priest with balloons, tiny ruins
why do all academics look the same?
long rambling hazy beer bike rides through the streets of cold, chilly suburbia at 2 am
you find yourself alone in weird places (not physical ones, but states of being)
us squishy humans.
music sounds so good these days. so good. i listen nonstop. i have earbuds in at my desk and at the bench and in tissue culture and walking back and forth, i cannot even pause it for a second. i think everyone has noticed me tuning out and tuning into something else. people hover by my chair with a question and wait for me to notice them, which takes awhile. they are less prone to interrupting me because now they must wait for my attention to wane and my distraction to pique. i dabble in memories of sea hotel soundtracks. bits and clips get glued into the cracks in the swirls of my brain and i have to get them out. i’ve started singing in tissue culture when no one else is in there. maybe my cells like it. i’m not sure.
but listening feels like: nothing feels quite like opening up boxes you had packed up and tape shut and stored away in the attic, and making those worn old musty clothes the ones you return to wearing every day. you think occasionally of how nice and glitzy it was to wear new clothes that don’t quite fit you, but then realize that it often does not make you feel new feelings. but instead only conscious of how unfit you are for your clothier attempts. the attempt of making a world out of a shell that doesn’t grow or shrink with the malleability of your actual skin.
spin liquid in a cup like the hands of a clock.
people telling me tonight, your username sounds like a transportation company. see-train. i’m in motion. get on board.
i once thought these excitements were simple but the sophistication is what you make of it.
to west fuji.
the window shade broke into my collarbone right where a dark spot on my skin was and it bled and the dark spot started to splatter and run down my chest along with the blood. a flood of pigment coming off of my skin. is this how darkness appears and disappears and reappears?
“When I use the term ‘sisterhood,’ I’m using it in a way that acknowledges the fact that not everybody here identifies as a woman. It is a rhetorical device … , but it is not intended to exclude anybody.”
I said her explanation seemed like the one for using “he” as a generic pronoun for a male or female. She offered a different analogy, noting the parallel between women’s colleges and historically black colleges and universities. “Isn’t it still legitimate to speak of being a community of color even if you have half a dozen students who aren’t individuals of color?” she asked. “The same might be said about women’s colleges. Our mission was built upon education for women, and while we recognize that not everyone identifies this way, this is who we are and how we talk about things.”
So many jumbles of half-started thoughts but this really resonated with me.
it says too much about me that my favorite part of tonight were the two long, long drives in the dark, one surrounded by other cars and one less so, singing as emphatically as I know how to my favorite songs playing at full volume. not the people on either end of those long drives. at least I had a reason to go and take a very long drive. but I had already anticipated that the drives would be my favorite parts, and actually looked forward to that all week, while dreading the rest of it. so perhaps that is the most telling part. maybe this tells me that I should just go take long drives without waiting for not-so-great reasons to go take long drives.
motion is inexplicably so important to me. I really do love driving so. it’s being on the subway in the dead of morning on the way to JFK when no one else is in your train room for a good five stops. except it lasts for as long as you want it to, sort of.
"The pursuit of happiness has always seemed to me a somewhat heavy American burden, but in Manhattan it is conceived as a peculiar form of duty."
"You don’t come to live here unless the delusion of a reality shaped around your own desires isn’t a strong aspect of your personality. ‘A reality shaped around your own desires’—there is something sociopathic in that ambition."
"It is such a good town in which to work and work. You can find your beach here, find it falsely, but convincingly, still thinking of Manhattan as an isle of writers and artists—of downtown underground wildlings and uptown intellectuals—against all evidence to the contrary. Oh, you still see them occasionally here and there, but unless they are under the protection of a university—or have sold that TV show—they are all of them, every single last one of them, in Brooklyn."
Find Your Beach, Zadie Smith
wellesley communities 4ever and ever and ever
(even when they sometimes suck out your soul)
(because they always put it back!)
(because they have your back!)
— only want those easy ones to build.
I have a big space, a triple mobius strip, a few late-morning-early-afternoon whimsical thoughts and a whole lot of one-dollar coins.
It’s a bit dim in here. I’m too dizzy to climb a mountain but I have to do it anyway. It keeps my heart healthy. I am glad: I am glad.
I hang my laundry to dry. I will do what the machines tried to take from me. We have matching glasses on our nightstands. Glasses that hold water and glasses that hold eyes. Both matching. But don’t get the black ones, I say. That was my mistake. I picked up the Warby Parker box and held out the brown ones. I’m more bitter than a lemon when it tastes itself.
Trains are my thing. Buses are good but not as moveable as trains. Dinner is good but not as moveable as feasts. The motion is a soothing slur over the rails and the tracks take us where we can’t go as ordinary humans, on our own feet or our own wheels, not that my wheels ever seem to be actually mine. A dark hued Hugh on the platform to east LA and I went beyond where the lights were on yet in the airport pillars. Do you want something from Starbucks? Are you LA born and raised? This train thing, I’ve done it twice.
I’ve done it once.
The content is not the problem, the behavior is. I am sleeping in a blanket of barbed wire. I wake up in a sweat, in my ocean’s own seawater. The liquid that oozes from my mind when it imagines reality to its most realistic, exponential power.
Pablo is trying to read Borges, a gift from someone he once tutored, which brings warmth to my bones, that other people in this world actually in fact do read and appreciate these quiet things that I do dearly appreciate myself. Enough that they give Borges books as gifts to people who will someday cross paths with other people who love Borges just as much. Maybe that’s what will happen to the Borges I gave away, too.
He is not sure how to say Borges, only mentions this Argentine writer Bore-gas who writes short stories about dreams and he has only read the preface. I perk up. I know instantly who has authored that book. The cover, when he carries it out, is as familiar to me a room in a castle-like building in a large forest in a state of mind and state of territory three-thousand miles away.
To be a sculptor is a gift. Those who went away some-five years ago have come back. The fan struggles. The one below the floor begins to buzz. The building takes off. See you.
Coconuts doing yoga.