Immaculate Concept

This song plays in my head as I stand on the fence across from the mall. Quickly, urgently, I smoke a cigarette. A single drop of rain falls on the corner of my mouth. This brings me into the sense-memory of kissing you. There is visceral truth in these tightly-spun lyrics.

 

I, unhinged, sorry

Hold care for you

Begin to love`

The utmost

And who else

Spire bound

 

 

 

Old Sky

 

apocalypse, n.

  1. any revelation or disclosure; an unveiling
  2. a disaster resulting in drastic, irreversible damage to human society or the environment, esp. on a global scale; a cataclysm

seperated by type and temporality 

 

I’m on vacation”

Why must so much of life be convalescent? What is it that we are all so desperate to recover from? Our childhoods? The weight of the life we’ve built?

Is it not possible to enjoy all of our time in this wildly beautiful world? In what grevious reality must our everyday lives be so dull as for us to desire an escape from them?!

Sour

People seek validation for the things they already believe. We find research to back up our personal truths. We seek in the places we know we will find. I propose this: Go in blind and go out burning. Nothing with known consequences is worth investing in. Sit very still and very straight and begin the new day with as much fierce brightness as you can stomach.

I leave you with this, from the ever lovely Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson

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(mute the cheesy music on the NASA vid plz)

heritable visage

One day Jane’s hair starts to fall out. Not in that “I’m shedding” way, but in a “Wow, the entirety of my scalp is noticeably less covered by hair!” way. She wanders onto the screened-in porch, and falls into deep reverie. The trees are golden, the air fragrant. She wonders if her husband has noticed. She wonders if this is the product of an undiagnosed autoimmune disorder. Maybe there are too few vegetables in her diet? A wasp is attempting to escape the upper left corner of the porch. Her legs and arms are still amply furnished. She checked. She returns to the house and begins to cook salmon fillets in a cast iron skillet.

Cyclic Swim

 

 

In recent times I have been captive of three infinities.

The first was a scooter ride along the Vietnamese coastline. A mesmeric dutch girl behind me, shivering to the point of convulsion. Sheets of needle-sharp rain in our eyes. Collaborative humor amidst genuine suffering. Slender tunnels so filled with wind and freighters that emerging without injury seemed implausible.

The second, the bus from Podgorica, Albania to Athens, Greece. The Albanian couple, laughing boisterously and smiling unabashedly, feeding me small handfuls of dried fruit. The cumulative weight of the long absence of conversation I could cognize. Euphoric fatigue, inescapable and intimate, pumping through my veins with as much urgency as was present at our first acquaintance.

The third, a moonlit hike in the Jemez Mountains. Cascading hot-springs many miles from civilization beneath a dome of cliff and stars. A complete disrobing. Boots holding our flesh aloft atop a wide road until the moonlight washing our skin turned sharp, and our thirst faded into the forest alive around us. Finding the car adrift in its own glass.