i do not like it, in stories when a character puts a bandage on the wound of another and then says “there, that’s better.” because, it is a bandaged wound, after all. what is it better than? really. better than a bleeding wound, well yeah, maybe but… pretty much everything is better than that. it just seems superfluous. like saying, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp umbrella. it’s a dumb thing to say.
unless you want to make the person saying it seem dumb or sentimental or drunk which could realistically involve both of those. so, okay, house of cards, you get a pass on this one. claire was drunk. plus, poke in the eye with a sharp umbrella is a hard thing for a drunk and slurring person to say. not that it matters but. just saying.
they had their own place they were white folk they couldn’t have babies they called it pacos tacos the shells were damp and limp he only beat her when he was snorting cocaine the meat they used was fish the business lasted longer than their marriage even their therapists found them scary just pretending to like them
It was probably not the first time she had written about it, but like the lessons the universe sends us, her mind was nothing if not persistent in nagging her to the fruition of an idea turned into words. It was a recursive turn of nested events, no doubt, that made it around the circle. Specifically, it went like so:
There is a very thin but infinitely deep crack in the fabric of the universe that runs between intention and attention. Thus, her urge to write is less motive to create than it is to avoid the consequences of a petulant mind. Recognizing the (not insignificant) amount of energy that will be summoned, drawn, siphoned, and ultimately required to satisfy said petulant imagination, she needs some avenue for delivering the power, from its source to the sore necessary spot that is her stomping brain demanding.
Her first tool, revolves around the critical role of attention. To capture it, to channel it, away from petulance and into the fruition of peace she began with the invention of an imagination trap, otherwise known as an idea. This whole contraption she wears like a headband with a fishing pole attached. The idea or concept hangs dangling off of it out front in order for her to keep her imagination focused and moving in a forward direction. This gear is the prerequisite set-up to coping with the petulant mind.
Story is the bridge that takes her from temper tantrum (boredom phobic) cognitive processes turning endless loops of torture to the peace of moving along through it a happy, content and wide-eyed observer. Participant. A participant observer. Writing. Writing is merely the by product of the energy transfer across the bridge. It’s just exhaust, that is really all it is.
"There are no impersonators anymore because none of the original acts are original. We might be gunning to bury our own heads in the sand but there are only so many layers of bullshit we’re willing to cultivate and swallow as entertainment." She forked sushi into her mouth, took a sip of the fiery alcohol in front of her.
He made a face, raised his eyebrows and made big eyes at her. She made a face that inquired back.
He swallowed. He said, “It’s weird to you hear you say that, is all. Of all people, Ms. Anti-copyright, Anti-ownership, there-is-only-one-story.” He smirked after he said it. Just a small friendly smirk.
"Nothing’s original. It’s all one story, right?" He said. "What is it again?"
"A creature journeys and returns transformed," she said this distractedly, mouth full and moving fast, a quick aside. Then she pushed on with her corrected point. "I misspoke, you are right, it’s not originality that’s at stake it’s genuineness. Authenticity. Even the good impersonators performed with more authenticity than today’s celebrities. They exuded genuine love for the figures, the personalities they impersonated. Now, these celebrities today, so many are just impersonations of… something," She waved her fork around, hum-chewed. Mawed her thought over. "Impersonations of something abstract, some ideal. If there were modern impersonators, they would be the knock-off brand shoes, imitating logos, fake hype about nothing but hype to begin with. Nike air, then Nike half-life. Until we’re all barefoot, walking on air. Who cares."
She said more. ”If there’s not substance to begin with why bother with the middle man”
They both knew this didn’t really exactly make sense but it also did, entirely. Somehow, unquestionably the said middle men where the impersonators and when your heroes have gone straight to faking it, who needs them.
They both drank, set down their glasses, lifted their forks together in time. Syncopated diners. Choreographed full mouths. They nodded in joint acknowledgement of their psychic agreement.
Sometimes Bernadette wondered if perhaps she was psychic. She never could establish a mental image of herself that fit in her mind according to any kind of recognizable physical description. A vampire caught off-guard by her own reflection in store windows and mirrors. She had no idea what she looked like to herself, in her own mind’s eye. She only knew it was never what this - this whatever she saw when she gazed with any conscious perspective on her own living image, was. Her shadow, by contrast was slightly more familiar, she thought, but still not entirely benign or friendly. And these facts, somehow seemed to confirm or at least add to the sluice pot of reasons she might be psychic. There were others.
If anyone was psychic, for real. It must really suck, she thought. Either that or it might be totally baffling to the person. Something they couldn’t really notice or ignore. But much less a matter of life perks than anyone imagined Like genius. She figured they were the same kind of thing.
He hadn’t said it at the sushi place that night. But sometimes, too often, he said her life read like a novel. She did not think this was a particularly good thing. She was pretty sure people’s real lives weren’t supposed to be like that. She was more or less convinced this is why the language included the word fiction. She also believed, for reasons that eluded her articulation, that this statement was connected to a web of facts and information that stood poised to drop evidence that she was psychic onto the comfortable beach of her life from some great cliff height above. To drop it like some mirror. To force her once again to acknowledge her mismatching reflection. About which she could do nothing. Nothing but keep moving, keep moving on.
i lost my job on the starship enterprise because i was addicted to the holodeck
In the basement would be a swimming pool and hot tubs, the room itself decorated like a forest, grotto and all, lazy river around the perimeter, opening at the south end to a sand beach with enough room for elaborate sculptures, castles, two sets of horseshoe pits and volleyball. First floor taken up with a huge open gym floor, primarily for roller skating, blowers hanging from the ceiling to keep the surfaces dry and the temperatures comfortable. On the third floor would be the trampolines, the whole floor, wall to wall, and the walls, floor to ceiling, a basket of fresh clean socks with little grips just inside the doorway. Finally, the attic, dormered roof low and flooded with light across another shiny warm wood floor, polished and lined with soft pale yoga mats and firm cylindrical bolsters upholstered in elegant lush eggplant-colored velour. Each window would also have a rocking chair, making the room do double-duty as a reading sanctuary and on really cold days we would do kick-boxing up there, just to keep the blood flowing.
the first step is to get a good dog that every body likes the rest is all animal instinct and preservation bread falls broken over concrete jumping from the roof of restaurants in droves onto loaves with nuts baked in all while they were laughing
in the manner of the swimmingly boiled frog
next thing you know you end up in a trampoline park having the ultimate three-dee play experience
and everyone is winning we are all winning winningly all
if shopping malls are the porch to the gateways to hell and the DMV is the gateway to hell, it seems probable that the tumblr messaging system is responsible for keeping track of the paperwork that might have saved us all
a silly and spontaneous collaboration across distances and against great (tumblr messaging) odds between me and photographoria
stands stands taken ovations consequences consequending
circle of necks bending heads full of eyes extending down over the middle of the circle a huddle with you, transgressive, in the middle cowered doubled over and over weeping onto hysterical laughing and clapping and clapping at your thigh just above along- side the knee
below which puddles collecting a pool of salt and bodily
i don’t get how you get billy blanks except he is charm open faced teeth gleaming white socks scrunching over leggings
but she loves him and i knew she would
i don’t know if you know or can imagine how tower records in Boston still looked in 1988 when the zines for sale were lined up on the sidewalk but i will tell you all about the big red letters and the mist and snow while i trace your torso for hours because i think you might want to believe
he thinks he knows before a time he could have even been
i don’t understand how i am so susceptible to your hand moving the hair around your ear and your side burn and beard acting small and spanish and nonchalant well trimmed but i am still
sensitive wet eyed soft smiling forever dear i love you
Moving down the hill, through the timber faster than she means to, but not near as fast as she would like. Trying not to stomp, not to break into a jog or even a run. Trying not to let her body be pissy. She is headed for the edge of the lake. The lake is pooling between the incoming and outgoing creek. The valley is staring down watching it, with softer eyes than you might expect. It can’t see her in the tree cover but it is early spring and sparse. She will announce herself to the world and its valley if she stomps.
She moves fast without stomping. Hiking boots socks protruding over the top, above that already brown shins, knees rough as elbows and then thick canvas pocketed shorts topping them all. Flannel shirttails, over thick long sleeved cotton undergear, the frayed cut-off edges of the long-johns peaking out below the shorts, at cuff and collar. Leather straps, tight and wide on her right wrist, loose on her left, both arms swinging.
She does not stomp or run but she is rushing. Rushing ahead of her frustration, her anger, her panic-driven fury. Her need to spit screaming in someone’s face is pushing her, repeatedly, like a bully two palms smacking just above her shoulder blades. Two flat forward moving hands like a textbook PE volleyball skills-set volley; or a mean soldier to a caught prisoner, that moving forward walking shove-push. Telling her get away quick. Get to the lake, into the canoe, onto the water.
The canoe is tied to the dock resting split in two by the thick stillness of the green water, a dark green bottle of brown beer, glass still. Waiting for her barely contained movements and their wicked conscious intent to disrupt the world as all primates are inclined too often to do. She gets in, unties, pushes off, without making any extra unnecessary sound. Her movements do little more than ripple the surface, mildly, the water seems to be congealing all around her, thick dark green nearly set jello. Not algae, glass smooth but thick, still. She paddles through it from the back of the boat, with a wooden oar, the spare in the bottom. It glows yellow under its varnish coat. The sun is bright but in no way harsh. Her hat’s wide flat rim bears down an overhang of shade across her face. Her chin still juts out into rays of light, the leather string hangs loose there below it.
Her rippling taut shoulder muscles announce the continued stress of anger and of her frustration. She paddles faster without making any additional noise or disturbance. The surface seems to close up behind her. The light warm but not illuminating, not close. Sun full of air. Room to breathe. Then she is breathing deeper, slower, calmer as she paddles. She paddles past the mouth of the river draining out at the southeast end of the valley. She feels the current there, ever so mild. She lays back, hangs her arms over either side of the smooth bark and pine canoe. Closes her eyes as she relaxes, scrunches the hat down farther. She is not straining now, not looking all around, not agitated. But she knows exactly where she is, and where she stands, so to speak.
With the middle finger of each hand, she has left distinct trails in the water behind her.
My love is wider now, and I worry a lot less than I did a few months ago. But every now and then, I still visit this nightmarish corner in my mind where I’m being replaced or forgotten or diminished in some way. Sometimes all it takes is a small opening—a look, a word, an interaction—and I’m wondering. But it’s more like some brutal self-assessment to see how I’d react. In this hypothetical situation where someone I trust hurts me or wants to leave me, will I be okay. If the answer is no, I’ll feel like all the progress I’ve made towards self-confidence has been a guise. It’s complicated and damn near masochistic, but I am still slowly/surely breaking the deep-down chains linking me to this paranoia. And I am still maneuvering through the subject of belonging to someone—the many pitfalls within the language of possession and exclusivity as it pertains to intimacy. As I get closer to my core humanity, which is itself a tranquil thing, I let go of a lot more and I acknowledge the harmlessness in a lot of the things I am afraid of. Overall the kind of woman I’m trying to be is one that encourages fullness in everyone’s life. If it’s my ego that’s getting in the way, I’ll wrestle it.
admired myself into a corner backed by sponsor patronizing her art form full figure headed household door revolving hinges secured in stillness with mere drops of super glue powered stickiness easy applique very little or no mess