This moment started months ago, two lines racing from the origin, rising to meet the real, two paths of this asymptote now reaching the center where they yearn for each other, pushing hard against cold mathematical fact, hoping for some breakthrough in logic to make parting impossible. Today the sky is grey, but yesterday the sun shone bright and the air was cold between the buildings.
Domestically, the plates are cleared.
Domestically, the guests are seen to the door.
I wash my face, she brushes her teeth.
A feeling of solidarity with the furniture, a reason to be here.
White sheets on the floor, white sheets on our skin, white sheets laying less white on the grass. White fell everywhere, a great pure void descending over the horizon's edge, as if the world were tucking itself in after a long day of spinning (looking?). What's the big 'ol planet lost this time? Among the glossy thick stock flyers, the crushed bottles of water, the smattering of clothing, cell phones, two day old pizza that was always the wrong size, pillows on the floor, the curtains (drawn), a mirror, B12, and a feeling that could have been jealousy, whatever this sphere of molten rock and endless sea could lack, might have been contained in that transient, meaningless room.
Facing the sky, I was waiting.
Facing the sky, I waited.
I woke up without falling asleep some time around four thirty,
when it was time to leave.
The taxi driver's sister had trouble sleeping (only an hour or two a night, he says)
so Ambien, Lunesta, Melatonin were scribbled as remedy.
Everywhere in this city we got fucked.
Taxis, french fries, water, after parties.
Somewhere in Detroit, the kids breathed easily, sleeping quietly - but in this room, somewhere on the floor, sheets undulated while the sun rose over Ontario.
Thunderous pulse shattered windows and crushed small insects, rattling rib cages and shaking up floors. Balloons inflated heads and glasses poured into feet, making them twist and stomp. Prostitutes imitated dancers imitated prostitutes.
Energy swelled in blossoms, a mist of sweat rising from steamy skin.
And suddenly there was a reason.
And suddenly the air was cool.
All the taxis turned their lights off.
Every door required an answer.
Standing above it all, a heaviness lay over the skyline.
There are all these words missing from songs like "Love Is Simple" but in parentheses should say (when it happens) - but they don't write songs like that without conviction. Surely there's doubt, like the Munch bridge on the Michigan billboard minus a screaming face, all water at sunset and silhouetted treeline.
There are all these words missing from me when I go to look for them. Instead I'm left with fragments and glimpses of the puzzle - I know how these should fit, but they just don't. So do I accept or keep searching? Maybe under the couch, maybe somewhere in California.
When objects become lost, we look and, after searching for some time, forget. The object may have never really existed.
When we become lost, as in a thick wood, we look for familiar sights for grounding, to catch the bearings slipping away into anxiety; we move ahead, unsure, but desiring action that may stir some false confidence that may, like Pinocchio, become real - only our conscience is bewildered and cannot be our guide. There is no forgetting being lost: the condition is pervasive until resolved. Feet crunch, feet crunch, leaves, leaves, so many leaves, and all these trees - until the morning sun shines unencumbered and the morning birds wake from their slumber.
They came on bikes with Lucy and left us five fifty short when we finished our messy burgers, still obsessed with cigarette packaging and the word 'sassafras', drinking it in, right off the pink line, somewhere near Damen. We woke up free of the mash-potato brains sloshed around the park previously, invigorated by comings and left longing by a going, but having gained a map. Water came quickly and then never came at all. I slept on the soft side with all the pillows and the good blanket, waking up wishing for a leg resting comfortably against mine (going numb). In a dream, I kissed her and she said "no more", but in a way that let me know she was lying. Deja vu ensued but this time they chased us out, all giggling and tossing a frisbee 'cross the free grass as we sought the chrome moose. Bicycles hung from buildings, wheels spinning stupidly in the ceaseless wind as we walked into a cafe where the stingy stole the couches. When the newspaper ran out it was time to scavenge shelves, all dusty and packed with words, and I took the opportunity to experience claustrophobia as I played hide and seek alone, with Ayn Rand. How naive (or ignorant) was she to believe in the absence of force or looting in any stage of capitalism. I tried to fall asleep on a couch but got distracted by Rachel Ray. Waiting for the bus, I sat on a stoop and imagined myself singing.
Aw man, Molly totally liked movies like this all faded color surfing dancing mexican modernism.
Bas Princen in makin' some photography! "Superior Court" who holds superior court with god in nature - the trees towering and a building cowering?
"The Twitchell House #16"
- Chris Mottalini
Josef Shulz - Geometric!
Gaston Latouche - "Pardon In Brittany"
Oh man - Monet so timeful not timeless and he knew! It hangs on the wall, a whisper, barely there, look away, at another, and it disappears! Monet knew! He knew about the ephemeral, no epic history paintings, no, it's all coming and going, transient and that's the beauty! - to lose and return to experience fresh, anew each day, phoenix resurrecting, a new sun, new moon, new hills and black mountains. Every day the birds sing and an alarm goes off.
Van Gogh, ahhh, those colors! Revolution! Yeah! Blinding, so bright and the rest, so subdued - it's obvious here, where they glow, glow, glow amongst the quiet, content - each object imbued with life, vibration, energy - complete, whole buzzzzzz.
Abbot Haderson Thayer - "I have put wings on probably more to symbolize an exalted atmosphere... where one need not Explain the action of his figures."
[a drawing of some armor]
Notes on certain people in passing:
she's lost, she needs help, she has faith
he doesn't know where his sister is
he's confused, unsure of himself, wishes he slept more
trying so hard in black
she's after a deal, fair and square - no bullshitting! no time!
he misses his girlfriend (does she miss him?) she lives too far away
he reaaally wants a beer right now - this place is awful, all this marble
where are the televisions?
he regrets his choice
she does too, but no, that one loves it! she does! wow.
she's trying to get comfortable, not used to hugging so much, hands held
he came here with others - where are they??
they never left her side, she needs them - where will they eat tonight? she doesn't know
they want to leave, they are so tired, so so tired.
...could make things magical - to believe in magic like a young girl should. And the sentiments sleep still in pop songs, waking when we feel somethin' true to remind us it's been done. So who needs records? Music or documentation reservation due to trepidation and we wish this could just be ours, right now, always and without context, to have and to hold for all time as a reminder that love is true (and it could happen to you.) And once back from the starry lakeside a song distantly buzzes in kind with the cicadas from a rusted pickup: Elvis singin' "Fools Rush In". And the next summer Grams had died and we found her apartment full of hundreds of smiling faces, hanging on the walls, and also angelic light, pouring in from above the stove, all golden, illuminating the place where she stopped breathin' and they took her gold, and they took the silver, but the stories she left for me.
[a drawing of myself riding on top of a train which floats magically through the city]
Today we went tourist, checking out the Ozymandian monuments, the twisted fountains of steel silently espousing the grandeur of man, capturing the requisite moments in gelatin and pixels - for us? or for the folks back home? The air was chilly like a cold day in April and the May flowers that would have bloomed around the cancer survivors' garden were timid and shy, waiting for a more agreeable sun. We ate peanut butter sandwiches and spoke of sticky situations like sex, hoping we wouldn't have to be honest. As the sun sets, we watch boats lying still in the could-be ocean.
In the warm belly of a grand steel serpent we sailed 'round castles made of light and little else, structures so tall they ripped vertical tears in the night sky, aglow with purpose, before plunging deep into the subterranean veins of the sleeping earth. Intermittently a voice would sound, offering guidance, muffled by the roar of the great beast. In the flickering light of the serpentine innards, I caught glimpses of your body parts out of context, like fireflies flitting on and off through darkened leaves. In jars I placed these darting flashbulbs, attempting to examine each one: your lips, full of smirk; the button of your nose, rounded like a wooden bead on my corduroy jacket; the cut of your bangs, sharp and straight; the flow of your hair, like a quiet waterfall, strands flowing downward with assurance and power, pouring softly into a bit of a wave, lapping against the shore of your shoulder. I could tell by lookin' that you were born in the mountains, but I could never understand how I knew. Sitting on the train, across from this shapeshifter which robbed your visage, I miss you.