
The man in short shorts at the bar has his paisley shirt casually unbuttoned, the fat around his knees is like a woman's, but not any woman's, most likely, it is very similar to the fat around his mother's knees. In same way I have my father's legs and wouldn't fall off a horse and could carry big baskets of potatoes. In this way our bodies are both witness to and bearer of histories which pertain to us but are not ours.
I spend the last week without company, without work. The lack of continuity amazes me, sometimes washing dishes takes on a metaphysical ahistoricity, sometimes it doesn't. I drink coffee and it puts me to sleep, I nap with all the windows open in the apartment between the two courtyard which allows the sound to bounce in and out until I wake, convinced that someone has opened our door and is about to catch me sleeping. I steep cherries in lavender and cardomom, gratuitously perfect and yet I still want to smoke.
I wait. I sweep.
I still want to smoke even though my throat hurts and my breath tells me I smoke too much and I cough and I want the time to pass faster or slower but please, less like water and more like scaffolding or wood or fabric, or something with its own form which is immutable and impenetrable, something masculine, paternal and foreboding. But it soesn't pass like that it remains, open soft flexible and warm, slowly suffocating, incomprehensible.
31.3.06
26.3.06
pockets
wow. nothing pushes the permanent liquid stomach button like the loss of money and dehli food. so i am becoming a friend to the attendents of the ladies', for a few rupees each deposit they push wads of toilet paper in my hands after i wash them, and don't curse me.
the door has a card queen on it, for women. you could say the queen on a deck of cards, as its traditionally drawn, is almost wearing a hijab. why do we call them hijabs, instead of say, wimples? right. because we forget that constant head cover only passed about seventy years ago. these ladies are friendlier and cleaner than those who greeted me in arrivals 2 months ago, or maybe we are just becoming more familiar with eachother. one of them is absolutely beautiful, the other is typically older and roly poly, and atypically spotted with that depigmentation disease, leaving her arms mottled and her paunch the same color as my mountain blonde grandmother's. she is readjusting her sari one of the times i go in; i have several, and the petticoat, and the choli, but noone has shown me how to put one on, so i stand there transfixed as she tucks and folds and shakes and tucks. another woman exits the latrine and rearranges her sari in front of the mirror, working right to left to lift the fold from the middle and into the security of the petticoat, in a process which herhaps most closely resembles the way that japanese schoolgirls fold and tuck their uniform skirts into micro minis and hide the excess beneath their oversized sailor midi blouses. a stewardess for india airlines asks me almost confrontationally, why i am watching, and i explain, perhaps over enthusiatically, that i have some saris but that i haven't the faintest idea how to wear them, and i had tried to arrange them several times and found myself tangled in all six meters of silk etc, and unlike in japan, i don't have the luxury of someone's mother wrapping me tight into a kimono, because here i'm a tourist, not a potential bride, and she dutifully translated, perhaps not convinced that i was just not staring because i was impolite.
i am trying not to eat because this pushes the button. i am trying to to think of more than one thing at once because if i do i start to cry, but if i don't i feel that, there is something to be said for the fact that india maintains an airport that has a restaurant where one can smoke, a, dubiously gracious, and has jovial military officers asking me why i am not married and saying : i am weapons expert, or india very cheap, or what do you do, and well they listened and gave me a cup of chai in the morning afternoon, and then i ahd a very strange encounter with some isrealis. admitting that you are jewish and have visited other countries and have no intention of visiting isreal anytime soon, even to nihilistic dudes smoking across the subcontinent with tanga style pants hanging out of designer jeans is akin to admitting to a middle aged indian man that you have been travelling around india with a friend, who is gendered. but not like that it all; the first produces bafflement, tinged with relief that at least you weren't born to parents so daft as to let you travel alone, and the second, cynically resentful disapointment. people in india mistake me for isreali almost as much as they mistake me for german or french. the isrealis extracted a ten minute life story from me very quickly, we were in the sun. they asked me to teach them words in english they didn't know. i taught them sagacious cacauphony and arid. and i explained that by dint of the fact that the man who had just proposed to me, again, who i am loathe to call my boyfriend, even though i love him and i see the neat apartment with the lines of straw and the records and the beautiful lanky black haired children falling into the openlegged piles on the floor, i don't necessarily see myself in the picture, decided to go home suddenly because his father is dying of cancer so in my rush to get out of india i hadn't remebered to acount for the absurdity of military time and the flight i thought was leaving at 2 in the afternoon actually had left in the morning, and here i am, jobless, homeless, boyfriends on three different continents and out 800 bucks. i keep on glancing back at all the my suitcases piled on the cart, thinking about how nice it would be to quit smoking but that the beyond the smoke, that would mean giving up the potential for confessionals outside of airports and on train platforms
the airport is all blue and yellow and beige, like airports, like if you added all the colors together and then scraped away the solidity you would have something resembling a sky. the asian stewardesses are so glamorous and vanaguard, like in the fifties, with tarted up representations of their national costumes in suit form to remind the men what they are really working for, like sorority sisters, but traveling! ahem gasp! with jobs. i am pushing my cart back and forth back and forth. taking up temporary residence in permanent day time waiting room. never any real windows in airports. because they are really after all, permanant military installations, with , everyone is herded prodded, reminded of the possibility of trouble, of order, all the lights dissapearing into lines of bluish gold, all the lines and stamps and no hint of air. like you are already on the ship. in the barracks. with rations at regular hours.
time is a man with many arms. the blue and white wall has the world drawn in clouds with five clocks.
the restaurant has blinking christmas lights, just like the lower east side indian joints with competing brothers and middling sauces.
i don't know if i lost my appetite because of the loss of 800 dollars to alitalia, or because i simply can't eat, with the same usual force that simply can't not eat or.
love and thinking of studying japanese. confusion is on the outside as much as in.
the door has a card queen on it, for women. you could say the queen on a deck of cards, as its traditionally drawn, is almost wearing a hijab. why do we call them hijabs, instead of say, wimples? right. because we forget that constant head cover only passed about seventy years ago. these ladies are friendlier and cleaner than those who greeted me in arrivals 2 months ago, or maybe we are just becoming more familiar with eachother. one of them is absolutely beautiful, the other is typically older and roly poly, and atypically spotted with that depigmentation disease, leaving her arms mottled and her paunch the same color as my mountain blonde grandmother's. she is readjusting her sari one of the times i go in; i have several, and the petticoat, and the choli, but noone has shown me how to put one on, so i stand there transfixed as she tucks and folds and shakes and tucks. another woman exits the latrine and rearranges her sari in front of the mirror, working right to left to lift the fold from the middle and into the security of the petticoat, in a process which herhaps most closely resembles the way that japanese schoolgirls fold and tuck their uniform skirts into micro minis and hide the excess beneath their oversized sailor midi blouses. a stewardess for india airlines asks me almost confrontationally, why i am watching, and i explain, perhaps over enthusiatically, that i have some saris but that i haven't the faintest idea how to wear them, and i had tried to arrange them several times and found myself tangled in all six meters of silk etc, and unlike in japan, i don't have the luxury of someone's mother wrapping me tight into a kimono, because here i'm a tourist, not a potential bride, and she dutifully translated, perhaps not convinced that i was just not staring because i was impolite.
i am trying not to eat because this pushes the button. i am trying to to think of more than one thing at once because if i do i start to cry, but if i don't i feel that, there is something to be said for the fact that india maintains an airport that has a restaurant where one can smoke, a, dubiously gracious, and has jovial military officers asking me why i am not married and saying : i am weapons expert, or india very cheap, or what do you do, and well they listened and gave me a cup of chai in the morning afternoon, and then i ahd a very strange encounter with some isrealis. admitting that you are jewish and have visited other countries and have no intention of visiting isreal anytime soon, even to nihilistic dudes smoking across the subcontinent with tanga style pants hanging out of designer jeans is akin to admitting to a middle aged indian man that you have been travelling around india with a friend, who is gendered. but not like that it all; the first produces bafflement, tinged with relief that at least you weren't born to parents so daft as to let you travel alone, and the second, cynically resentful disapointment. people in india mistake me for isreali almost as much as they mistake me for german or french. the isrealis extracted a ten minute life story from me very quickly, we were in the sun. they asked me to teach them words in english they didn't know. i taught them sagacious cacauphony and arid. and i explained that by dint of the fact that the man who had just proposed to me, again, who i am loathe to call my boyfriend, even though i love him and i see the neat apartment with the lines of straw and the records and the beautiful lanky black haired children falling into the openlegged piles on the floor, i don't necessarily see myself in the picture, decided to go home suddenly because his father is dying of cancer so in my rush to get out of india i hadn't remebered to acount for the absurdity of military time and the flight i thought was leaving at 2 in the afternoon actually had left in the morning, and here i am, jobless, homeless, boyfriends on three different continents and out 800 bucks. i keep on glancing back at all the my suitcases piled on the cart, thinking about how nice it would be to quit smoking but that the beyond the smoke, that would mean giving up the potential for confessionals outside of airports and on train platforms
the airport is all blue and yellow and beige, like airports, like if you added all the colors together and then scraped away the solidity you would have something resembling a sky. the asian stewardesses are so glamorous and vanaguard, like in the fifties, with tarted up representations of their national costumes in suit form to remind the men what they are really working for, like sorority sisters, but traveling! ahem gasp! with jobs. i am pushing my cart back and forth back and forth. taking up temporary residence in permanent day time waiting room. never any real windows in airports. because they are really after all, permanant military installations, with , everyone is herded prodded, reminded of the possibility of trouble, of order, all the lights dissapearing into lines of bluish gold, all the lines and stamps and no hint of air. like you are already on the ship. in the barracks. with rations at regular hours.
time is a man with many arms. the blue and white wall has the world drawn in clouds with five clocks.
the restaurant has blinking christmas lights, just like the lower east side indian joints with competing brothers and middling sauces.
i don't know if i lost my appetite because of the loss of 800 dollars to alitalia, or because i simply can't eat, with the same usual force that simply can't not eat or.
love and thinking of studying japanese. confusion is on the outside as much as in.
9.2.06
little blocks
1.yosei bought a harmonica from a toyshop owner who broke into song during the purchasing, we frequently lament the lack of the md recorder. india is never quiet, not at night, maybe during the hot part of the afternoon it could be but the music is always through windows and the neighbors children are crying and the the whole family comes back from snacks piled on the same scooter like little rubber balls in a row. the coconut pile is always in the same place, the road is widened and the trees left in the middle, sand slipping over the roots. cow dung is first pressed into little balls left outside the temple to dry and then affixed to the trunk of a fat tree like toroiseshell to cure. light is stark and harsh; every place has its own strange sum of colors, here there is yellow brown, violet blue and gold, with flashes of pink, orange and poolbottom blue.
10.1.06
yendo
it´s been raining the week entire. just wake up rain. sometimes it stops long enough to go to bar or to give you the mistaken idea that you can put your laundry on the roof but no the things i want to bring to india are all wet and soaked with acid rain and i´m not sure if i have the strength to find the one drycleaner in valencia that will take pity on me and just dry the clothes... and i want ot be comfortable leaving everything, which is little, but ... the only effort i can put towards leaving it is to do nothing and to find myself there on the plane tonight wishing i´d thought more specifically about what wanted to buy and pack and here i have the illusion of a life, some work, some friends, some clothes, some art projects, some tea, some boyfriends, some habits of going and coming access to the same shower consistently. and i am leaving it and no one really knows whether i will come back to it or if i can except that i at the very least know that i very much am leaving everything as it is the clothes in the house, the music with the friends, to hold my place. and on to the india! i go to the india!
26.12.05
little grey animal
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.
this elephant is aquatic.
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
18.11.05
bars on my windows, bells on my
-write a list of 500 thoughts you think today, do these make it? consigned, unsold?
the man in the garden apartment has bars on his windows,
and i can see him ironing to the television.
walking the dog, there is this tension that you encounter someone recently met.
the dog either plays soccer or shits.
also that the police will stop you for not having her on leash. and then they discover you don´t have your papers.
but if you take your papers, which you don´t quite have, right now, anyways, you risk loosing your papers, because you are out at night alone walking.
you run into someone every night in passing. they see you you see them.
barrio man slut looks for equivalent. you assume they remember talking to the person whom you were with. did they. the next day. ask for details. about you. you assume they did. you assume your face is relaxed and that they can smell the details. but they smoke. but you aren´t there now.
in the examined life it is necessary to not examine what is presented so much as what is present.
spend at least five minutes every day rythmically flipping the shaving mirror from magnify to accurate on its spindle because it is the only thing your life that remains fluid for free, and it allows to suppose that indeed you are shaped enough like an hourglass running out of time that you will be fine and one day richer if you skip dinner.
pink is gendered. as for salmon.
because i made a hat for her baby in salmon before the baby had its pieces together.
men have lips that are pink too.
in what ways is a thought a question.
i´m a dishwasher artist. really so nice to meet you. i´m a dishwasher engineer.
big plastic buttons on a woman with bleach blond hair and dark skin and three cellphones are worse than fake tits.
(you) exhaust me in your absence and my inability to adress you.
(you) does not signify a specific named thing
(you)exhaust me in your presence and my inability to adress you.
when you see someone eating from the container over the counter in the nude while you are reclining in the bed wishing for a more normal schedule, automatically add 15 pounds, in increments of five for all of the above mentioned ways you have been disillusioned.
the physical parts of you are only responsive to small things. person is not enough.
when i think of eating meat i think of opening the front door on a cold morning in hellish isolation with a lover and finding a dead bird and not wanting move it or touch it because love never wants to get too close to death, not even as close as being stuck in an elevator with a dog and three days of garlic eating and not washing because there has yet to be a day dry enough to hang the towels and the apartment is like steam bath of fungus, and you get used to it
but in the elevator or on the cement there isn´t time get used to it so you look at eachother and that´s it there´s nothing and the romans and knowing that this will be a sunny day and if you were hungry you could eat the bird and get sick like the people in poor places that must eat the dead that wash up.
but there are no places for dead birds not chicken or turkey, least of all on your front porch. i like the word augery. i like how it moves and how it feels in my mouth like an eyeball and that the only eyeballs i have eaten, those of fish, were hard and bitter and not all like i expected an eyeball to taste because i was thinking of what it would be like if i stuck my tongue in your eye, whether it would be buoyant and taut or slimy but i didn´t stick my tongue in your eye because i thought it might give you conjunctivitis and i try to be sensitive about things like that because i am always afflicted with minor discomfort and infections from lovers who try and probe various parts of my body with the wrong parts with no regard whatsover to basic cleanliness and that maybe this is political but i feel grateful that i did more than once end up with my tongue in your nose, with more medical danger to myself than to you i suppose. not the window to the soul that is the eye, but rare and precious and uncomfortable as a rooftop apartment without heat. in movies the couple never wakes up and walks out to argue and finds a dead bird. but in movies they dont wear seatbelts and their legs don´t fall asleep or get constipated in long roadtrips across the country. they never have lint in their asses from corduroy pants. we don´t want anything dead to threatan us. we shower to wash off the invisible bugs that we support like barons and exchange like islands in dubai. i never feel clean if we shower together because....
the man in the garden apartment has bars on his windows,
and i can see him ironing to the television.
walking the dog, there is this tension that you encounter someone recently met.
the dog either plays soccer or shits.
also that the police will stop you for not having her on leash. and then they discover you don´t have your papers.
but if you take your papers, which you don´t quite have, right now, anyways, you risk loosing your papers, because you are out at night alone walking.
you run into someone every night in passing. they see you you see them.
barrio man slut looks for equivalent. you assume they remember talking to the person whom you were with. did they. the next day. ask for details. about you. you assume they did. you assume your face is relaxed and that they can smell the details. but they smoke. but you aren´t there now.
in the examined life it is necessary to not examine what is presented so much as what is present.
spend at least five minutes every day rythmically flipping the shaving mirror from magnify to accurate on its spindle because it is the only thing your life that remains fluid for free, and it allows to suppose that indeed you are shaped enough like an hourglass running out of time that you will be fine and one day richer if you skip dinner.
pink is gendered. as for salmon.
because i made a hat for her baby in salmon before the baby had its pieces together.
men have lips that are pink too.
in what ways is a thought a question.
i´m a dishwasher artist. really so nice to meet you. i´m a dishwasher engineer.
big plastic buttons on a woman with bleach blond hair and dark skin and three cellphones are worse than fake tits.
(you) exhaust me in your absence and my inability to adress you.
(you) does not signify a specific named thing
(you)exhaust me in your presence and my inability to adress you.
when you see someone eating from the container over the counter in the nude while you are reclining in the bed wishing for a more normal schedule, automatically add 15 pounds, in increments of five for all of the above mentioned ways you have been disillusioned.
the physical parts of you are only responsive to small things. person is not enough.
when i think of eating meat i think of opening the front door on a cold morning in hellish isolation with a lover and finding a dead bird and not wanting move it or touch it because love never wants to get too close to death, not even as close as being stuck in an elevator with a dog and three days of garlic eating and not washing because there has yet to be a day dry enough to hang the towels and the apartment is like steam bath of fungus, and you get used to it
but in the elevator or on the cement there isn´t time get used to it so you look at eachother and that´s it there´s nothing and the romans and knowing that this will be a sunny day and if you were hungry you could eat the bird and get sick like the people in poor places that must eat the dead that wash up.
but there are no places for dead birds not chicken or turkey, least of all on your front porch. i like the word augery. i like how it moves and how it feels in my mouth like an eyeball and that the only eyeballs i have eaten, those of fish, were hard and bitter and not all like i expected an eyeball to taste because i was thinking of what it would be like if i stuck my tongue in your eye, whether it would be buoyant and taut or slimy but i didn´t stick my tongue in your eye because i thought it might give you conjunctivitis and i try to be sensitive about things like that because i am always afflicted with minor discomfort and infections from lovers who try and probe various parts of my body with the wrong parts with no regard whatsover to basic cleanliness and that maybe this is political but i feel grateful that i did more than once end up with my tongue in your nose, with more medical danger to myself than to you i suppose. not the window to the soul that is the eye, but rare and precious and uncomfortable as a rooftop apartment without heat. in movies the couple never wakes up and walks out to argue and finds a dead bird. but in movies they dont wear seatbelts and their legs don´t fall asleep or get constipated in long roadtrips across the country. they never have lint in their asses from corduroy pants. we don´t want anything dead to threatan us. we shower to wash off the invisible bugs that we support like barons and exchange like islands in dubai. i never feel clean if we shower together because....
17.11.05
las pilas
like i said. We trade bugs. Not that i ever feel clean in the shower because when something is wet and the drain is clogged and there´s a little bit of something left from the dish rag there on the tile, it becomes dirty once again for being wet. Would that the tile were white, but instead it´s marked with a forest of colors. Clean is absent. Wet is
what. Vector of disease. Flexibility. Something to be consumed because it fills without identity, with ease. Fabric is a flat solid which has been made to resemble a liquid through a process of miming the physical notion of an interlocking network collapsing. Women, we prefer dressed in the most liquid of fibers, as if there were no line between their own fluidity and that of the cover protecting them from nudity. We want them to dress in something that threatens to evaporate at the right temperature. Young women anyways.
I made a dress once for a boy that was like that, all ocean, or really, because i am not so pure, like the rainbow on top of a puddle after a rainstorm, dyed the silk and cut the dress and it falls off when you pull the knot like a drop of water and it has a few lines like waves to keep me floating.
what. Vector of disease. Flexibility. Something to be consumed because it fills without identity, with ease. Fabric is a flat solid which has been made to resemble a liquid through a process of miming the physical notion of an interlocking network collapsing. Women, we prefer dressed in the most liquid of fibers, as if there were no line between their own fluidity and that of the cover protecting them from nudity. We want them to dress in something that threatens to evaporate at the right temperature. Young women anyways.
I made a dress once for a boy that was like that, all ocean, or really, because i am not so pure, like the rainbow on top of a puddle after a rainstorm, dyed the silk and cut the dress and it falls off when you pull the knot like a drop of water and it has a few lines like waves to keep me floating.
12.11.05
blue shirt
here is it possible to sit nude as if you were dressed. soaking in warmth and illusion. escape may be one of the most common mistakes made by foreign speakers of english. always, we saw him and we tried to escape the bar. absinthe. speed hash wine drawing. walking. passing. emotional fantasy transfigured into a relaxation so complete as to signify loss of control, and a fall. no light. slipping out of light. with a crash. coming to thinking first you are burning, ten seconds of horrified sobriety and gratitude for not wearing makeup, because if you were it would surely by now have fallen into tracks. and then the realization that. giving. take leave. have taken leave of ones outlines for existense a volume that is all color. all sense. all sound withrawn from structure. light like amber. light like open. this is now, it kills me.
skip rearrange recline one second of looking from above. and confusion over whether the pain is from having seen your self there without . in cold . the sound subsides scale resumes. in falling, you of course have realized some state somewhat blissful rubbing away the sharpness of the line between waking and sleeping, snatching a thought from sleep to put it back in the world of the waking (because this is really what it is we resent most about sleep: we are unaware of any contiguity of this time, we cannot construct a narrative of our dream lives, things are seen, and what surfaces to be remembered is completely without context to attach it to in its own language, and for this it remains cypher and uncountable. but i skipped this, see, there was moment of having arrived to the point of sleep and yet a limb through an open door into something else clinging to a rope with toes. this is how the prow of a ship feels.
skip rearrange recline one second of looking from above. and confusion over whether the pain is from having seen your self there without . in cold . the sound subsides scale resumes. in falling, you of course have realized some state somewhat blissful rubbing away the sharpness of the line between waking and sleeping, snatching a thought from sleep to put it back in the world of the waking (because this is really what it is we resent most about sleep: we are unaware of any contiguity of this time, we cannot construct a narrative of our dream lives, things are seen, and what surfaces to be remembered is completely without context to attach it to in its own language, and for this it remains cypher and uncountable. but i skipped this, see, there was moment of having arrived to the point of sleep and yet a limb through an open door into something else clinging to a rope with toes. this is how the prow of a ship feels.
18.10.05
location location location
i´m in valencia, after four airports and three countries. the germans were the quietest airplane mates ever
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