Monday, December 5, 2011

22

I.
i send him flowers in the dream and i go into the woods to pass away,
the winter laying me down to sleep.

i awake from the dream only partially and hallucinate that i am in the middle of a customer service interaction, but my body is paralyzed so my mind experiences extreme anxiety as i struggle to tell my invisible bedside customer “THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO FOR YOU, I CAN’T EVEN LIFT THAT BANANA. OH GOD I’M GOING TO GET FIRED”

II.
i weave pale hands beneath the empty thrill of indirect sunlight,
i take the leaves into my hands and render from them
a memorial for every tree.
a tree is never thoroughly dead.
the leaves come and go but everything else looks and stays the same
provided there is no freak storm or a movie couple carving some freak shit
in the side of the tree.
imagine if humans were never thoroughly dead.
imagine if the bodies of humans remained intact and our hair just fell in and out,
in and out, threading through the follicles “like woah” and “for eternity”

III.
a graveyard could be a place where our feet are cemented into the ground
and we are like sturdy scarecrows forever, our hair collecting in piles across the land,
blowing across the street.
we could choose to donate our bodies to farmers to cut down on scarecrow costs.
people would come to mistake our hair blowing across the road for something else,
as they do with leaves.

for instance i often think a leaf blowing across the road is a large spider or small animal.

more importantly, people would come to see the piles of hair as beautiful, as indicative of something great and heavy with meaning.
they would rake the clumps of hair into ambitious piles and encourage children to play among the piles.
they would take pictures of children playing in the piles of hair,
and then their children would show their children and say “i too was once young”

IV.
i drive home from work and eat chocolate covered pretzels,
my thoughts heavy with delicious and
i am addicted to this reflex.
it is almost impossible to have a meaningful interaction at work because my being is so thoroughly steeped in

screaming children / repetitive tasks / every type of chef and non-chef shithead you can imagine,

that it is hard to shed the customer service skin in a timely manner.
for instance i said to a man “how are you” and then immediately after i said “good thanks” before he even said anything, answering my own question and feeling uniquely horrified. it is like that moment in every movie where the protagonist catches himself saying or doing something that is diametrically opposed to some value/idea of self, and he goes “OH GOD not this, what have i become, i am becoming {my emotionally distant capitalist dad, etc.}”

not that i am subverting some value or idea of self {always in flux}, but i am being compensated for pouring my mind into the mind-mold of the highly efficient and therefore not entirely present customer service rep, whilst becoming immune to comments about my name and how it’s spelled and how it’s the name of a famous politician lady and did i know that.

K comes through my line with wet hair, with an eight dollar bar of chocolate.
i know he doesn’t like chocolate and i know that the chocolate is for me.
i slide it across the counter to him anyway and then he slides it back, smiles
and leaves my place of work

V.
when i was a kid there was a game where we would close our eyes and imagine we wandered through a large house, encountering religious imagery and creepy things on the way
and the point was that the scenery would actually begin to unfold vividly behind your eyes.
my mother thought this was witchcraft but we were just entertaining ourselves
with elaborate phosphenes on the porch

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Friday, October 21, 2011

20

a couple times a year i have this dream, although it seems like my subconscious should have outgrown it by now.

you were in my dream and we were all “THIS ISN’T DONE YET.” then i realized it was a dream. you said: "why did you do that (thing that I don’t remember now) (in the dream) (it was a thing that hurt you)?”

and i said: “i wasn’t there in that part of the dream. it was a dream lady masquerading as me, but i hadn't arrived yet. i've just arrived now. we’re both dreaming right now, but the thing that you think i did was in your dream before we synched up. i would never do that thing. but we’re synching right now. and you’re right, this isn’t over. you should call me when you wake up, if you remember to.”

“i’ll call you when i wake up.”

i am woken up at this point by the vibration of my phone on my night stand.

i think: “oh wow, he’s fast!” and for five seconds i contemplate how magical this is, and then as the chemicals that constitute my logic slowly fall back into place (i picture a lazy movement similar to the little rings in one of those handheld water games from the 90s*), i feel all that old sadness crowding around me.

then i see that it is a text, an invitation to see Human Centipede 2 at midnight. it is not from you. that is not one of the ways in which we are not done (although it is true that we will never see this movie together). i wonder if the subconscious brain can ever know "done," and i'm glad that consciousness evolved to split itself in two, and i'm glad that i spend most of my time wearing the version that knows "done," or at least knows "done" to the extent that it's functional and not steeped in the old sadness, which can, in dreams, feel acute.

thankfully only a third of my life (ideally) is spent wearing the version that doesn't know "done." although sometimes i wish it were more, strangely enough. sometimes it is nice to feel that something isn't done, though i am not necessarily referring to our thing in particular. always feeling like everything is done sometimes makes me feel a freedom from my own history that can make everything feel "unfamiliar" and not steeped in anything, and after a while that leaves me feeling desperate to be steeped in anything (even gargantuan familiar sadness will do).

the task of life is to feel appropriately steeped in a familiar system that doesn't reek of an old sadness.

sometimes it is more simple than that; sometimes it is just nice to sleep.


i eat a banana for breakfast and i don’t think about you for the next six months.

*http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080602143211AANXphn

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

19

come closer!
i have intermittently wanted to tell you for a long time:
come back to my window.
it’s a different window now, though.
come find my new window and stand below it,
and i promise i will come to the window to look at you,
among other things.

Monday, October 3, 2011

18

-I’m No Nihilist-

Didn’t feel the earthquake but saw a bunch of birds that felt the earthquake,
fleeing from our permanent planet and from the smells of cars that need repair

I am eager for a different weather, for a storm to keep me company

I am disturbed by the photoshopped cats on the bags of cat food
I like my cats how I like my humans: real looking, with a disconcerting amount of facial hair

I am eager to forget how absurd a set of traffic lights looks beneath such a big sky,
and that there is no such deliberate cooperation in space

Things smash into each other with an embarrassing amount of disregard,
And this is the same spirit in which aphorisms are formed:

We have coached ourselves to say “live in the moment” when a moment is obedient,
and we say “this too shall pass” when a moment misbehaves.

Really these both hint at the same thing: life is happening while it moves closer to not happening

So really these phrases are interchangeable.

I’m no nihilist, but I’m certainly spearheading the movement to make people aware of this.

Can you imagine if we reversed the occasions for these phrases?
How much more interesting and creepy they would become?

Imagine someone telling you, “this too shall pass,” while you’re throwing back drinks and having a great time with friends,
And that same person rubbing your back while you vomit into the toilet later that night, advising you to “live in the moment.”

17

-Why I’m Single-

Absent-mindedly fondling my breasts while driving in a torrential downpour and wondering why Boston Market never took off.

Picking my nose at a red light, I look over to see an attractive man staring at me, amused.

My ex-boyfriend might have a Wikipedia page and three thousand more followers on Twitter,

but my rants against sexist columns in the Daily Collegian have been published in the Daily Collegian, and ignored by hundreds of UMass males who go to BarStoolSports.com every day to rate, on a scale of one to ten, a picture of some girl’s breasts.

I went on a sandwich date and we had nothing to talk about.

My date said “I hate it when the sandwich contents falls out the back of the sandwich when you bite into it.”

“We’ve all been there,” I said.

Sometimes I think I look like a little boy and I wonder if the men who are interested in me are pedophiles, and then I don’t want to date anyone at all.

I hate it when people point out that I’m shorter than the average woman.

The next time someone tries to get cute with me by teasing me about my height, I’m going to call them a motherfucker, which is a word I’ve always wanted to use but it never seems appropriate. I hope I can deliver it well. I’ll say:
“Motherfucker, I’m not short. You’re just tall, and it’s really fucking bothering me.”

Sometimes I stutter because I think about what I’m saying as I say it.
Sometimes I don’t stutter but I end up saying something that makes no sense.
I once worked with someone who had noticeably impressive calf muscles.
I meant to ask him: “Do you do a lot of bike riding?”
But I said: “Do you ride a lot of bikes?”
That was a weird moment.

But I am making an effort.
An effort to dress less like a lesbian and more like a closeted lesbian.
This will please my mother.

I am waiting for the melatonin to kick in, at which point I will dream about entering the dragon’s lair, or something equally shitty.

I dream that I’m about to receive a ham and cheese sandwich from a woman on a motorcycle, and I wake up with my arms extended over the side of the bed where a partner could fit, where a sandwich vision fades into half an empty bed

16

-Some notes on having nothing prepared five hours before this reading-

Depression on the seventh floor of the library.
I came here to practice creativity under fluorescent lights.
I came here to summon inspiration in a tiny room, but on the wall in front of me someone has written “13 foot cock.”

What a terrible thought, what a nightmare that would be.
The reading is in five hours and I’ve written nothing, and “13 foot cock” towers over me, oppressively.

I hate the huffington post. Today on the huffington post I had the option to click the following headline: “photos of celebrities picking up after their dogs.”

Just what I need to start my day: a slideshow of movie stars picking up dog shit.

Everyone is crazy about dogs. I like dogs just as much as the next guy, but let’s be real. A dog will eat his own shit- or, worse, another dog’s shit- and lick your face five minutes later.

I have never heard a worse betrayal.

Sometimes I’ll begin to have a sexy dream and then the dream will be foiled by a neutered pet, meowing me out of my first dose of psychic romance in two months, as if he can sense my pleasure and needs to intervene out of vengeance.

"If I can’t reproduce, you can’t hump your bed while unconscious," says my cat.

Cat, I will be pissed at you for the rest of the day. I will see your face in the wallpaper of my cell phone and I will feel a twinge of bitterness.

Speaking of cell phones, texting has really invented a whole new necessity for the exclamation point. I find myself exclaiming things in text messages that I would never exclaim in real life. I do this because text communication can be very ambiguous, since it isn’t punctuated by a tone of voice or body language. I know other people do this too, based on the texts I receive. You want to convey that you’re saying what you’re saying in a warm, friendly way, so you rely on the exclamation point, because a smiley face can feel contrived. So I end up exclaiming things like:
I’ll see you at the barbecue tonight at Brendan’s house! LOL

My dad didn’t start texting until about six months ago, and it took him a while to warm up to gratuitous usage of the exclamation point, but he’s come around.

But at first all of his texts sounded so serious.
Hi Hill. (Period). Would you like to grab dinner tonight? (Question mark.) Let me know by 5 o’clock. (Period).

WHY IS MY DAD MAD AT ME?! I wondered. We’re not even talking about politics (!)

Speaking of politics, and religion, sometimes it is tempting to advance my pacifist/agnostic agenda by hijacking a hot air balloon and landing it softly on the roof of the UMass library.

(Too soon?)

Writing a self summary for okcupid is like writing an essay on a book you’ve never read. Which I’ve actually done successfully several times. I recently stumbled across one of my close friends on okcupid, only to find out that we’re 13% enemies. This has been a devastating development, but we’re slowly starting to recover, changing our answers to the okcupid questionnaires accordingly.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

15

a word from tori amos:

Because the love that this woman clearly has for this man is very deep. Each person has to decide in their mind if they're going to stay together and if this crisis was really about each of them looking at their lives and making their changes. All of us have to do that to make a relationship work. You have to be working as a whole person. So if you've let yourself down or if you've become disempowered for whatever reason or if you've become so affected by the traumas that are happening in the world that you're not functioning in the relationship, then things are going to break down. But that doesn't mean that you don't love the other person.

Monday, June 6, 2011

13

with each passing year the new cars look more and more like insects.
insects are efficient I guess.
and now I hear the stars are for sale.
anyone who owns a star is on my shit list.
with each passing year big things become more confrontational if you let them.
like fields.
an empty field at 2am can peel away at the onion of my faith like nothing else can.
I try to nominate myself away from all such onions.
is the onion god? I don’t know. whatever it is, it oscillates.
it’s an oscillating onion.
too big to love, too absent to be big.
and sometimes: too absent
to love, too big to be absent.
I turn from the field and dwell on the goodness of no onion.

one never stops wanting to find oneself, even if one knows there is no base self to be found.
I.E. FALL 2006 / SPRING 2007:
I took some time off from school to ‘find’ myself.
I found myself all right.
found myself stoned in the mcdonald’s parking lot in my dunkin donuts visor.

it’s the old man at the coffee shop who has the answers/has the onion in his pocket.
it is impossible for me to look at him: first of all, it is necessary
to gaze at him if one is to observe him at all, and it’s like gazing at the sun.

gold watch.
white skullet.

he stares straight ahead, deep into his own wisdom, silent and still with his cup of coffee.
the only thing that can shake him from his zen is his own 2am field:
the radio playing “menha menha” by the muppets.
he twists his head around as if to contemplate: what the fuck is this,

surrendering to the mystery before it reduces him to admiration

12

oh to be the nurse who kisses your burn. it is a moot point. it is all a basket of moot points, parading in my mind. the basket of moot points laughs at my attempts to make sense. ha! it says. look at this precious (i.e. pitiful) creature, trying to make sense from feelings! I reach for a rice cake and try not to look back. it is hard not to look back when the thing you are trying not to look back at has the audacity to walk in front of you (thoughts of the object, not the object itself), although I am the first to admit one must first approve of the audacity and therefore consent to the confrontation, rice cake in hand. it is hard to conduct the day. it is hard to scramble an egg. it is hard to pursue the ideal of the breakfast before noon. the times and frequencies of meals indicate how close I am to attaining functional personhood, as established by the world around me, a world I increasingly trust with an ease that gives me permission to feel peace via the utilitarian truth of the meal routine. it is hard to determine if personhood really is at odds with the basket of moot points. at some point I hope it is not: one should not have to choose between the basket and full-time personhood. one can perform the personhood in the basket, ideally. one can kiss the burn and achieve the egg before noon. one can truly have it all. before one can have it all, one must first have oneself, though. one must learn to inhabit the body that performs the personhood in another’s basket, before one can feel the happiness of being in such a sexy place. one must first feel that their own basket is not weaved from barbed wire.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Monday, March 14, 2011

10

Remember fend-for-yourself nights? Yeah, like four nights a week. Rememeber shit-on-a-shingle? What? It was something mom used to make for dinner. It was steak cooked with mushrooms and peppers and thrown on toast.
Shit on a shingle. And pancakes. She made the best pancakes. But she would use the instant mix. But she would use the instant mix that required mixing, at least. Like, she added the egg and the water and stirred it and poured it into the pan. Crispy-edged pancakes. Syrup. For dinner.

Dreams about my professor being a disagreeable lover. He looks like the sister of my first ex boyfriend, but with a y chromosome and an eternal nineties grunge essence.

Some college in the country is establishing a men’s studies department to examine the ways feminism has created a culture of misandry. It’s sad that when I type misandry into Microsoft word it tells me it ain’t a word, and am I thinking of masonry? No!

Sunday, February 27, 2011

9

-premature memoir-

I want to go into the empty room
and occupy the nostalgic zip code.
permanent child, instinctively I wake and spread
five fingers on the wall that feeds the ceiling.
where have all the familiar confrontations
gone? supposedly I got the facts from you

touching finger pads with sophisticated
babysitters, someday she will take
me seriously and at that point I will
talk back to no fancy villain, hoist
myself into the top tier trades,
read the paper so I am informed

as fuck and ready for the disney cruise,
shaking the hand of some suffering asshole
in a mickey mouse costume, french
fries in the wave pool forever.

all this aside, I am a nice person.
my favorite cookie is the fig newton,

and if you try to comfort me I’ll be
your favorite bedtime terrorist in black,
I’ll rub your shoulders til they bleed like tiles.
my favorite balloon is the one above the basket,
the one that takes the people away from me
(in the wicker dream that takes the cake)

I have a fire lit between my eyes,
bright like an animal in heat.
if I neglect to produce my own
apocalypse, it is only because I need
a vacation before that vacation
can bear witness to its own abortion,
this shit is copyrighted

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

on hiatus

soon i will post!

UPDATE: indefinitely on hiatus until i get well. hope you're all well.