of the morning tell me to
What is punctuation without language
tearing out old pages of notebooks
bagging old clothes for donation
checking dates on condiments
and so forth…
i find the balance between holding onto memories and letting old wounds heal in these little tasks. like, i’ve needed new socks for months and months but just haven’t gotten around to it because last winter i went without wearing socks at all (mostly, a romantically generously general statement of course duh) and some part of me is dipping toes still in that freefall. or, i’ve been contemplating a haircut for months, but i’m waiting for the next real heartbreak, or for when it grows long enough to touch my butt while on the toilet, which ever comes first.
dogs don’t give a fuck, but they do piss on your bed to mark their territory.
meanwhile people are going on stabbing sprees in china, alain resnais dies at 91, and my roommate is taking a bath.
i deflated my fantasies and put up a poster of pop music. bob is still up on my wall, but… i went to a poetry reading the other night by a woman, petite and birdlike, with a peculiar mystical energy and a cosmopolitanly painted face. it was great, she owned her vulnerability, her breathing, her steady wavering voice, but because her voice wasn’t my voice reading her words in my head off a page, i could not fully allow myself to accept it. readings are so specific. somehow music is more inclusive.
i read chapter 3 from Steven Shaviro’s Doom Patrols, titled “Bilinda Butcher”, and fell back into the memory of seeing My Bloody Valentine last summer:
"Of course, you don’t figure all this out until afterwards. You begin to make sense of it only as it slips away. The concert is over, and now it’s the relative silence of the street that hits you with the force of a shock. You feel at once exhilarated and drained. The ringing in your ears takes quite a while to subside. Everything in the world has returned more or less to its proper place, but in an eerie state of abeyance. My Bloody Valentine’s music leaves you with a strange post-coital feeling: as if you knew you’d had an orgasm recently, but you couldn’t remember when, or even exactly how it felt. Maybe this is what sex with space aliens would be like. In any case, the music never builds up to a phallic climax, in the timeworn manner of mainstream rock and roll and other such classical narrative forms. But it also evades—or defuses—the relentless erotic pulse of mutant dance forms like disco, techno, and rave. And it eschews as well the frustrated-boy rage and angst of the ‘industrial’ sound. As guitarist/songwriter Kevin Shields puts it, this music expresses, not "pure, unadulterated anger," but "kind of all emotions rolled into one." An intensity freed from specific content or focus; an erotic, bodily feel no longer tied to particular organs or zones. A sound as floating, enigmatic, and decentered—as ‘ambient’ and all-embracing—as anything by Brian Eno, but charged with a violent sense of physicality that Eno’s music simply does not possess."
i know love, but experiencing it is a distant memory. that kind of love, i mean. i know desire, it drives me everyday to and from work, all kinds of work. i know sex, but do i really know sex?
spindly limbs clothed in mostly black
in the early morning that was black too
in the taxi cab black as well
we, as my mom likes to say of my dad,
fed each other pieces of our hearts.