fragments

- Originally uploaded by copyright depuis 1965

first thing's first: i think i have an idea. it's basically the opposite of what i was writing about wanting to write- that wasn't really what i want to write about. i was just grumpy. this idea's sweet. it's about intersections. about that solitary moment, the one that merges past to future. we call it the 'present', and its liquid, and constantly moving with us. And constantly the portion we call the 'past' is growing and urging us forward (and making it hard for us to take steps because it becomes heavy, that bag on our shoulder). and besides, the part called the 'future' never does tell us how much is left in the hourglass.

it's growing, i'm developing the story. one of these 3am's i'll start it.

*__*__*

______?_, A LIST:

____- so you think you can dance makes me cry too often.
____- the song: Dancing (by Elisa), which i first heard on so you think you can dance, will make me cry (often), even if so you think you can dance isn't even on.
____- it is quiet. nothing could be more special
____- i cannot remember the last time i slow danced.
____- being accustomed to taking walks that exceed an hour's duration, my 38 minute stroll today was grossly unsatisfactory. i think perhaps air helps 'order' things in my head. Though, what things, and what order, i do not know. Only that one must exist, and this activity, one foot before the other, for some reason helps all the i don't knows fall into the right places.
____- it occurs to me... i'm actually alive right now. why is that something i always forget?, thinking perhaps it's a thing that starts later, or, more correctly: will recommence later.
____- i miss my sister more than any one (thing) in the world
____- probably i should readjust my sleeping patterns. it appears (based on when people are on gchat, that i am living on LA-time)
____- everyone at my funeral will have to listen to a song. i have not decided what that should be, but the contenders are: the slow movement of Ravel's piano concerto, Silentuim- the second movement of Part's Tabula Rasa, and the first movement of Brahms's Ein deutsches Requiem
____- in a few weeks it will be warm enough for me to sit in the park. by the beach. in the street. and read.
____- Kafka on the Shore is what i need it to be: liberating. Reminds me that when i write, anything is possible. i am very tired of traditional story-telling. i find it uninspiring and it... bores me a little to be honest. also, i feel stifled by its Tradition when i come to write. Since my style doesn't by temperament suit expositions and characterizations and recapitulations and resolutions and that typical 'structure' of the story i sort of dry-up if i come to write in that way. it's not that i can't (at least... i don't think it's that), it's more that i don't want to, and i'd rather not write than write like that. enough people do it. some of them very well. all of them bore me. i still read it. it's just not thrilling. When you read Murakami, Neruda, Marquez, Foer... anything can happen. the whole of anything is possible. you never what's going to happen. who's going to disappear into a wall, float off with a balloon, forget how to speak... anything.
____- i'd like to slow dance. in a dark room- perhaps only the light in the hallway is on. you're all ready for bed, you just came back into the living room to grab your book and turn off the stereo. April in Paris is playing. We haven't been there together. yet. (to Paris). We always talk about going. i come out the bathroom at the end of the hallway, with my minty tasting mouth, slightly cold face from the water, still a few wet strands of hair. i like seeing you move in dark spaces. i like the shapes that make up your body. you have a beautiful geometry. as a silhouette i notice it, but in the light i can't. i miss the whole because of your eyes, or your hair, or your lips, or clavicle when you're in a tshirt, your feet when your lying down with them on my lap- on the couch... in light i can't put you together. in light you are a strange carousel to me, and you turn revealing to me new magic with each turn, distracting me from the whole. in the dark, your body seems quieter, like it has already turned off the night-light as is asleep under sheets. in the dark your body is vulnerable. you are moving, but i think you are a cat at rest. you turn quickly and your hair flies all over the place. i see a shooting star, but i'll never tell you that. now facing me you look up and are startled. you smile, but i can't see it. i just know you are because you think i want to kiss you (because it's night and we're going to bed and you think that's what i'm thinking). (i'm not thinking that). i step forward and try to take the novel out your hands. you're hesitant, waiting for me to kiss you so you can give me a groan and say (you're preparing this in your mind in readiness): ahhh, q, we've been sitting in front of the tv watching nothing all night. why did you wait till now?, i'm totally tired! and you know i hate Monday's and i'm so busy at work and- seriously, do you never think about other people? We both have a hand on the book but i notice you're not going to drop it. so i let you hold it. i put my other arm around you, lean into you. the hand that was on the book i use to take your arm and put it around my neck. i put my chin on your shoulder and look at the stereo hoping April in Paris lasts another few minutes. Your hands join around my neck, you're relieved, but you're still holding your book; occasionally it knocks against my head softly. i don't mind. it knocks again. i giggle. you giggle. i feel a tense movement, then hear the book land on the couch. you put your head into my neck, i have to move mine off your shoulder, and rub my ear against your hair. Now now missy: don't try and kiss me, there'll be no funny business tonight. you laugh. damn right Mr. i smile. you smile. April in Paris ends. it's silent, but i don't let go immediately, nor do you. Come on babyface. let's get some sleep hey. I see the darkness move, you're nodding. yeah you say, but you sigh it more than pronounce it, so it comes out sounding like a little pitch of wind. yyyyeeh. You pick up the book and i wait for you. you look at me funny, wondering why i'm still waiting. i take your free hard in mine and start walking down the hall holding your hand. you giggle, it's a silly thing to do. we can't fit down the hall side by side, so now it's awkward. thankfully you don't question it, you just kinda fumble along the hallway with me, half smiling, trying to move our bodies to fit, knowing i'm being silly, but for a reason i don't know, and you know- though haven't ever put your finger on, i just have to touch you. even between the living room and the bed, i can't not touch you. we get to bed. i don't want anything, but i'm relieved to have my arms around you. not reading? you ask. no, not tonight. you settle into your pillow, i like feeling you move against me. mmmkay. goodnight dear.