Tuesday, November 13, 2012


untitled by tamara lichtenstein

- so... like, it happened, and it was awesome... and we're friends. is that what you're saying?
- i think... well, i couldn't have worded it better.
- mgh. right.


- you're not depressed. that's not what you are.
- what am i?
- sad.
- ...
- maybe actually 'unhappy' is more correct.
- what difference does it make really?
- not much - you're the one that always insists on words. semantics. that's your thing.


i drank more than three litres of water today. ___i am still too dry.

i am thirsty, even still - it can mean only one thing you see - i am drying out. my skin will start, anyday now, to flake like papyrus. i'll croak a few last words.

and then put my thumb out and wait for the wind.


somewhere ahead of me, i am carving out a weekend. i need a saw. some gloves. maybe a ladder. some trash bags. what i need is sun and work, to sweat it out. clean the gutters. cut some branches. start with what i can. remind me what it feels like to fix and break and solve. real things. tangible, touchable things. it's a different realm, a better place that makes sense to me. problems you can't talk your way out of, that's what i love about working on houses, in gardens. moving things. it was there, now it's here. i did that. objective complete. hurrah. what's next? repeat. there are no words. no arguments. no justifications or misunderstandings. it's not emotional. there is no love to be found there. just corners. edges. consistency of paint. lengths and widths.


my worry is that as i dry out i am losing myself (again). my strange dichotomous confidence, which baffles me ; my dark, subtle sense of masculinity ; tastes ; quiet unhappiness which makes a tux on a saturday night look like a black hole. i will lose it all, and be a scarecrow instead.


i think i'll have a relationship with an accordion and run away with one and never be seen again.


these words feel insincere.



here is the ceiling, hello; here is the morning, hello,hello -
dear breath, you have a hint of blue, like the light in the shower
and this old towel,
___all this, soo long ago: it's mid-morning, it has been for days.
___we're stranded here, no one knows a way out.

i try to consult the computer keyboard, the water fountain, the shelves of books that sit silently with their chins raised or their eyes lowered.
___a window besides the elevator asks me if i remember my youth,
___insists i had one, before this morning.

mid-morning has settled in.
i stand by the wall and imagine a mermaid lying on my desk.
go looking for nymphs in the printer room.  ___wait for geological forces
to erode tuesday's patience.

i drink my tea. worry about lunch. wait for the first cracks.
sooner or later... everything has a weakness somewhere.

when i wake my pen's stained my shirt sleeve.
there's a jagged line across my page , part of the table too.
it smells like citrus and heavy too. energy drinks and coffee, this office is full of caffeinated ghosts. every gasp is stimulating.

i can't see the sun.

i must be mistaken.

i must be.


you have never known me. we met, briefly. now i grow translucent, losing stature as i make for the door.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

thoughts (fragments)

But what can I do about the fact that, as far as I can tell, nothing, nothing is put to rest, however old a man may be?

____Philip Roth, the Dying Animal

untitled by groucho5

forget Philip Roth. forget that guy, i hate reading that guy. novels of perfect length. short, decipherable, easy to read. hard to digest. every morning and evening on the train i now spend with an uncomfortable half-erection. the perfect arousal, the kind you fight again, will yourself against. the kind that feels wrong and amoral and the kind society would shun. all those thoughts you were certain no one else could have known about. and here it all is. packed into 130 pages. wretched truth. and you fidget in your seat trying to will it away - the erection - try and direct it some other way as your pants tighten around you and you squirm to accommodate your own body.


i refuse to write until i can do it without lying supine. i've decided that is the cause of all my writing-problems this year. the block. the lack of creativity, emotion or inclination - lying supine. when that stops, when i have space enough to write at a table, or at least sitting on a couch, then it will flow. it will come back and i'll be a newer version of the old me and i'd like that. kinda.


'it's just one or the other, either you forget they exist or you want to have sex with every single woman you pass. it's one or the other.'
he smirks. i haven't seen him in nearly a year and this is what i want to talk about. 'you're right. that's basically it.'
'that's all there is to it. first gear or 10th, nothing in between'.
'just empty space.'
'lots of it.'


i keep falling asleep before 10pm. it's the opposite of insomnia is. an immense attraction to collapse. a nightly indulgence.

here we go.


i have never been this lost i'm terrified. 

(and, for the first time in years, i don't know how to put it into words. i'm left with it, a lonely couple stuck on a holiday together. a wordless commute - trying our best to turn our gaze away so we our vision of each other doesn't collide.

it is a heavy thing.

a silent, inchoate heaviness.