#tbt to when I wore this and asked to take a picture next to “Benji”
#tbt to when I wore this and asked to take a picture next to “Benji”
Wet cold commotion is peaceful in the dark (!)
If you think about things that fold into themselves like shipping boxes or connectable toys or middle school notes with the pull tab or director’s chairs or travel reading glasses— their material is not as strong as their assembly; they’re latticed to collapse, and they can collapse, and that’s when everyone takes notice. And that’s when I take notice too. Whole things lose me pretty quickly.
What is there to see?
Sometimes I wake up with that excited feeling of having something new but I can’t remember what it is at first and then when I figure out why I’m feeling that way it’s not exciting and it’s definitely not new. I don’t know if that’s because even new things aren’t new, or that I don’t ever have new things. Because I don’t like new things, unless I’ve made them new.
I prefer pieces
That I can assemble or reassemble or break in a new way or keep in pieces
Maybe it’s never right to say the word “new” anyway I should start saying “reformed” because you know the saying about the sun. Well the sun is for eating and for treating fevers and there’s nothing new about that, either.
Reformed things don’t last as long, and that’s the best thing about them.
Isn’t it more thrilling; the stuff that’s only passing through?
A carnival in a parking lot
Becoming aware of a yawn and then it stops
The Moon Flower
The transit of Saturn because it won’t last and it won’t be back
For more years than you’ve been here
When I look at pictures of Sirens I always wish I could hear the song or the wailing, like some pictures shouldn’t be silent
What if I make something and it doesn’t sing like I want it to?
If I used all of the contents of 4 boxes of pieces
And made a 6 foot moving medley mosaic
And I do a fantastic job on the collarbones
And I design it have an altered grip
Either more or less delicate
And I teach it to ask questions
Or me for directions, and there is malfunctioning
If it turns out more stable than I mean for it to be
That’s what’s risky
Because I would love that thing unconditionally
But I would have made it too well and it wouldn’t need me
This is why I keep boxes of pieces in pieces
I don’t mind to lose
A bunch of the things that I’ll never use
And the boxes will hold them because they’re latticed to
Or, if I want, the boxes can be in pieces too
There can be security in impracticality. I once talked to a man who
wouldn’t spend his last 20 dollars because it was folded into a bow.
((i thought since i self-published last summer i would stop posting writing here but i’m working on so many things that i want to share and i’m not in a place yet where i need to stop putting things here so i’m going to start posting writing again))
It’s helpful that most of the emotions that I feel have been assigned names by people who’ve lived and felt them before me. To be able to convey some of what’s happening internally in an instant, with a word, and to know that what I’m feeling isn’t new, that it’s so entwined in the history of what it is to be a human that there’s already a name for exactly what I’m going through. Disgust has been established, I don’t have to explain the meaning of melancholy; I’m not the purveyor of pity, those precise things that happen within me have been ironed out and whittled down and I can attach myself to them without misunderstanding. But, there are certain feelings in there that I can’t reduce to a single word that I’d be able to add to a list during a Social Group lesson for 2nd grade Autistic students in the hopes that they’ll be able to better classify the chemicals that are making their lips quiver with Sadness, or their necks tense up with Fear, or their fists curl into themselves in Shame; intricate feelings that can only be explained by comparing them to other intricate circumstances that spark the same intricate feelings.
Like, there’s a feeling I get after I’ve spent 43 minutes beyond the amount of time I’ve promised myself I’d get off the internet and do something worthy of my life and I don’t even know whose shit I’m even looking at anymore but I’ve traded my legs for what I’ve determined to be a deep understanding of the life of an 11 year old Jehovah’s Witness girl in Arkansas who just discovered Glasser and posted Apply right after a picture of herself frowning in glasses that she doesn’t actually need on her blog with 1 follower and I don’t know how but I can see that she wants out of her life and that it’s going to be awhile until she gets out of her life. The waiting room in the doctor’s office in my hometown with stacks of ripped magazines full of disregarded health tips makes me feel exactly like that.
Or, when I spend 9 minutes trying to park at a Municipal building and once I find a space I have to back in and out of it 3 times and the sign says Pay To Park but I can’t find a space number on the sidewalk and the cars behind and in front of me are both occupied with people watching me search the ground, of course, so I take a couple deep breaths and think to myself “I am not interested in any messages unless they have to do with my wellbeing” because a clairvoyant once taught me that when she told me I am an empath, and as soon as I figure out the pay machine, I look at my feet walking into the building that I’m not sure is even the one I need to be at but I’m ready to ask if it is because I’ve recently learned to ask informational questions, but when I pass under the arched door, I see that the person who sits at the Information Booth has already gone home so I have to walk to the windows that are not there to answer my questions or entitle the fact that I’m lost but I swallow that knowledge and try to forget about the people who are in the right lines and can hear me and I ask and I ask and I ask. Reading and signing the lease to my first apartment felt eerily similar to that.
You know how after you put a new row of staples into a stapler and you click it closed and you’re sure that you’ve released a practice staple so you shake it to check but a staple never falls out it’s just that click is just the sound the machine makes at first, even when it’s not really carrying out the sole purpose that it’s created to carry out? I feel that way when I have lunch with my family.
Think about the span of those few years when children believe that the animals in the petting zoo are the Lucky Ones because they get to be touched all the time and you recognize that belief because you’ve been inside it but you’re out of it now and it sort of makes you feel sad for what they don’t understand but also glad that they can still enjoy something you know the truth about but no matter what it makes you feel for them, you’re very aware that you would not give up what you know so that you could find beauty in caged animals. I felt like that the last time I was in church.
When I’m about to fall asleep and I’m thinking about how I once read that Salvador Dali would hold a spoon over a tin plate before he fell asleep so that when he dosed off the clanging would wake him and he could harness that elusive reality of the waking dream state so I’m always also trying to pry myself out of dozing to write down a glimpse of something that will make me the next someone but the only sentence I am able to grab onto is, “A stream of mouth-water flows into a divorced lake” and nobody knows what that means but I laugh and reread and reread it anyway because it’s something unusual that came out of the sky. Looking up at the striped and stilted performers at the flea market makes me feel like that.
People who only offer to drive so you’ll give them gas money? Discount food stores make me feel like that.
Have you ever watched the Immigrants on the corner of Western and Hollywood hold signs and sing in their native language as a plea to a country that won’t accept them largely due to the very language they’re using to plead? It felt like that the last time he left my apartment.
And then, when I’m in traffic on a really busy street and it’s not that I mind being surrounded, I’d just rather be surrounded by all the people instead of their cars, like I would be at a Saturday morning Indian Farmer’s Market where a lot of people, by street standards, are standing behind booths to provide a teen girl wearing bright white high top Converse with breads, and for some reason in the midst of all the things to peer at, her shoes are the most arresting thing I can fix my eyes upon even though I know I’m probably ignoring many other important cultural lessons while I focus on them but I can’t look away from the striking white and unbent perfection and I feel a desire to call that beauty into my own life until I finally look up feeling full of something new and just beyond her shoes is the Thai square that might be called Red Corner Asia because that’s what the biggest banner on the most middle restaurant says and all the banners say something sweet and amusing and I’m lost in them until a guy comes up and says HEY to me three times so I’ll take off my headphones and tell him where Los Feliz Boulevard is and he jogs away thankful and I’m reminded of that motivational prompt to Live My Best Life because I feel like I’m really doing that, in this moment, on this street.
It feels like that any time your voice says any thing; and there will never be a word for it.
Found an email in which we were trying to name Slush and the ideas were: People People
Happy Hunting Ground
Revisiting dumb discarded ideas is as satisfying as landing on what you’re looking for
Criminals//or// Life Hackers Without a Wine Key