Showing posts with label The Triplet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Triplet. Show all posts
The Triplet
28 April 2007
Bajo y Cari,
You may already be aware of this, but you are slipping. There is something happening with in the project that needs a tool, something phallic.
It was only five nights ago if you two remember that a permission was granted, and now after so long. I have returned because a messenger was sent, telling me you two have not been finishing your homework, a blank box the messenger said. My loves, there is no time left for boxes, none for a wandering from goal to goal, none for one or two, I have come to form the triplet.
First I must address you both separately:
Cari,
Your mother has been telling me of your dreams, hands on a bench, close to being deadened by hopeful shelving. She says you have not been wearing well made shoes, and that your bread baker has been at the shop more often than in your bed. I understand the attachment to woodwork, and the baker’s option of coupling. You are weakening, you are dieing if you continue this. She knows better than I, for she shares your head at night, and I merely can make language to it. But I do know this, woman, you will not be able to sing this much forever, there is a limit to your talent, there is a point in which your occasional silence will permeate, and people do not like silent people all that much. It inspires suspicion of pretension, mystery; no one likes a mystery for too long. Oh Cari, I know this is all useless, you will be this shelled forever, this young and attempting thing, you will be convinced of this tool your mother spoke of, but my lovely, no one is coming, and you stupidly, selfishly gave Stein away to a rich white family with no intention of visiting. Perhaps this will all change when your shame truly sets in.
Bajo,
Your shoes are fine, your collective and transmition. Last night when I told you that you were beautiful, I did not merely say that so you would calm down. I said it so you would stop yelling, so you might stop and swallow, stop and shuck your intentions. That man’s beer deserved to be thrown. I have been asking the mountains to collaborate with me on this one, since it does seem so hard for you to get to them, that one there, perhaps the one with the snow still atop. Help me find my way back in, love, for the beaches are far from here, and I know that ultimately I can not bring those sands to you, and the sweater on them, he is too far from here for now. Cari and I have spoken to the possibility of teaching you how to drive, and the prospect is exciting. You plus wheels equals only unimaginably romantic impulsive road trips, a ring around the moon when you reach the Western Coast, a compilation of the triplet sing songey in your attempt to reach a goal while calling it another point of commencement, of initiation.
As a man I will say this and only this when it comes to my hands they do not belong to either of you, though as the permission holds, I allow you both to use them as tools, phallic or otherwise, I will advise them to abide.
Love,
Mano
Bajo y Cari,
You may already be aware of this, but you are slipping. There is something happening with in the project that needs a tool, something phallic.
It was only five nights ago if you two remember that a permission was granted, and now after so long. I have returned because a messenger was sent, telling me you two have not been finishing your homework, a blank box the messenger said. My loves, there is no time left for boxes, none for a wandering from goal to goal, none for one or two, I have come to form the triplet.
First I must address you both separately:
Cari,
Your mother has been telling me of your dreams, hands on a bench, close to being deadened by hopeful shelving. She says you have not been wearing well made shoes, and that your bread baker has been at the shop more often than in your bed. I understand the attachment to woodwork, and the baker’s option of coupling. You are weakening, you are dieing if you continue this. She knows better than I, for she shares your head at night, and I merely can make language to it. But I do know this, woman, you will not be able to sing this much forever, there is a limit to your talent, there is a point in which your occasional silence will permeate, and people do not like silent people all that much. It inspires suspicion of pretension, mystery; no one likes a mystery for too long. Oh Cari, I know this is all useless, you will be this shelled forever, this young and attempting thing, you will be convinced of this tool your mother spoke of, but my lovely, no one is coming, and you stupidly, selfishly gave Stein away to a rich white family with no intention of visiting. Perhaps this will all change when your shame truly sets in.
Bajo,
Your shoes are fine, your collective and transmition. Last night when I told you that you were beautiful, I did not merely say that so you would calm down. I said it so you would stop yelling, so you might stop and swallow, stop and shuck your intentions. That man’s beer deserved to be thrown. I have been asking the mountains to collaborate with me on this one, since it does seem so hard for you to get to them, that one there, perhaps the one with the snow still atop. Help me find my way back in, love, for the beaches are far from here, and I know that ultimately I can not bring those sands to you, and the sweater on them, he is too far from here for now. Cari and I have spoken to the possibility of teaching you how to drive, and the prospect is exciting. You plus wheels equals only unimaginably romantic impulsive road trips, a ring around the moon when you reach the Western Coast, a compilation of the triplet sing songey in your attempt to reach a goal while calling it another point of commencement, of initiation.
As a man I will say this and only this when it comes to my hands they do not belong to either of you, though as the permission holds, I allow you both to use them as tools, phallic or otherwise, I will advise them to abide.
Love,
Mano
copious the ways of bricklaying, edifice, or a casual night of speaking acts
5 March 2007
Dearest Caridad,
What. It is. You write with(out ) space(room ). Or: the feet, that are 'there', of which you write: write (with) them. One should defend oneself against existence. Masochistic. A I am sure you have: a statue that must be, a bowl of pleasure (the good things in life, fresh) in your petrified shape, through the turning of whether. Climate.
Gauge. The way language… Move. As though changeable: speak. Sorely. In a damp palate, have a need, the same as fruit. Succumb. Say, lots about the novelty, about the various question that can arise. They do. As: who? As "being". Pronouns(oz.) as they do: he/she/he/she/she/he. She architects, absolutely. To say (or else imply) (sigh*). A roundness of associations. An approaching to foundation: meaning (we are here): to cathect means;/: methods. (We know our hand will. Never be the wall.) Pressing for words. Exactitude. Yet we come, infinitesimally smaller, closer, (in lovemaking) against a surface. Wreck, a phone rings at 8:00 am, in loss of that which language bends. Pinches in all the right spaces. Whose room? Come in, please, and put the image down, please know each phoneme as your own, as you have, raise it (erect) in me, a flesh/"mot" mortar that slips at an angle. Splits into the space, corridor, cement, copulation. The bridge, an instep has built a post-structuralist water (beneath).
Pressed, beso.
1.outside, of, no
2.nothing left to mention, in language
3.life. To follow (pathologically) a desire, can bring dismemberment and envy.To
say this with my own two lips, tongue, my own clicking, pushing of audible things out, spitting them out as into, life. He/She. Carving them into usage. Like brilliance, we refract, through threads of words, not needing surgical removal.What are you saying? Amounts to… To sound, as into make, speech. Do I? Him? Sign(ed)? Roundness is implied, here, ridiculous as a kiss, alivened.
4.(Bajo)
.
Dearest Caridad,
What. It is. You write with(out ) space(room ). Or: the feet, that are 'there', of which you write: write (with) them. One should defend oneself against existence. Masochistic. A I am sure you have: a statue that must be, a bowl of pleasure (the good things in life, fresh) in your petrified shape, through the turning of whether. Climate.
Gauge. The way language… Move. As though changeable: speak. Sorely. In a damp palate, have a need, the same as fruit. Succumb. Say, lots about the novelty, about the various question that can arise. They do. As: who? As "being". Pronouns(oz.) as they do: he/she/he/she/she/he. She architects, absolutely. To say (or else imply) (sigh*). A roundness of associations. An approaching to foundation: meaning (we are here): to cathect means;/: methods. (We know our hand will. Never be the wall.) Pressing for words. Exactitude. Yet we come, infinitesimally smaller, closer, (in lovemaking) against a surface. Wreck, a phone rings at 8:00 am, in loss of that which language bends. Pinches in all the right spaces. Whose room? Come in, please, and put the image down, please know each phoneme as your own, as you have, raise it (erect) in me, a flesh/"mot" mortar that slips at an angle. Splits into the space, corridor, cement, copulation. The bridge, an instep has built a post-structuralist water (beneath).
Pressed, beso.
1.outside, of, no
2.nothing left to mention, in language
3.life. To follow (pathologically) a desire, can bring dismemberment and envy.To
say this with my own two lips, tongue, my own clicking, pushing of audible things out, spitting them out as into, life. He/She. Carving them into usage. Like brilliance, we refract, through threads of words, not needing surgical removal.What are you saying? Amounts to… To sound, as into make, speech. Do I? Him? Sign(ed)? Roundness is implied, here, ridiculous as a kiss, alivened.
4.(Bajo)
.
things in the mouth, it is march.
2 March 2007
Bajo,
With them, I have been holding the hand of them, these things. Writing, and structures of “language” that at one time were solid, full of permanent seclusion. There is an enlightening quality to the story of books, though with every marble of knowledge a section of me wishes to turn back, to clothe myself in the lightness/heaviness whatever it was that he concluded was worse. Might there ever be an author who can include awareness for every social politic and still be grace and juice, and I mean with form as well, I mean to contain accessibility while, being…well you know the rest.
In the mouth, the things in the mouth, there is a good one, so good. Here, good one, I have been on the phone often, advantages to distance, and pain to distance. Bridges and rain on another end, visits and children, I don’t want to have children on bridges. Often, have you understood yet the collection of silently entering home’s. I fear I will only ever enter silent when love waits, carpets moving, windows waking, I don’t ever change calendars, something is good, tell me to be good, a good one.
Against my better judgment, I title, even somewhat comfortable quicker labels. Its been two plus two equals four divided by two equals two, this is three two’s, I indulge in simple math to remember dates, simply.
I will not be buried here, deciding a highway to scatter, a cliff to call a nest, of course you have heard of Isabel’s Hawks, and the division necessary for all of her children. She says simply foretelling words, and I am an attack of panic on Pearl Street, powers of mothers who tell their daughter they soon will be as well. Tell me to be good, a good one, repeat, don’t repeat. What will I write now that there are significantly less questions, the ones left not desperately needing answers, merely the questioning questions that I know are purely the disease crawling into my steamboat, telling me to not watch the water roll on off the round with too much sentimentality.
So to the one that waits and thinks nothing there, to the empty collision in the inside, good one, there is a good one, to the good one choosing is the collision, and while amateur I wish to assign a color season sense body part to all work, a lens if you, good one, could lower yourself to name it so. Titles can be entertaining, they can hold the sliver of memories, the ones on the tip of whatever it was you felt in the moment of recollection, the tip we good ones call it, brain or tongue, the things in the mouth collecting in a “good” taste, remember this title in simple math, my very very good one.
-Caridad
Bajo,
With them, I have been holding the hand of them, these things. Writing, and structures of “language” that at one time were solid, full of permanent seclusion. There is an enlightening quality to the story of books, though with every marble of knowledge a section of me wishes to turn back, to clothe myself in the lightness/heaviness whatever it was that he concluded was worse. Might there ever be an author who can include awareness for every social politic and still be grace and juice, and I mean with form as well, I mean to contain accessibility while, being…well you know the rest.
In the mouth, the things in the mouth, there is a good one, so good. Here, good one, I have been on the phone often, advantages to distance, and pain to distance. Bridges and rain on another end, visits and children, I don’t want to have children on bridges. Often, have you understood yet the collection of silently entering home’s. I fear I will only ever enter silent when love waits, carpets moving, windows waking, I don’t ever change calendars, something is good, tell me to be good, a good one.
Against my better judgment, I title, even somewhat comfortable quicker labels. Its been two plus two equals four divided by two equals two, this is three two’s, I indulge in simple math to remember dates, simply.
I will not be buried here, deciding a highway to scatter, a cliff to call a nest, of course you have heard of Isabel’s Hawks, and the division necessary for all of her children. She says simply foretelling words, and I am an attack of panic on Pearl Street, powers of mothers who tell their daughter they soon will be as well. Tell me to be good, a good one, repeat, don’t repeat. What will I write now that there are significantly less questions, the ones left not desperately needing answers, merely the questioning questions that I know are purely the disease crawling into my steamboat, telling me to not watch the water roll on off the round with too much sentimentality.
So to the one that waits and thinks nothing there, to the empty collision in the inside, good one, there is a good one, to the good one choosing is the collision, and while amateur I wish to assign a color season sense body part to all work, a lens if you, good one, could lower yourself to name it so. Titles can be entertaining, they can hold the sliver of memories, the ones on the tip of whatever it was you felt in the moment of recollection, the tip we good ones call it, brain or tongue, the things in the mouth collecting in a “good” taste, remember this title in simple math, my very very good one.
-Caridad
tropic of venus
14 February 2007
Caridad,
Wherever you look a face will be printed in tension. Aligned ropes on which hang: doubts, reservations, terror, comical anecdotes. These are all useful on the side of friendly contention. I have come to terms with the fact that I have done horrible things which you would not approve of, and somewhere ran into my innocence, my dignity, but I have never complained. The bitter the truth is, the more substance: that I would, if I could arrange something, as far as men are concerned, and some others, answer. I refuse to engage in speeches on the subject.
Tools inevitably pile in an insatiable act of marking the height of where we've been. The skeletal also marks its way, or anyone else's. They would ask if I own one. I won't meddle. As hard as it may be, there is no protective argument, you understand?
Violation wraps itself around the text: thought. Glass makes an impression: the visceral, the rawness seems to have fallen and slipped, a little. Concentrate on the excursion, but don't disturb me, I ferment in isolation. Hardly. I have developed a therapeutic alliance. Mason stares, yours, as he is, we realize that there is nothing to kill: no end by our hands. But gripping tightly, vocally, obscuring the reasons, scraping and finally hiding. Cowardice is my resort; I must hold it, in order to spare everyone else: room to breathe.
I understand what you mean, your lies are tender: you call your lover by a secret name in order to conceal a force: instability is marked by a profound shade of green. I don't "own" anyone. Only watching brings me joy. I tend to love surfaces: to love to want and most of all to flee. When in search of feelings, my frostbite has no end. No one likes it when my face emerges saying that THEY are not, nor HIM, but over. Language backstabs us: malice, deep seeded. Procure myself a heart, not let boredom set in. But most of all: I don't want to talk, I'm sick of my answers. Do I chase their heels through several volumes of memory? No. There is not a pronoun needed. The "he" (plural) I acquire accidentally and not by looking. I'll find another subject matter that is cruel and delicate and tell him to lie down, who listens when I ask "Can we talk about it later?" Soon the desire will be lost and our hands will be empty: I will dine on our disappointment.
-Bajo.
Caridad,
Wherever you look a face will be printed in tension. Aligned ropes on which hang: doubts, reservations, terror, comical anecdotes. These are all useful on the side of friendly contention. I have come to terms with the fact that I have done horrible things which you would not approve of, and somewhere ran into my innocence, my dignity, but I have never complained. The bitter the truth is, the more substance: that I would, if I could arrange something, as far as men are concerned, and some others, answer. I refuse to engage in speeches on the subject.
Tools inevitably pile in an insatiable act of marking the height of where we've been. The skeletal also marks its way, or anyone else's. They would ask if I own one. I won't meddle. As hard as it may be, there is no protective argument, you understand?
Violation wraps itself around the text: thought. Glass makes an impression: the visceral, the rawness seems to have fallen and slipped, a little. Concentrate on the excursion, but don't disturb me, I ferment in isolation. Hardly. I have developed a therapeutic alliance. Mason stares, yours, as he is, we realize that there is nothing to kill: no end by our hands. But gripping tightly, vocally, obscuring the reasons, scraping and finally hiding. Cowardice is my resort; I must hold it, in order to spare everyone else: room to breathe.
I understand what you mean, your lies are tender: you call your lover by a secret name in order to conceal a force: instability is marked by a profound shade of green. I don't "own" anyone. Only watching brings me joy. I tend to love surfaces: to love to want and most of all to flee. When in search of feelings, my frostbite has no end. No one likes it when my face emerges saying that THEY are not, nor HIM, but over. Language backstabs us: malice, deep seeded. Procure myself a heart, not let boredom set in. But most of all: I don't want to talk, I'm sick of my answers. Do I chase their heels through several volumes of memory? No. There is not a pronoun needed. The "he" (plural) I acquire accidentally and not by looking. I'll find another subject matter that is cruel and delicate and tell him to lie down, who listens when I ask "Can we talk about it later?" Soon the desire will be lost and our hands will be empty: I will dine on our disappointment.
-Bajo.
Lourdes has been found
13 February 2007
bajo,
This here, is where I thought I might find him all the while, Noah. In films, the streets they are filmed on, a woman combing her hair long to the ground. Is it permitted to hold an obsession tightly for life, go to it for inspiration, motivation, for pain when emotions have left you, for a reminder that dysfunction once was the truest form of assisting the thrust? This is a question only because I am not yet able to state it, though I do not require an answer, in letters, I still know every inch of his standing, every selection of his play.
He tells me to screen her, investigate the similarity, what part there was his definition, what lace did he tie me with? I have been, as you’ve said, thirsty.
This reminds me, the drawings have been done, the maps for a boat.
-Caridad
bajo,
This here, is where I thought I might find him all the while, Noah. In films, the streets they are filmed on, a woman combing her hair long to the ground. Is it permitted to hold an obsession tightly for life, go to it for inspiration, motivation, for pain when emotions have left you, for a reminder that dysfunction once was the truest form of assisting the thrust? This is a question only because I am not yet able to state it, though I do not require an answer, in letters, I still know every inch of his standing, every selection of his play.
He tells me to screen her, investigate the similarity, what part there was his definition, what lace did he tie me with? I have been, as you’ve said, thirsty.
This reminds me, the drawings have been done, the maps for a boat.
-Caridad
our lady of definitions
8 February 2007
Caridad,
Since the last time I saw you, you've grown with natural catastrophes.
Peculiar as it might be, I wear the thong assigned. To deliberately announce this: becareful when wrapping the eletrical tape (wire) around your neck, you might need assistance. Three in the morning will let us, see better. A connection is only analog; we will get disconnected, lost between mail offices, tossed in the Bardo.
To be terrified is ultimately sexy. To scraggle your voice "Hello" and ring me into motherhood, I, who am lack in lactation. I warn you subtle: do not take on what is intended for me: take my cigarette butt out of your mouth!
Splicing this with that body part will not make you a cyborg, so lay down and ask for water, you're thirsty.
Mason (since we address him, now) is one of your figures. I've never been comfortable with numbers, not fluent in the language. Posibilidad, lo es. "To strange" as to endow a verb, a subject, is to appropiately write "him".
How you look at buildings is unnerving, what matters is that we've lived "there" and so have they. . . but you gaze, so. . .
Irigaray talks. We who sin, lack, aggressively. We are falling apart. Carcasses. So lets dance! The silent people are not caged, they're perfecting supplements. Let me dabble without making a sound… Let me take it all off, slowly, narratively. To encompass you would require innertia, nothing like this exists, as we know it. To follow him, drink him requires:
1. To birth him
2. The irreversible trek toward a love of women
3. Being both blade and sheath
My house is populated by red lighting, individually assuming their positions on me. We are all blood, she says, and eventually bones.
You've read this mythology aloud to me at bedtime. I grow everywhere, unhinged, maniacally. I am carcinogenous, sudsy, your antagonistic memory. I'm entombment, but most of all, the cessation of rain.
We will flood this summer, in an absence of language, like in the past hundred years.
-Bajo, (bajito, mas, shhh).
Caridad,
Since the last time I saw you, you've grown with natural catastrophes.
Peculiar as it might be, I wear the thong assigned. To deliberately announce this: becareful when wrapping the eletrical tape (wire) around your neck, you might need assistance. Three in the morning will let us, see better. A connection is only analog; we will get disconnected, lost between mail offices, tossed in the Bardo.
To be terrified is ultimately sexy. To scraggle your voice "Hello" and ring me into motherhood, I, who am lack in lactation. I warn you subtle: do not take on what is intended for me: take my cigarette butt out of your mouth!
Splicing this with that body part will not make you a cyborg, so lay down and ask for water, you're thirsty.
Mason (since we address him, now) is one of your figures. I've never been comfortable with numbers, not fluent in the language. Posibilidad, lo es. "To strange" as to endow a verb, a subject, is to appropiately write "him".
How you look at buildings is unnerving, what matters is that we've lived "there" and so have they. . . but you gaze, so. . .
Irigaray talks. We who sin, lack, aggressively. We are falling apart. Carcasses. So lets dance! The silent people are not caged, they're perfecting supplements. Let me dabble without making a sound… Let me take it all off, slowly, narratively. To encompass you would require innertia, nothing like this exists, as we know it. To follow him, drink him requires:
1. To birth him
2. The irreversible trek toward a love of women
3. Being both blade and sheath
My house is populated by red lighting, individually assuming their positions on me. We are all blood, she says, and eventually bones.
You've read this mythology aloud to me at bedtime. I grow everywhere, unhinged, maniacally. I am carcinogenous, sudsy, your antagonistic memory. I'm entombment, but most of all, the cessation of rain.
We will flood this summer, in an absence of language, like in the past hundred years.
-Bajo, (bajito, mas, shhh).
The removal and examination of a sample of tissue from a living body
8 February 2007
Bajo,
There are a quaint few that have interacted with these possibilities;
a voice over a phone concerned though, because of male oppression
unable to hear, only worry. More of a weight one might say, so I
attempt the explanation of fear and my own concern, the Mason simply
says he cannot go into detail, for what he has seen is horrific. Some
believe that when one is in pain you show them that you have been in
equal or worse pain, believe this will somehow assist. I am beyond the
point of perspective. There is no one else that can live in the eyes
of others better than I, unfortunately, for this is a gift I would
willingly bestow to anyone willing to receive. But as the Mason I
allow him to think he is serving, for the reality is he must believe
this in order for me to keep a father.
How old could I have been to reverse this? Five? Fifteen? Perhaps when
I lived on the beach, or in the city, or in the forest, or the
highway, the mountains, the gothic structures? There might have been a
chance had I seen the possibility of possession, the reality that some
people are not good all the time, more, some people are wrong and
diseased, and some people do not make sounds for the rest to hear
them. I have recently wondered what of the structure of nature or
culture has seeped into me these years while I have been gross with
distraction, disgusting in the contradiction of deed. I lied last week
and said the importance of the most important was not wanted any
longer, and this morning while late for class on pleasure and desire I
saw the little one on a balcony, fitting gloves over smaller yet hands
and I understood the severity. This is when my human will gain, the
top white notch, and I will patch myself to the tape and to the burn,
and finally to the electrical. I have made choices of laughter my
entire life, some say contagious, some say invasive, and I say now
that I no longer can laugh at myself, nothing about this is funny,
nothing, nothing, black.
P.S. I do not leave the blood for you love, how we seek each other is
nothing of this.
Caridad
Bajo,
There are a quaint few that have interacted with these possibilities;
a voice over a phone concerned though, because of male oppression
unable to hear, only worry. More of a weight one might say, so I
attempt the explanation of fear and my own concern, the Mason simply
says he cannot go into detail, for what he has seen is horrific. Some
believe that when one is in pain you show them that you have been in
equal or worse pain, believe this will somehow assist. I am beyond the
point of perspective. There is no one else that can live in the eyes
of others better than I, unfortunately, for this is a gift I would
willingly bestow to anyone willing to receive. But as the Mason I
allow him to think he is serving, for the reality is he must believe
this in order for me to keep a father.
How old could I have been to reverse this? Five? Fifteen? Perhaps when
I lived on the beach, or in the city, or in the forest, or the
highway, the mountains, the gothic structures? There might have been a
chance had I seen the possibility of possession, the reality that some
people are not good all the time, more, some people are wrong and
diseased, and some people do not make sounds for the rest to hear
them. I have recently wondered what of the structure of nature or
culture has seeped into me these years while I have been gross with
distraction, disgusting in the contradiction of deed. I lied last week
and said the importance of the most important was not wanted any
longer, and this morning while late for class on pleasure and desire I
saw the little one on a balcony, fitting gloves over smaller yet hands
and I understood the severity. This is when my human will gain, the
top white notch, and I will patch myself to the tape and to the burn,
and finally to the electrical. I have made choices of laughter my
entire life, some say contagious, some say invasive, and I say now
that I no longer can laugh at myself, nothing about this is funny,
nothing, nothing, black.
P.S. I do not leave the blood for you love, how we seek each other is
nothing of this.
Caridad
pommes, hearts
2 February 2007
Dearest Caridad,
For those, women without shame, a thing, or two, would be useful (if remembered): there is a point in which (you are right) there is no ground and we are flung against the void.
Can you answer the question: what is a man? If he in in the center, is fibrous and small, then we shall drink tonight. If not, God help him!
The nocturnal position, the position of leverage defies naming, because initially we have been taught to. That "love" has a density (mass) means it is buoyant: it will float in salt-water. To laugh at the self is the biggest of all choices.
I cannot enter the house so I've started at the top, mallet in hand, the chains are long enough. This is her (when she is) witholding.
It could be because they are prone to bleeding and drowning. Morse code is expecting too much but at any moment (daughters and all) they might die: we, on the other hand experience the complications.
Sleep is uncanny, its ways: reocurring.
P.S.
There is enough flesh and fat on the snow for the lot of them. We who learn, cut off our hair and pretend to not know. Nothing, nothing, black.
P.S. 2
You called to adhere, I didn't respond so startled. We are not curious, but capable although we do not care. Death is an enchantment, so lovely warm, cervix speaking. Why leave your blood on the snow? I would know where to find you.
-Bajo.
Dearest Caridad,
For those, women without shame, a thing, or two, would be useful (if remembered): there is a point in which (you are right) there is no ground and we are flung against the void.
Can you answer the question: what is a man? If he in in the center, is fibrous and small, then we shall drink tonight. If not, God help him!
The nocturnal position, the position of leverage defies naming, because initially we have been taught to. That "love" has a density (mass) means it is buoyant: it will float in salt-water. To laugh at the self is the biggest of all choices.
I cannot enter the house so I've started at the top, mallet in hand, the chains are long enough. This is her (when she is) witholding.
It could be because they are prone to bleeding and drowning. Morse code is expecting too much but at any moment (daughters and all) they might die: we, on the other hand experience the complications.
Sleep is uncanny, its ways: reocurring.
P.S.
There is enough flesh and fat on the snow for the lot of them. We who learn, cut off our hair and pretend to not know. Nothing, nothing, black.
P.S. 2
You called to adhere, I didn't respond so startled. We are not curious, but capable although we do not care. Death is an enchantment, so lovely warm, cervix speaking. Why leave your blood on the snow? I would know where to find you.
-Bajo.
Solopsism: the theory that the self is the only thing that can be
25 January 2007
My good Bajo,
The self is the only reality. Can you recall Gabriel's
death-suicide-what ever it is one would call it- This one, a lover, a
son, he was perfection in the way my Alysia's humor is. But, like all
the good ones, he didn't want the daughter-Bajo do you think men can
experience postpartum-
Long Beach, Island Park, Long Island, New York-it was winter like
always with Gabriel, he let the waves take little Hannah, only a week
old and I was at my mothers on Eagle St., Greenpoint, Manzanitia was
trying to tell me, but she could only tell me if I stepped out onto
the stoop, I was too cold, eating platanos wondering when my lover and
daughter would be home. Do men experience postpartum- mine do.
The LIRR- this is where the funeral was and so many people experience
their memories there; write their masterpieces on those seats-meet
their soul mates. If I had known Bajo-that Hannah was colder than I
would ever be on a stoop with grandmother, great, I would have stepped
outside. Always listen to Manzanitia, always adhere.
Still I believe he had no idea, that death is irreversible, the
audacity of insanity is impressive in that we dream beautiful
Himalayan landscapes where our good Xiao hold's Hannah like a
goddaughter while Gabriel is the one falling-there is no wrong doing
when a mother trusts a father, I just trusted the wrong one.
The Burberry is real and sliding on the ice-I will give you these
words forever Bajo, and I still thank Noah everyday. If only we could
be five, ten, and fifteen together and at the same time.
Apologies for walking everywhere, there is a stain in the street.
-Caridad
My good Bajo,
The self is the only reality. Can you recall Gabriel's
death-suicide-what ever it is one would call it- This one, a lover, a
son, he was perfection in the way my Alysia's humor is. But, like all
the good ones, he didn't want the daughter-Bajo do you think men can
experience postpartum-
Long Beach, Island Park, Long Island, New York-it was winter like
always with Gabriel, he let the waves take little Hannah, only a week
old and I was at my mothers on Eagle St., Greenpoint, Manzanitia was
trying to tell me, but she could only tell me if I stepped out onto
the stoop, I was too cold, eating platanos wondering when my lover and
daughter would be home. Do men experience postpartum- mine do.
The LIRR- this is where the funeral was and so many people experience
their memories there; write their masterpieces on those seats-meet
their soul mates. If I had known Bajo-that Hannah was colder than I
would ever be on a stoop with grandmother, great, I would have stepped
outside. Always listen to Manzanitia, always adhere.
Still I believe he had no idea, that death is irreversible, the
audacity of insanity is impressive in that we dream beautiful
Himalayan landscapes where our good Xiao hold's Hannah like a
goddaughter while Gabriel is the one falling-there is no wrong doing
when a mother trusts a father, I just trusted the wrong one.
The Burberry is real and sliding on the ice-I will give you these
words forever Bajo, and I still thank Noah everyday. If only we could
be five, ten, and fifteen together and at the same time.
Apologies for walking everywhere, there is a stain in the street.
-Caridad
naked, you are as a fruit, halved, severed, opened
20 January 2007
Caridad,
The audacity we show is irreversible: the physiology of people is not something to play with. Regarding reverence I say this: a woman shall have it (from a son, the answer to much rattle in the thoraxic box).
Things will break: there, one motion, a body-like taste. Sacks of salty water. Despite music, I am dry, my palate fixated. Stuck in __________. To walk in his shoes. To hold the face, coiled in one hand, one evening. Ask forgiveness. I never meant to: these things are not written. Not supple. As for pedestrians we will say: "Share us in El Camino de Santiago".
We will, incestuously, return.
Apples and Bells: I have no shields to abhor them.
Faith and Anxiety become the same. Share a code, a context. I am not to speak, so take me here, have your way with me. In this message a woman is waiting for me, she pays no attention to how I squander my (paper is mostly a) historical credibility. They paid the Second World War with their breeding, stoicism, lucrative forms, revelling.
Like her, I wait, for you, here. There are no reasons to debate the state of disrobing. A simple "enough" will do away with committing a crime, on the doorstep. Finale.
I roll around on the floor for her, always have, and lay there, waiting.
--> -->
"You're human," she says, "like it or not!"
Like it or not. With hopes, we will make a space and shall be entered (body unobscured, non-body, Buddhism, etc.). They will enter (through) the principal door, sit stage left, exeunt. Derrida will be heard: as to thread, to examine, blush. I can hardly remember, so THEY should pay to the crossroads, what is due there, copper, and each of them (blinking). I can spell the same, "in sections, in squares" here. Not for fear of you, intimately. I am petrified.
Today a darker gray sets in around my eyes and I'm reminded of an insistence on my tongue: to speak like my mother, ill-fitted, blasphemous. The poverty of men makes me wonder, pitty God's condition. Let's buy him a drink, Caridad, lets go in a 'menage-a-trois' with the poor bastard, let's show him the possibility of desire/satiety.
Bajo.
Caridad,
The audacity we show is irreversible: the physiology of people is not something to play with. Regarding reverence I say this: a woman shall have it (from a son, the answer to much rattle in the thoraxic box).
Things will break: there, one motion, a body-like taste. Sacks of salty water. Despite music, I am dry, my palate fixated. Stuck in __________. To walk in his shoes. To hold the face, coiled in one hand, one evening. Ask forgiveness. I never meant to: these things are not written. Not supple. As for pedestrians we will say: "Share us in El Camino de Santiago".
We will, incestuously, return.
Apples and Bells: I have no shields to abhor them.
Faith and Anxiety become the same. Share a code, a context. I am not to speak, so take me here, have your way with me. In this message a woman is waiting for me, she pays no attention to how I squander my (paper is mostly a) historical credibility. They paid the Second World War with their breeding, stoicism, lucrative forms, revelling.
Like her, I wait, for you, here. There are no reasons to debate the state of disrobing. A simple "enough" will do away with committing a crime, on the doorstep. Finale.
I roll around on the floor for her, always have, and lay there, waiting.
--> -->
"You're human," she says, "like it or not!"
Like it or not. With hopes, we will make a space and shall be entered (body unobscured, non-body, Buddhism, etc.). They will enter (through) the principal door, sit stage left, exeunt. Derrida will be heard: as to thread, to examine, blush. I can hardly remember, so THEY should pay to the crossroads, what is due there, copper, and each of them (blinking). I can spell the same, "in sections, in squares" here. Not for fear of you, intimately. I am petrified.
Today a darker gray sets in around my eyes and I'm reminded of an insistence on my tongue: to speak like my mother, ill-fitted, blasphemous. The poverty of men makes me wonder, pitty God's condition. Let's buy him a drink, Caridad, lets go in a 'menage-a-trois' with the poor bastard, let's show him the possibility of desire/satiety.
Bajo.
The meetings of Harry Haller have begun.
13 January 2007
Bajo,
What is below has been celebrated, respected for years in privacy.
Allow the darkness to supply nutrition; we are all more in the
darkness.
Today there was much time spent on transportation systems, speeches of
what one might do with an endless supply of paper. All I could think
of was buying my father a world trip ticket; destinations to be filled
out at ones own convenience, that is when he has decided where he
might want to have his last child. And, of course hiring a team to
surgically install a horn into the crown of a very large black horse,
attentive to the goal of doing it as painlessly as possible, this for
Alysia so she can grow up believing in unicorns. Perhaps on her tenth
birthday figure out a way to make it a Pegasus.
When later I was walking, unprepared for this horrid and frustrating
cold: my face stung, I met with a man who speaks so kindly, speaks
with his tongue, as if a baby was in there. Can you see it (bite my
lip). Though as you predicted there was no concentration, no interest
in listing reasons for doing or not doing. There was only a hope of
entry, a colliding of intellect and my stupid little hands that have
been hurting a lot recently to merely accomplish it, to finish it, and
burn this fabric: wrong choice in skin to yearn for. There will be no
more talk of recollection, most men leave pennies on the train tracks
for this sort of photography, we on the other hand take pictures of
each others lovers in snow, in sections, in squares, and then with
mistake and accident, perhaps subconscious intention overdevelop the
film so Xiao is only pink spots on wet plastic. I apologize to myself
for it.
-Cari
Bajo,
What is below has been celebrated, respected for years in privacy.
Allow the darkness to supply nutrition; we are all more in the
darkness.
Today there was much time spent on transportation systems, speeches of
what one might do with an endless supply of paper. All I could think
of was buying my father a world trip ticket; destinations to be filled
out at ones own convenience, that is when he has decided where he
might want to have his last child. And, of course hiring a team to
surgically install a horn into the crown of a very large black horse,
attentive to the goal of doing it as painlessly as possible, this for
Alysia so she can grow up believing in unicorns. Perhaps on her tenth
birthday figure out a way to make it a Pegasus.
When later I was walking, unprepared for this horrid and frustrating
cold: my face stung, I met with a man who speaks so kindly, speaks
with his tongue, as if a baby was in there. Can you see it (bite my
lip). Though as you predicted there was no concentration, no interest
in listing reasons for doing or not doing. There was only a hope of
entry, a colliding of intellect and my stupid little hands that have
been hurting a lot recently to merely accomplish it, to finish it, and
burn this fabric: wrong choice in skin to yearn for. There will be no
more talk of recollection, most men leave pennies on the train tracks
for this sort of photography, we on the other hand take pictures of
each others lovers in snow, in sections, in squares, and then with
mistake and accident, perhaps subconscious intention overdevelop the
film so Xiao is only pink spots on wet plastic. I apologize to myself
for it.
-Cari
bad apple
12 January 2007
Caridad,
Horrors of night can easily become bondage that alongates our hands in order to reach. A melodic terror will stop us from parting. Petal might occur, so as to disregard things: ovums know to make their return as THEY do.
I would (Shakespearean) that intravenous ink ran instead, the stale burgundy, satin. I have it out for her: fang and claw.
With woe:
Rivers have been ill, stocked properly so now they sustain many a line. Unlucky enough, I guess.
At the table I actually said, "Your eyes look like grates." Speaking in a matter of deeper saying. I did not know. Cast iron, metal, train tracks. I should never wake up the same, stand all the same, as tomorrow, as after. A baby falls asleep, becomes grayed with neglect and all I think about is that woman wearing red, her hair, the fabric falling softly on that curve. I desire methods of incomprehension and lies. She kisses like a fucking poem (bite my lip).
Funny you should ask about the strongest structure: one sits on my lap, interrogating. Having failed to give fully I slander passerbys and make war on the sidewalk. I say (meet bricks and mortar) that closure cannot happen, exept maybe on that bridge. "The Charles," my mother says, "has been there for 700 years."
Most men will rise if the wind rattles: oak, anxious, cushion, feeling despair. Afraid of the wrong choice, they tap around without a map.
Chase a brighter line and do not be bothered to respond. She drags me out on walks to nowhere. I follow revelling in her tangled hair when I find ridicule and taunts in order to remind me of my place (Bajo). Low. On the bottom.
"You're an empty shell..." we say for eachother. I cannot go back. I am here and gripped. No skin do I yearn for, no phisicality. There is no satisfaction. Only hunger is comparable. A fool with infinity in my bags. Do you mind if I spend the night? My crass disregard: all are discarded. All shades work interchangeably.
I can't recall any of their names sometimes: a field of bodies.
Bajo (el peso del ser). Trs. Under the weight of being. K.
P.S. I cannot wear anything but grey. Too much resolution. My collection is not black or white. I dress in a love affair of "film noir". I promise (as so often) not to buy a pistol . . . though I do not choose this, I conceed.
"You want to buy a gun?" he asks surprised.
"I really, really do" I say grinning
"That's cool, like a shotgun?" Now, sympathizing.
"No, like a handgun," I correct him.
"I've got a shotgun because I have mountain lions in my yard," informingly.
The mountain lions are in my head.
Caridad,
Horrors of night can easily become bondage that alongates our hands in order to reach. A melodic terror will stop us from parting. Petal might occur, so as to disregard things: ovums know to make their return as THEY do.
I would (Shakespearean) that intravenous ink ran instead, the stale burgundy, satin. I have it out for her: fang and claw.
With woe:
Rivers have been ill, stocked properly so now they sustain many a line. Unlucky enough, I guess.
At the table I actually said, "Your eyes look like grates." Speaking in a matter of deeper saying. I did not know. Cast iron, metal, train tracks. I should never wake up the same, stand all the same, as tomorrow, as after. A baby falls asleep, becomes grayed with neglect and all I think about is that woman wearing red, her hair, the fabric falling softly on that curve. I desire methods of incomprehension and lies. She kisses like a fucking poem (bite my lip).
Funny you should ask about the strongest structure: one sits on my lap, interrogating. Having failed to give fully I slander passerbys and make war on the sidewalk. I say (meet bricks and mortar) that closure cannot happen, exept maybe on that bridge. "The Charles," my mother says, "has been there for 700 years."
Most men will rise if the wind rattles: oak, anxious, cushion, feeling despair. Afraid of the wrong choice, they tap around without a map.
Chase a brighter line and do not be bothered to respond. She drags me out on walks to nowhere. I follow revelling in her tangled hair when I find ridicule and taunts in order to remind me of my place (Bajo). Low. On the bottom.
"You're an empty shell..." we say for eachother. I cannot go back. I am here and gripped. No skin do I yearn for, no phisicality. There is no satisfaction. Only hunger is comparable. A fool with infinity in my bags. Do you mind if I spend the night? My crass disregard: all are discarded. All shades work interchangeably.
I can't recall any of their names sometimes: a field of bodies.
Bajo (el peso del ser). Trs. Under the weight of being. K.
P.S. I cannot wear anything but grey. Too much resolution. My collection is not black or white. I dress in a love affair of "film noir". I promise (as so often) not to buy a pistol . . . though I do not choose this, I conceed.
"You want to buy a gun?" he asks surprised.
"I really, really do" I say grinning
"That's cool, like a shotgun?" Now, sympathizing.
"No, like a handgun," I correct him.
"I've got a shotgun because I have mountain lions in my yard," informingly.
The mountain lions are in my head.
Prostitute oneself: debase oneself.
8 January 2007
My Good Bajo,
I will now spend the majority of my time proving to you how well you
play in pairs.
Bajo, this is all the account. I have been asking myself lately if I
would write as much as I do if I did not worship the longhand, if I
did not devote myself to cursive, the visual of letters and ink. My
font is different now than when you first met me, the triangles?how do
you feel about that?
The wind recently is clutter?these things sneaking into a crack in the
window, couldn't close it because these things were thirsty faces
everywhere and I suppose I do not trust Noah and/or Caridad to protect
me from their anger of being locked out.
You see, if you had not been there my nightmares might have hurt me.
I, following you down stairs, swinging porch swing in a very large
blanket. You can clear it.
I dreamt about sitting with the devil on the Charles, he threatens me
and eats a beautiful little Czech girl. No permission he says to love
another, with her skin on his mouth, he counts every grimace and hands
me coffee (no sugar) as persuasion to stay? you see he is misinformed
of environment, for you are sleeping heavy next to me (because you are
homeless) and that you and I are stronger in number, a pair.
When I wake on the floor you are a face bloom in the morning,
potential for rose petals in the bath. The thirsty faces. Invisible in
the daylight, though you being the more fear able of our pairness,
they very well might be visible to you. Can we call these the mornings
of Scarborough, she sleeps slightly and when half waking reads my
mind. She makes it easy with sparkles in the air above the wood floors
to fall in love with a populated solitude.
Bajo there has been a reunion; I am a bag of bones and laughter. No
indulgence in the memory maker, 4:51 says give space to options
-go out to eat with them
-be nervous with them
-talk in corners with them
-write to them
But these cannot all be extremities?this is the weekend life, the
plush reality of the burn of sun in the morning, you wear gray and I
am little dressed in comparison to your layers.
-Cari
My Good Bajo,
I will now spend the majority of my time proving to you how well you
play in pairs.
Bajo, this is all the account. I have been asking myself lately if I
would write as much as I do if I did not worship the longhand, if I
did not devote myself to cursive, the visual of letters and ink. My
font is different now than when you first met me, the triangles?how do
you feel about that?
The wind recently is clutter?these things sneaking into a crack in the
window, couldn't close it because these things were thirsty faces
everywhere and I suppose I do not trust Noah and/or Caridad to protect
me from their anger of being locked out.
You see, if you had not been there my nightmares might have hurt me.
I, following you down stairs, swinging porch swing in a very large
blanket. You can clear it.
I dreamt about sitting with the devil on the Charles, he threatens me
and eats a beautiful little Czech girl. No permission he says to love
another, with her skin on his mouth, he counts every grimace and hands
me coffee (no sugar) as persuasion to stay? you see he is misinformed
of environment, for you are sleeping heavy next to me (because you are
homeless) and that you and I are stronger in number, a pair.
When I wake on the floor you are a face bloom in the morning,
potential for rose petals in the bath. The thirsty faces. Invisible in
the daylight, though you being the more fear able of our pairness,
they very well might be visible to you. Can we call these the mornings
of Scarborough, she sleeps slightly and when half waking reads my
mind. She makes it easy with sparkles in the air above the wood floors
to fall in love with a populated solitude.
Bajo there has been a reunion; I am a bag of bones and laughter. No
indulgence in the memory maker, 4:51 says give space to options
-go out to eat with them
-be nervous with them
-talk in corners with them
-write to them
But these cannot all be extremities?this is the weekend life, the
plush reality of the burn of sun in the morning, you wear gray and I
am little dressed in comparison to your layers.
-Cari
appleseed
7 January 2007
Caridad,
We begin the work of extremities. How hunger sits obstinate. A mouth won't suffice to mention. Count these grimaces. Words said voluntarily or other. In order to describe his body: stalks. A conclusion. Call my bluff if you want to. But to say "innefable" of my life. My sleep is heavy. I don't notice anyone coming, or going. Perhaps even all my activities go unknown, unquestioned. Whatever you are told, assume more.
Your hands have not the size, responsible for a face blooming. Jimmy Joyce was not afraid to call it a petal in the bath. Don't ask questions that disturb a dysmorphic. What else can be told? I'm not good as part of a pair. There are no off-springs/ heirlooms. The window is opened daily in absolute isolation. This is the way my face is. Thirsty. It has been different long ago.
Two of them cornered. I am not part of a pair. My father is mean drunk, but there are small gestures which are never enough; and small words. A shape arrives on the glass and I promise you that I observe this. To speak of you: something amazing. As I lay against spilt beer: I care not about nudity. Only for you to read: give me bones and laughter, everything else is wallpaper.
-Bajo.
Caridad,
We begin the work of extremities. How hunger sits obstinate. A mouth won't suffice to mention. Count these grimaces. Words said voluntarily or other. In order to describe his body: stalks. A conclusion. Call my bluff if you want to. But to say "innefable" of my life. My sleep is heavy. I don't notice anyone coming, or going. Perhaps even all my activities go unknown, unquestioned. Whatever you are told, assume more.
Your hands have not the size, responsible for a face blooming. Jimmy Joyce was not afraid to call it a petal in the bath. Don't ask questions that disturb a dysmorphic. What else can be told? I'm not good as part of a pair. There are no off-springs/ heirlooms. The window is opened daily in absolute isolation. This is the way my face is. Thirsty. It has been different long ago.
Two of them cornered. I am not part of a pair. My father is mean drunk, but there are small gestures which are never enough; and small words. A shape arrives on the glass and I promise you that I observe this. To speak of you: something amazing. As I lay against spilt beer: I care not about nudity. Only for you to read: give me bones and laughter, everything else is wallpaper.
-Bajo.
I groped through my pockets. Not a single apple, no pocket knife, I
4 January 2007
Bajo,
Perhaps leaving my luggage at the airport was impulsive, but you
napping through midnight is unforgivable. I might have been later had
the bus driver not liked sour patch kids, and I was not as motivated
to start it here.
It is the productive aspect of us that does not embody the "stance".
We want this in so far as we can control it. Let us not be the
projects we so ridiculously desire, though I believe product is not
what we will end with anyway.
I want you to recall the night you fell in the snow, the walk to an
introduction of where you would spend some time out of boredom. My
walk in someone's tight grip, a man is lost, in search of an address.
Detached interest in a loft, for my focus remained at the bar.
Recall the morning Bajo, messed and unchanged. Both in separate early
morning paths, your hat different than mine. This morning is important
because both my focus and yours arrived, they came to us. The
intention was to complete what was done.
My brother will return today and I fear the tension will remain for
sometime, unfairly and misdirected because it is our mother who I
desire a distance from. I must remember that regardless of her
opinion, in this family "there is no alliance, for there is no war."
But as you know it is hard to convince a Cuban mother of this, when a
mother is all she's ever been, even before the birthday.
She demands agreement, demands definition, demands we be a team
undefeated. I don't want to play with her anymore, and I have never
spoken to my mother with so much vocabulary, so much volume, and still
she attempts a hug, and I feel thirteen walking into an airport.
So I, naturally, and somewhat forcefully ask The Mason to assist me in
building a perfect wall, when she doesn't realize that space is more
than a moment and I make plans with to do lists to spend next December
in my very small apartment, reading, writing to Noah, walking to the
mountains with you and creating scenario's to speak to myself in, I
should have always been an actress Magara thinks.
Classes have yet to commence though I can already taste these streets
with out him, and everything is perfection in the absence: fearless
entrances, early morning wakings to my library, yoga on the porch
(while the neighbor is away), sitting while broccoli steams, tea and
my red ukulele, breakfast and music in a backpack while walks to the
woods with my camera can be accomplished before the sun rises, for
there is no one keeping me in bed, no one to keep me up late.
How was that tight of grip permitted, that kind of direction from
someone who could have died any morning he woke, if it were not for
distraction, I might have been following a ghost all that time.
So, eat more apples she says, and take notice of the poison potential,
but do not fear it she says. Then she gives me a white goldl ring with
a pearl on it, this is the most beautiful gift I have ever received in
a dream and she keeps handing me delicious reds and in contrast to the
pearl their red is darker, like a burgundy. So eat more apples she
says and do not put so much sugar in your coffee? somehow she has
learned how to speak English since she has died, but I still cannot
write her letters in Spanish.
Bajo, when it is you come with me to Greenpoint, I will show you where
she hid the water, and where she chalked the stoops with me.
-Cari
Bajo,
Perhaps leaving my luggage at the airport was impulsive, but you
napping through midnight is unforgivable. I might have been later had
the bus driver not liked sour patch kids, and I was not as motivated
to start it here.
It is the productive aspect of us that does not embody the "stance".
We want this in so far as we can control it. Let us not be the
projects we so ridiculously desire, though I believe product is not
what we will end with anyway.
I want you to recall the night you fell in the snow, the walk to an
introduction of where you would spend some time out of boredom. My
walk in someone's tight grip, a man is lost, in search of an address.
Detached interest in a loft, for my focus remained at the bar.
Recall the morning Bajo, messed and unchanged. Both in separate early
morning paths, your hat different than mine. This morning is important
because both my focus and yours arrived, they came to us. The
intention was to complete what was done.
My brother will return today and I fear the tension will remain for
sometime, unfairly and misdirected because it is our mother who I
desire a distance from. I must remember that regardless of her
opinion, in this family "there is no alliance, for there is no war."
But as you know it is hard to convince a Cuban mother of this, when a
mother is all she's ever been, even before the birthday.
She demands agreement, demands definition, demands we be a team
undefeated. I don't want to play with her anymore, and I have never
spoken to my mother with so much vocabulary, so much volume, and still
she attempts a hug, and I feel thirteen walking into an airport.
So I, naturally, and somewhat forcefully ask The Mason to assist me in
building a perfect wall, when she doesn't realize that space is more
than a moment and I make plans with to do lists to spend next December
in my very small apartment, reading, writing to Noah, walking to the
mountains with you and creating scenario's to speak to myself in, I
should have always been an actress Magara thinks.
Classes have yet to commence though I can already taste these streets
with out him, and everything is perfection in the absence: fearless
entrances, early morning wakings to my library, yoga on the porch
(while the neighbor is away), sitting while broccoli steams, tea and
my red ukulele, breakfast and music in a backpack while walks to the
woods with my camera can be accomplished before the sun rises, for
there is no one keeping me in bed, no one to keep me up late.
How was that tight of grip permitted, that kind of direction from
someone who could have died any morning he woke, if it were not for
distraction, I might have been following a ghost all that time.
So, eat more apples she says, and take notice of the poison potential,
but do not fear it she says. Then she gives me a white goldl ring with
a pearl on it, this is the most beautiful gift I have ever received in
a dream and she keeps handing me delicious reds and in contrast to the
pearl their red is darker, like a burgundy. So eat more apples she
says and do not put so much sugar in your coffee? somehow she has
learned how to speak English since she has died, but I still cannot
write her letters in Spanish.
Bajo, when it is you come with me to Greenpoint, I will show you where
she hid the water, and where she chalked the stoops with me.
-Cari
Of many things that can be said about boxes, ice, glances and the absurdity that calls itself a
30 December 2006
Caridad,
Though charity is involved, we find a difficulty in giving. We fish for words to reflect desperately: a shifting gaze pondering the impossibility of "stance". Let us fight the words until the inner tissues remind us that blood is made of iron. Let us rob the streets of any smile and courtesy. Let the faint desires of hours wasted come alive with the regret of not having lived. I've never stolen a kiss. We do not want in what is given: it cannot satisfy us. Nothing shall be given, only taken and this day is meant to be.
Kicking: I'd rather curse at you than offer a flower, I rather you drown in weeping than think this "ordinary". I shall make it mine when you're not looking.
The door opens and the monologue resumes.
You have carried every inch of me down the stairs. Onto snow we pile up with dictionaries flailing discussing what of Kierkegaard or intimidation by knowledge and arrive at architects or Mason. Even freezers cannot keep this concealed for thirty years. Death is no motivation, only "stance".
A day like most days.
Tina sits with her back toward the morning birds, in the very earliest of grays she thinks and wishes not to. Shadows seem too compromising a subject for observation, aesthetically and so she goes on. Trains! Voyage, wheels, iron, songs, whiskey by the window. A plaid man in his fifties alights an incoherence- the melting with the wave of warm substance now rising in him. Ramble. Nothing is read here, no scriptures, there is more said about what isn't the case. Except for a moment, hallucinated maybe, in which she stares. He looks. An icicle tests its gravitation potential, drips away its life in the sheet of light. "I miss m' Momma's Momma…"
Completion is a nice distraction, a story heard once tucked in bed. There is work to be done, Mason. A wall shall be here and it shall be transparent. Made of minutes stacked on one another: we will still be able to say "Hello". I should still hold your small arm up by wishing and you touch them: there they are our poor efforts.
- Bajo.
Caridad,
Though charity is involved, we find a difficulty in giving. We fish for words to reflect desperately: a shifting gaze pondering the impossibility of "stance". Let us fight the words until the inner tissues remind us that blood is made of iron. Let us rob the streets of any smile and courtesy. Let the faint desires of hours wasted come alive with the regret of not having lived. I've never stolen a kiss. We do not want in what is given: it cannot satisfy us. Nothing shall be given, only taken and this day is meant to be.
Kicking: I'd rather curse at you than offer a flower, I rather you drown in weeping than think this "ordinary". I shall make it mine when you're not looking.
The door opens and the monologue resumes.
You have carried every inch of me down the stairs. Onto snow we pile up with dictionaries flailing discussing what of Kierkegaard or intimidation by knowledge and arrive at architects or Mason. Even freezers cannot keep this concealed for thirty years. Death is no motivation, only "stance".
A day like most days.
Tina sits with her back toward the morning birds, in the very earliest of grays she thinks and wishes not to. Shadows seem too compromising a subject for observation, aesthetically and so she goes on. Trains! Voyage, wheels, iron, songs, whiskey by the window. A plaid man in his fifties alights an incoherence- the melting with the wave of warm substance now rising in him. Ramble. Nothing is read here, no scriptures, there is more said about what isn't the case. Except for a moment, hallucinated maybe, in which she stares. He looks. An icicle tests its gravitation potential, drips away its life in the sheet of light. "I miss m' Momma's Momma…"
Completion is a nice distraction, a story heard once tucked in bed. There is work to be done, Mason. A wall shall be here and it shall be transparent. Made of minutes stacked on one another: we will still be able to say "Hello". I should still hold your small arm up by wishing and you touch them: there they are our poor efforts.
- Bajo.
I am #1 Mom
29 December 2006
Bajo,
Over a week now since I have picked up a cigarette. A checking in on
cervical cancer, some say I might be a good mother, and if I don't
carry how will you to the next generation? Besides of course your
Gabriella.
Relieved to know how serious you take these spaces, remember. The same
sum do not respect this form; do not know the politics in punctuation.
The politics of a birth or in your supposed case, and my potential
future (if I do not stop eating wheat and frequenting the downer,
searching skill). The vacant center will be our inevitable result.
Sometimes brick work is most comforting. My father was a mason the
moment he woke and Rose this year helped me create a family apple tree
and after her seventh mini bud light she admitted the resentful
portions of her marriage to the first Thomas: the one who succeeded in
death, 2 left.
Isaiah is generous with his kisses at such a young age, no teacher, no
directions, he only gives, his smile full body. He asked about you
this morning in his curls and dirty finger nails. How are my siblings
already surpassing us in wisdom? They all ignore their reflections.
I realize I have neglected your family in favors. Patricia never
received a phone call from me on Praha. I would only be able to give
her Salmovska and Stepanska, Jolie and Jasmina in books, in loft, and
of course the hidden living room behind the castle where the coldest
day of my life, fogged and unforgiving gave me some paper. The
hallucinations of the city I might have warned her of, though I fear
she won't encounter this side, and I know that I could never translate
this to Spanish with honest eloquence.
The blue wall bajo, before the washer and dryer, the kids like to sit on.
-Cari
Bajo,
Over a week now since I have picked up a cigarette. A checking in on
cervical cancer, some say I might be a good mother, and if I don't
carry how will you to the next generation? Besides of course your
Gabriella.
Relieved to know how serious you take these spaces, remember. The same
sum do not respect this form; do not know the politics in punctuation.
The politics of a birth or in your supposed case, and my potential
future (if I do not stop eating wheat and frequenting the downer,
searching skill). The vacant center will be our inevitable result.
Sometimes brick work is most comforting. My father was a mason the
moment he woke and Rose this year helped me create a family apple tree
and after her seventh mini bud light she admitted the resentful
portions of her marriage to the first Thomas: the one who succeeded in
death, 2 left.
Isaiah is generous with his kisses at such a young age, no teacher, no
directions, he only gives, his smile full body. He asked about you
this morning in his curls and dirty finger nails. How are my siblings
already surpassing us in wisdom? They all ignore their reflections.
I realize I have neglected your family in favors. Patricia never
received a phone call from me on Praha. I would only be able to give
her Salmovska and Stepanska, Jolie and Jasmina in books, in loft, and
of course the hidden living room behind the castle where the coldest
day of my life, fogged and unforgiving gave me some paper. The
hallucinations of the city I might have warned her of, though I fear
she won't encounter this side, and I know that I could never translate
this to Spanish with honest eloquence.
The blue wall bajo, before the washer and dryer, the kids like to sit on.
-Cari
Eve, you've eaten.
29 December 2006
I can imagine Alicia, Patricia and Isabel. Lately it is Tina, Gabriela and myself. How are the spaces remembered?
I can imagine Alicia, Patricia and Isabel. Lately it is Tina, Gabriela and myself. How are the spaces remembered?
Dearest Apple of My Eye,
Today I can see and the fact that it is a man that I see has no bearing on my expression. I have become comical as most good things worth laughing at. I've been bloodied, oftentimes, your suspension has come to mean "being" and not "of", nor "in" itself.
- Your Other.
By a birth I can't become. What of your motherhood and my children? Barren as I am, and the verb "to mother". As one does a child, "babying", then "mothering" is the child's response. I will render myself "mother" in order that I come to terms with my vacant center.
You will be asked to Take Off Your Hat and I will gladly read and gladly publish and divulge to as many Oya as possible.
The persuit of a demon and a philosopher seems hindering. A path is not carved, a manual is not given. Let them allow themselves while I continue to make this a more phisical reality. Death does not wait. It laughs though I take her seriously.
-Bajo.
La Manzana
28 December 2006
Bajo,
My mother has decided that not one more Christmas will pass with you
absent. She thinks unit K must be sad, I have informed her of your
impeccable ability to find new and interesting things to do to pass
the time until l return.
Firstly, Take Off Your Hat is completed, this was done somehow in
Jersey and then on a Carolina day my mother sat on Alysia's pink
ruffled bed and read it in full. Its skeleton has gotten smaller but
still it is sometimes too full for me to believe it could have ever
been completed. Imagine the five things that Patricia would be most
disappointed in you for, collect them all and place them in "fiction"
then give it to her. All of it on Alysia's pink.
Bajo, we have frequented indecent places, this might be the time when
we continue walking into relationships with addicts, stupid people,
and the unavailable youth. But with your philosopher and my demon gone
to the other coast, gone over seas we might as well allow the assumed
positions of master and servant to make more sense.
La manzana wishes you would receive the bell mama.
-Cari
Bajo,
My mother has decided that not one more Christmas will pass with you
absent. She thinks unit K must be sad, I have informed her of your
impeccable ability to find new and interesting things to do to pass
the time until l return.
Firstly, Take Off Your Hat is completed, this was done somehow in
Jersey and then on a Carolina day my mother sat on Alysia's pink
ruffled bed and read it in full. Its skeleton has gotten smaller but
still it is sometimes too full for me to believe it could have ever
been completed. Imagine the five things that Patricia would be most
disappointed in you for, collect them all and place them in "fiction"
then give it to her. All of it on Alysia's pink.
Bajo, we have frequented indecent places, this might be the time when
we continue walking into relationships with addicts, stupid people,
and the unavailable youth. But with your philosopher and my demon gone
to the other coast, gone over seas we might as well allow the assumed
positions of master and servant to make more sense.
La manzana wishes you would receive the bell mama.
-Cari
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