Tuesday, November 20, 2012
She wished that someone was watching. And that it mattered somehow. When he came over, at first he just helped her rake some leaves. That was fine. They always worked well together. But when he came inside and sat in her office and called his recent ex girlfriend a whore who won't put out and broke up with him because his dick was so big, she wished there was an audience. Someone she could turn to in shock. A witness to such absurdity. She wished someone was watching when another one called himself an unraveling sweater, pulled her in, and sent her off again. She wished someone was watching when she broke apart at night and pieces of her floated away like offal in the sea. But no one was, no God, not anyone. The universe was not invested in her story. Nothing would save her, and she was the only witness to such absurdity.
Friday, November 9, 2012
A mind full of the same old stuff is the same as being empty. I'm brilliant and dumb, depending on the context, so how can I be anything at all? I grew up in a house where the sensory input conflicted with the narrative (analysts-speak), so it's no wonder I'm confused, always and forever. Stated in more concrete details: "You have a good and brilliant father who loves you" --- sensory input: a closed door, smell of aluminum, the hallway with the refrigerator (contents: Budweiser and decade old hunting meat) and at the end of it? A gentle shove off, and not much more. Dad = basement. When I got him to look up from his magizine it was like magic.