2024
—
In the small blue church she always sits on the bench that creaks. She goes to the small blue church on Tuesdays, and Fridays, and sometimes on Sundays, but only when she is sure the sunlight will seep in through the stained glass panes on the left side of the bench. She always sits on the bench that creaks so that when she gets up, the priest can’t resist glancing at her. When he does, (always) she gloats in her gut and feels her cheeks rush red. The small blue church is painted in cobalt, it has cacti in pots lined up on its steps. Small and large cacti in big and round terracotta pots, their sharp spikes making sure you can never get too close.
—
His battery dies. He stares at his semi closed eyes in the darkened cracked screen. The rumble of the train hisses and creaks in its whiny overtones, echoing the tinnitus he developed years ago after too many nights that morphed into mornings almost without his notice. Across from him is a man who has Ppopeyes between his legs. Pop and eyes is an odd pairing of words that have truly nothing to do with chicken, when you think about it. The man whose battery died has eyes that glide across the stained subway floor, bumping into neon lime green socks. They make their way up the right leg, through a knitted cardigan, all the way up to a yolk yellow beanie. This person looks cool, but like they did it by accident. The man whose battery died wishes he could have sent off that text before the cracked screen had started staring at him. I swear, it’s not that deep, he had typed in the little bubble. Now he wasn’t sure how deep it was anymore.
—
The woman had already made up her mind about what she would do on the first day of the revolution. As early as the sun allowed it, she would tip-toe out of the apartment she shared with seven people. She would grab onto her comfy sneakers with one hand, pinching them quietly where the heel slides in, and put her feet in them on the steps, outside. She would walk to the train, and would change at a stop that was unfamiliar to her, getting off as close to Central Park as possible. She would walk into the Park, find a rock to sit on and wait for all the horses to arrive. Because the revolution will have started that day, it would be easy for her to do whatever she desired. She would choose the best horse, free it from its carriage, and ride it back to Brooklyn where they would take on the new day.
2024
july
while she hums against the dying light, i gently slide these dusty callouses on the arch of her neck, the folds of skin under her shoulder blades, the tender spot where her loins wrap themselves around a life fully lived. a sight. she speaks slowly in a low voice, worn out like the edges of your favorite denim. salty sawdust odor i wish i could huddle in forever, pull it tight around my aching bones and sleep sleep sleep in it deeply. pages from the books she used to read us flicker in my minds eye, marmots with their eyes shut tight, cutely folding into each other at the bottom of their hibernation, steaming cups of hot cocoa left behind on the sturdy table. there is only so much i can recall now. the window i had to conjure more detailed scenes has long passed, something like a train that doesn’t stop at your station. i thought i would be granted longer, ‘there’s still time’ i would think, and go on with my day. but there wasn’t as much as i thought. (there is never as much as i think) so the question has now turned, melting into whether i should even attempt to hold onto the feeling of having known, (truly known), someone to whom i owe so many versions of myself, so many iterations of this silly sinking being. for the time being, anyway, all that is left is embedded sensation, the sudden surges that flare up when i walk past the playground at the end of my street, with the heat pummelling its wood chips into a sharp mnemonic sea
august
Now we’re stretching out on the carousel, inhalexhale forward bend, defying its properties that want us to remain static while in motion, yet still surrendering to its circular patterns, we know the drill.
the heat swallows me whole, crunches up my sight. i can’t see the edges of things anymore which makes it harder to write. my body mushes into lavish oozing, slow and susceptible to all the mirages that show up like trap pools on the concrete road ahead
angel takes the stairs. we don’t see where they end, even though we all suspect a little light at the top. something like a clump of dancing fireflies, humming to each other in some semblance of spiritual congregation. no one knows, this time around, where angel is going. Angel takes the stairs, so that we don’t have to. It’s enough for us to keep looking inside, our eyes peeled at the forefront of our brains, pressing up against the thick coating of our skull-windows, the ones we thought were intact but have accumulated such a crust of grime that who knows what the original clarity used to be. opaque. opaque opaque like you, glimmering, cube. you and your language that i cry for. you and the infinite distances between us. the stairs are rickety, shaky, bosom tears have pummelled their varnish during many a winter night. to the weight of sitting on sunken stairs, the wood replies: okay. i can take it. but when angel takes the stairs, whatever we thought was going to happen ends up swallowing us whole. and i had no idea, this time around, what the hell was going on. if only they hadn’t turned around.
so the best way is to adapt, to play the same game as the environment calls for, eat the bad food, choke on running out of time, lick up the words and the delights and the comfort seeking goblins. to give up on resistance. ease your way around the world. i hate whoever wants that to be the only truth. now we need to read, to take in, to roam free amongst the curtains of our curbed imaginations, little children hiding in the labyrinthine fabric of connections missed and doubled. another instance, another instance wherein i wish i could just cry instead
so, patiently, he rose. to the occasion or to the roof of the building, does it matter? the thumping core of this nonchalant tuesday, or is it friday, something again lost upon me. more and more things such as this one., ,things that are under the radar, things for which there is no remedy other than letting them take over
alongside the river, debris of a party no one can quite explain. maybe a tea party, lewis carroll sang along these shores, but the teapots are cracked and filled with flowers, small beads, yarn. we track along the banks, letting our steps sink into the muddy greens and swallow our pride: this time around there would be no victor. it seems unfathomable that we’ve already come this far, yet we still have so far to go. A unit, a composition, they told us before we set off. but we can’t seem to pull the right strands, it’s almost as if the list had become too long, too static, the haziness has sedimented: it’s a dense, concrete mass of weight now. (we wish crying was an option).
september
alongside the river, a faded porcelain horse is lying on its side. three young children are coming into focus, stumbling along the muddy bank in waxy orange and brown raincoats. they appear to be siblings, but don’t they always? there is something hungry and crisp in the air, the smell of exciting that boils in one’s chest right at the point of the sternum, the kind of exciting that feels like it might just turn into a panic, if poked in a specific way.
the three children are now coming up on the horse. It’s big enough for them to ride, if they were to decide to. “how did you get here?” asks one. “where do you come from?” two says. “are you very sleepy?” three asks. the horse stays, unblinking, whitewashed, its muzzle flecked with mud. as if someone had ordered them to do it, the three begin the enterprise of uprighting the horse. this is no small feat. they push and pull and slip and laugh their gentle heads silly. they pant and whine and disagree. finally two of them crouch with their backs to the porcelain spine, while the third stands on the other side of the belly. the crouching two slowly, painstakingly, raise their bodies, the horse weight propped onto their small backs, until the momentum and gravity and help from the sinking mud stabilises the horse against three’s hands.
“so now what”. they look up at their success. the glassy equine eyes twinkle in the slanted sunlight that slashes through the wooden skeleton of a winter forest. they hoist each other up onto the horse’s back, its four hooves now solidly anchored into the mud. just as the children begin to catch their breath, gratefully congratulating each other silently, they feel an intense warmth shiver through their thighs, ankles, groins. “it’s coming to life!” says one. “it desires us to ride it!” says two. “we’re going on an trip!” says three. they all look at each other and burst into laughter, far too aware they are all saying the same thing
alongside the river we attempt to find some spacious patch to spread out in. today we think about a non-stop flow of intricate layers, the weaving of experiences and lives and discourses that takes place simultaneously to the breath of eagle-soaring humans, the ones who live and attempt to live and go beyond themselves. there is no turning back or turning away or avoiding the things that end up costing you your life force, the energetic pulse of a heaving dragon sigh. dragon chest up and down, hot steam air frothing inside the vast cavities of what feels like the belly, the churning center of things. the image doesn’t stop there, as there is a pause in the chainlink, an interruption, and although the dragon is a grand sort of magician, one that filters through the tales and calls himself treasure keeper, it is only, at the end of the day, a figure for the senses, the sleeping warmth, the guarded rest, the protective womb. a she dragon, a mother. she only keeps track of the shiny things, the impeccable gold, and gemstones of a lifetime’s seeking, a lifetime’s loot, whenever travellers pass through. most of this treasure is tales. the story is the most precious thing one guards. not just dragons, too, everyone does it. guarding their stories with their lives. i would like to get to a point where it doesn’t matter to me, where i can let go of the stories, give them away, not feel a need to own them or an urge to pass them along to keep them whole. but who are we without a story? where is my memory without the story of my self? what is my memory if not a tale? the tale i remember telling, the tale i want to keep writing?
alongside the river two breaths to be taken. one image cannot stop spinning. of three orbs circling each other, spiralling. one angry person is at the door. too much is sprouting, unearthed though, like sprouting from the sky, from a cloud. sheer, naked, muscular body floating on a ground cloud, now. the images flick through themselves, a macabre slideshow.
alongside the river, someone is calling out your name in the dark. softly though, not a shout, not a holler, not an echoing boom of anger or even angst. softly like a prayer, you know the voice. it’s the one your grandmother would speak to you to ease you back to sleep when you’d wake up, heart pounding, compressed in your chest, from a nightmare in the unfamiliar home. you know the one. you know, how she slides her voice down your oesophagus like a spoonful of mango jam, of soft linen sheets but without the plasticky mattress cover under them, that layer you’ll never get used to.
the nightmare is filled with silhouettes, and skins, soft, melting skins of those from your past, ghosts, some would call them ghosts. but you’re not sure, are you. the skin you want to touch, you wish we could all get along, we could all love each other in one breath, in one incantation. that is what the prayer becomes now. do not be disrupted by the absence in your nightmare? was it even a nightmare? in some ways, it felt like a dream. the figures were there, speaking in hushed tones and agreeing with the way your love wants to show itself in this life. agreeing with the multiplicity. you cry a little bit because there is nothing to it. why was the discombobulated voice presence touch mouth his? why was there such a blend a confusion of identities between Yesterday and Today? and the Day Before, the Day Before was soft and sunny, and the Day Out of Time was also gentle. but Yesterday… Today… they were one and the same. even though you know, you know full well they are not. the rational mind has a slippery, shady grip on itself. all you can do is sigh, open your eyes, kiss the neck and hope for the best
october
alongside the river, you can’t hide. there is too much white glow and the wind is skinning every inch of cover you’re pathetically trying to wrap yourself in. it doesn’t feel like cellophane anymore, it’s rice paper-thin; what did you think would happen when you picked it out? Hoping against hope that it wouldn’t dissolve in the mist? that it would keep you warm?
the porousness of it all is too evident now, look who’s laughing. so coax yourself into submission, rub your neck with tender hands and snuggle deep within your breath, let it cradle you. it’s alright, it’s alright, they say. the truth is only a few discomforts away.
had you known though, had you known, would you have dared show yourself with such a hand? skin rubbed raw and nothing left to shield, just jam and white bone, for the taking. a spectacle for the ogle eyes, the merciless and the merchants, the kings and the queens. thank god, thank god it is also for the trees
the day courses through me without appropriate notice. give me an image to dissect. give me a chant to obsess over. i can’t stand myself these days, slow and drab and flat and trite. same same same repetition nothing new under the sun or the moon for that matter.
when are you going to shake yourself awake? find the loins to burn within, find the gusto or the wind or the point where the seagulls converge and can simply float still, perfect arch of current, no effort required.
it’s no wonder i can’t stand myself anymore, i can’t sit myself down either. that’s the problem i suppose. if only i could sit myself, then maybe i could stand myself.
alongside the river, nothing special. no way to go, no direction, no sign posts. no weird noise today. no striking shadows, no rustle in the leaves, no children walking along the banks. no animal coming for a deep swig of water, no strange forgotten object to dig up. no desire. no chance. no energy. no strength or willingness, not even a bit. alongside the river today, blank, white cloudiness, for eons. no secret meaning of the world. no whispers that can chant your name in the dark. no gentle touch that wills you to step forward. no inhale to steady yourself in a frightening doorway. no footsteps, no train tracks, no ice cream truck, no stand selling french fries or churros. no color, no teapot, no notes, neither handwritten nor musical. no one. no two. no three. no smoke, no smell, no echoing bird cry. simply: nothing special. for any special thing, just assume that it’s not there. there. simple.
no cat, no shivers, no swan gliding away in the distance, no sign whatsoever, really.
No no, none of that. except for you, of course, cataloguing what’s not there. you, your aching back and your watery reflection in the stream of eternity: you laugh you laugh, you have no idea what to make of it.
Synesthetic axes for the candle:
a) colors. the orange inimitable glow, blue at the bottom. gradients, from sheer blue, to the blackened sheer, to too bright white, faded sheerer white. the contrast with the surroundings: flickering lines, moving lines, undefined lines, wavering lines, unstable contours. the black wick, with orange tip, dipped in white at the bottom. Creams, neutrals, darkened burnt edges, mostly warmth, soft white, eggshell white, beige, custard, semen. Note the possibility to go into detail about the shades and finish of the colours: glow, matte, shiny, veneer, bright, dull, flat, textured, waxy.
b) shape. long, cone, rim is circular. elongation: the wick, the flame, the stick itself. Verticality defines it, an ascension, quest for elevation. dynamic is up-down. vertical even in a low, wide candle. bubbles, bulges, irregularity, drips, splatters, flecks, oozings, glued, welded, moulded, wedged.
c) smell. waxy, burnt, sulfur, ghost like, old, library, dress, birthday party, cake, late nights, sex, ritual, hot skin, soothing, time going by, loneliness, up close, afar.
d) texture. gentle, skin-like, sleepy. Rub on face, desire, hand dripped, hand printed, traces of hand. Evolving, shrinking, melting. Why does the wax at times disappear and at times splatter everywhere? I never understood. Where does it go when it burns. Where does it go when it doesn’t melt into thick droplets of solidified voluptuousness.
[monologue de la bougie]
d’une traite, ainsi, je me fonds, coulée doucereuse et bienveillante de matière molle. Plus rien n’importe au monde quand il s’agit d’être posée là, tout près de la tête de l’enfant, endormi sur l’oreiller de coton, l’oreiller repassé, tout de même, l’après-midi de la veille par la grand mère soigneuse, et dont le bleu s’est délavé tout juste assez pour offrir un ciel pâle en guise de couronne aux cheveux bouclés de l’angelot, oui, ce petit qu’on a regardé tant de fois, les paupières détendues après les jeux du jour, les plissements, les clignements, les mises au point, les directions, les attentions proches et distantes, les troubles, les voilages, les étincelles, les rires, les brillances, toutes ces choses que font un oeil au fil d’une journée, du matin au soir, de la première ouverture jusque l’épuisement, enfin reposés, on le voit, parce que ça se voit, il n’y a pas de doute, une paupière qui a bien vécu, bien vu, est ravie, plus même, extatique, de pouvoir se refermer, lourde de sens, de questions, de paysages, de joies et d’incompréhensions, et transmettre, comme un mot dit à une boîte de conserve attachée à un fil, comme dans un tube en plexi d’une station spatiale de science fiction qui relie, intestin informatif, les différentes salles de contrôle, où les missives peuvent passer en un bruit de suction satisfaisant, comme un envoi recommandé, donc, à l’esprit, au cerveau, à la conscience ou ce que l’on veut, les films de la journée, les épreuves, les rushes non traités qui méritent toute son attention, ou pas du tout, mais on ne le sait pas encore, et on ne le saura jamais vraiment, car tout mérite, car la mémoire est vivante, et omnivore, et jamais plus vivante que sous le sommeil, lorsqu’elle se meut, s’émeut, se vêtit, se farde, pour sortir, toute habillée, costumée, peinturlurée, ornée de ses plus beaux bijoux, un matin d’automne où le soleil traverse à l’horizontale un vieux carreau presque jaune, d’une manière toute inattendue, dans la voix aggravée par les années d’un jeune homme aux boucles devenues, depuis, sombres et chargées d’un parfum vigoureux.
november
by the river yesterday i saw two ghosts playing cards. there was a third standing pretty close nearby watching over the course of events. they were talking although i couldn’t quite hear everything about the inside of a big, concrete house with piles of glass all over the floor, like shattered but there on purpose. it was confusing to listen to them talk because they didn’t talk in order: one would say the sentence that came as a response and the question would follow. they were breaking the rules or so it seemed to me but to them everything seemed normal and the one watching over the game didn’t seem to mind at all that they were breaking the rules. it was strange to watch them put down the cards and pick them up in the wrong order too. everything seemed to be happening in reverse except for it lacked that odd laggy gravity defying quality of actual reversed movement -
except for it lacked that odd laggy gravity defying quality of actual reversed movement, the strangeness of a familiar gesture performed almost exactly right but it feels off for some reason. it lacked the asymmetry of movement in time.
so i listened carefully but i had to let go of a lot of things especially the idea that i would understand things as they were unfolding, information as it was being delivered had no semantic grip at all, slippery as a rocky surface transformed by the river’s incessant gush. however when all was said and done there was no more sense to be searched for, everything was cohesively wrapped in a cute surprise bundle, something i could pop into my mouth and chew on for the rest of my walk along the river, a biscuit of meaning, firm with a tender center, made from a secret recipe that feels ancient or intuitive or both.