A Collection of Spectacles


Thoughts come and go, rapidly jumping from one thing to the next. Sometimes thoughts enter as if stuck on repeat. A tape recorder plays its message and is then rewound, and played again. 

We sit together on the porch outside. It is six, maybe seven, in the morning. Her face is barely visible. Together, we fail to understand why some men can’t separate liking someone from wanting to sleep with them. As if, to truly like someone you have to fuck them. 

An Imaginary Excursion: He and I. Me and him.  Intertwining. We conjoin for extended moments and then separate. The motion is repeated. Over. Over. Skin’s pressed to skin. Shallow breaths. 

It all comes over me at once, a cascading waterfall of flesh, inching down my sides and back. Up and down. Up. Down. Enveloping everything. 

[exit scene]

It’s three, maybe four, in the morning. I run my hand over face and feel a blemish on my forehead. Every time I feel it, it’s like I’m touching a foreign object, something that shouldn’t be there. I will proceed to pick at this all day. 

His eyes, blue–wait no maybe brown, and lifeless scan the room. He is incapable of looking at anyone directly for more than a few seconds. When his glances are returned, his eyes dart in different directions. 

Later, he lies face down, face pressed into the carpet. He’s one of those you name the drug, I’ve tried it, kind of men. I find something faintly beautiful in this.  I ask, “So what do you like to do?”

“For fun?”


He says something about how he likes to smoke and drink and-I cut him off. 

“No, NO. Other than that. Everyone has their something, a something that makes them tick. What’s yours?”

By now I’ve consumed an obscene amount. It takes so much to make me feel comfortable now, to make conversation flow more easily. 

Finally, he admits that he likes to play the guitar. 

Now I’m sitting and wondering if I’m thought about ever, if only in a passing whisper, a quick pitiful fracture in time. I feel indifferent at this point, surprisingly, because I know I’m not. I’m keeping a firm grip on matters long gone and those that have never occurred (and probably never will). 

How am I going to love?! I don’t know its shape, its form. I don’t know what it looks like.

Inside, daylight sneaks through my window, teasing me with it’s warmth. Outside, hints of Spring fill the air.

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I ordered books!

The Atrocity Exhibition (J.G. Ballard)

Don Quixote: A Novel (Kathy Acker)

+ Something else. It’s part of a present. 

      *        *           *

I really would like it if something pleasant happened. I don’t know what exactly, but I’m hoping for good things.

I don’t want to develop the mannerisms of wounded romantics. That is, to become amorously involved with people you like and can withstand, but to turn away the ones you actually care for on a deeper level, because feeling in its truest form involves a certain amount of risk. 

Everything keeps changing, propelling forward or jumping back, but it seems nothing is ever motionless. The scenery, as of late: The trees are naked, the cold has stripped them bare, and the ground is empty and barren. Where was I when everything was still in bloom? Stuck in a mental fog, I missed the opportunity to bask in brighter days. 

Time never waits but sometimes I feel it should.

Edit: Tonight = The biggest full moon of the year!

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“…fuck ’em. fuck anyone who doesn’t want you because you are a smart and creative and funny and pretty. you are worthy of the best love in the world and, one day, you will find someone. it may take you a while, but that’s only because you’re one of a kind.” 

my father said this today, after he went on one of his rants. i thought it was nice of him. 

i guess everyone should believe that because it’s true. everyone will find someone, eventually. the rest can go to hell. i mean it. that rule applies to me too. if i’ve ever fucked anyone over and made them feel as if they weren’t worthy of affection then i deserve a “fuck you” as well.  

i can’t stop listening to angel in the snow. it’s such a beautiful song.

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