prosetry

Proclivity

Let’s perform this procedure and run these tests and hopefully then be done with this. Oh yes, and your heart can go on beating. That’s what the cardiologist said in a dream I had in August, not in real life, but it was nevertheless a relief, albeit late.

Camus, in real life, said “You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.” I should’ve asked the doctor about the possible side effects of semantics on one’s physiognomy. But one rarely reasons in dreams.

It’s a good thing I’ve gone from documenting my brain patterns and emotions like so much abstract-realist reportage to actually simply merely finally really trying to tell stories, without so much cognitive noise going on. A good thing indeed.

Who else can I appeal to? Well, Ali Smith said novels are about sequence and short stories are about all that’s unsaid. “There is structure, but you know that there’s life somewhere in it, around it, free from it.” Saying without saying, living without looking. Albert, Ali, and expressionism, with an abstract look on its face.

If I had a writing teacher instead of a cardiologist he(?) might applaud that sentence. But one night in September, awake, I realized that no longer does my apparent fate seem to hang in each sentence’s balance, and no longer do I desperately hurl “my” words against the confines of presence and circumstance. They’re just structure for the story of life somewhere in it, around it, free from it, happy and living.

I close my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed and see thoughts as a tangled pile of string needing to be unraveled and pulled taught and I enjoy that double entendre without thinking myself clever. I can’t find any ends, which might just be how thoughts do, and my heart goes on beating.

Advertisements
Standard
prosetry

Continuous

Made choices not from equilibrium, as sometimes thought, but from crests or troughs. Just a ship at sea. I can’t get over how primitive I feel in even acknowledging that, how human, how dare I.

Is it always this way, though, so reactive? I sometimes get sea sick and think it should be spelled -ee rather than -ea, thinking if enough people hear me as me (t=0, where t stands for thought) then maybe they’d show me how to cut the kinds of breaks I’ve been so loath to cut myself and be usual.

There’s a knife around here somewhere and I promise I’m just being dramatic. I would say it’s because I’m Latina if I were named Micaela, and a woman. I can imagine it, though, and did, so why not say so while we’re at it, just a little rocking back and forth. It’s not that sharp anyway.

Crests and troughs, highs and lows along this simple sinusoid since birth, growing to the kind of anthropoid that takes remarkable comfort in the disquiet of his expository tales of questionable oscillation and completely ordinary rates of change, stories of this for that and because of or despite, trying every which way of treating normal as a phase so he can be it but not just.

Standard
poetry, prosetry

Fortitudinal

Had an idea. I’d play on what “better” means. Mix it up with the categorical imperative of the should, a played-out life theme of troubling externality, but tied to illness—of mind, of heart, the usual. Weary of weariness, that sort of illness, I thought, anxious my abstractions would never get me out of the gate, recalling Pound and characteristically reading too much into things like when someone says too little or too much.

Is anyone worried I’ll succumb again? I am, sometimes, but I have confident things to say this time. Responses, I’d call them. And recovery, but unclinically. The benefits of solitude, together with you. It’s not thoughts that are dangerous, but thought patterns. The dream is more than process. I’ll still love you when you’re fat on Monday. Taken out of context, these things make sense.

“The unforeseen, improvised and fatal, fascinates me.” That was the Muse, again, making so much sense that there’s little left for us to… carve. What about another category of word, one that doesn’t seem to follow “making” so intuitively, so simplistically—that’d be poetry. This was supposed to be poetry. A centered column of left-right justified text of maybe eight words per line. If I knew more about language and the written word I’d know whether there was a proper name for that or not.

Time to get _____. Takes _____ to get better. Take all the _____ you need. Get _____. Do what _____ need. Take _____.

Time doesn’t come back around again like my poems do but seasons seem to make me think it does, and that’s more than just more language. This winter is unforeseen; it won’t be like the last, no matter how many words I throw—or don’t throw—at it. Thoughts, merely, and I look to the Muse, even though she was there then too, and ventriloquize alternative patterns so I’m not the only one speaking.

Not everything means something, says something. Not every moment is to be learned from, only learned, presumably with better grammar. I do the dishes with a whole new gnomic outlook. Whose word count am I exceeding and whose stylistic and formal sensibilities am I offending. Ezra, I hope, and all his acolytes. The more the merrier. Mencken said that in a letter to Dreiser in the past but he didn’t mean it the way I do now. I put the silverware to dry handle up. I mean I realized that the dream is process, held together by trust, the way one time in September—in a September—she said be better and go, trusting I’ll take what I need.

Standard
fiction

Subliminal

Sometimes you talk to me like you’re sending thoughts from underwater, strange deep-sea aquatics coming up for air and you probably hope they’ll sprout legs in less than evolutionary time so they can wiggle up on dry land and track me down, collect their intel, and scurry back to tell you what I thought, late-carried messages, forever later, doesn’t matter as long as you get something because you won’t say so but you don’t think I say what I’m thinking and I find that marvelously ironic.

I think maybe I just don’t listen closely when you’re way down there like that and probing, distorted beneath the surface, and that’s my way of not playing along, of doing my best to make sure it takes that long for your words to sink in when they’re not cutting right to. And I tell you so, start to—you think…—but it’s loud in here, and hot, and the louder I try to be the hotter I get and I wonder why we came here in the first place when it’s a cool dark quiet night but we’re in here like we didn’t get enough bright hot noisy day. To stay mute, it seems, drowned, and I really don’t want to fight with you, at least not aloud.

It’s different at night, I think, everything is—told you that, earlier, once, before it was, and now that it is I don’t even consider saying I told you so or asking what you think because of the overheated yelling so instead I stop and look away in that way you always say is my way of vanishing and I always say I know which really means just let me vanish, except for the first time you told me, now that was a thing. Remember? You called it and I came right back.

WHAT? REMEMBER WHAT. YOU’RE MUMBLING AGAIN.

Nevermind.

Lovely, now you’re a smidge annoyed because I’ve gone from “vanished” to “difficult” in your color scheme of me, so fuck it, I continue being what you’ve decided I am for the moment and take a slow sip of beer while looking at you quite obviously out of the corner of my eye so you’ll notice as you sit there watching me be what you’ve decided, then I slowly put the glass back down on the thin cardboard coaster with the whale on it and ask with an overdone sense of nostalgia if you knew my grandfather was a whaler, which he of course was not and you know it.

Your grandfather was an insurance man and you think he was like Wallace Stevens but without the poetry and that’s what killed him.

You say it plenty loud for me to hear, but not yelling, just firm and clear and so unlike the things you think and I wonder why those things can’t be like this too but all I say is I know, that’s my point exactly.

Ah and there it is, your full-blown stoicism, rueful and trimmed with disdain, refusing to say another word or flash much of anything human because human has cracks in it as if cracks will only encourage me and we can’t have that because we both know they will.

I lean forward to get you out of my periphery and put my elbows on the bar, crossing my arms like I was told my grandfather did when he sat like that, the verysame whaler-suit-unpoet grandfather, and I remember reading a book about generational cycles which I enjoyed because it was interesting ok? isn’t that enough? it was interesting and it lent some convenient credence to the part of my person-myth I always believed was my grandfather reincarnate. So maybe he liked it. I grow weary with talk but never ever with thought which makes me think talking is an exercise, especially with you now, like it’s a test, but I don’t know what of or if it’s a nighttime thing or a daytime thing or neither—well, both, I mean, not neither. I’ve surely grown tired of hearing myself speak both day and night, not reaching you, been tired of finding words to cover thoughts like pillowcases for nightmare heads resting and that simile doesn’t even make sense because the words don’t cover they open like the nightmares and that’s the kind of shit I’m talking about. Or not. Not talking, thinking. Because you wouldn’t want to hear it and I don’t need to.

Thinking of thinking, there are certain books I simply will not read any time other than night, certain brain patterns and postures, certain ways of speaking that are purely nocturnal and I wonder if that scares you. If my place, night, scares you, supposed day creature you from the deep dark waters valiantly pretending not because you’re really a lot like me, precisely because, my stubborn contrarian and loather of mirrors. It’s as if some things can’t stand the sound, others the light, most both, not because they’re too muted or fearful but because they demand something more than graph paper for straight lines and whale coasters on which our banalities might rest, sweaty, the real shit around us that’s all lit up and loud in daytime, where you thrive because of all the cover, underexposed in the midst of that overexposure, while I thrive at night when it’s turned down low and thoughts have space and lunar rovers.

Fuck, telling stories is hard—I don’t know how they do it, I venture to tell you, putting a cap on our silence, a silence prevented from being too loud by the din of voices not ours and music and glasses clinking and laughter laughing having far better times than us, sort of changing the subject neither of us outright stated and you tell me I should just try outlining or take a class and I think for fuck’s sake why don’t you listen, I understand that you hear. Seagulls hear, squirrels hear, but people are supposed to listen, right? It’s one of those people things we do when we’re being peoplely people instead of the animaly ones.

Eyes roll this time because I said it, not the whole thing but the whale’s portion part about why don’t you listen, and I ask you to be careful before they roll right out of their sockets and onto the floor—it’s dirty down there, I say, and you’d look weird without eyes, though it’d be much harder for you to give me that glare, yeah that one right there.

The pretty barback smiles at me—perhaps she caught some of us—and in the miniscule kaleidoscopic of fully imaginable possibilities her pretty smile triggers I realize I don’t know what I’m doing with you, what this story is we’re telling ourselves and no longer adding to, just retelling and replaying and shorter, briefer, more careless all the time, you from the concealments and smoke screens of day, me from the freedom and aversions of night and I remember for a few days previous I was taken by the thought that what’s not said remains unreal, that the unreal drops its un when spoken and that’s why I’m obsessed with inner, I thought at the time, and with night and silence, I think tonight, but I suddenly tonight now want to test that whole theory-thought and bring a little supposed unreal to real to see what new real it might create and I tell her her smile made me see stars whether it was meant for me or just comes with the job territory and oh now you’re suddenly perked up and listening, your unreal made just as real as my real was just made un, without either of us saying a single word to each other.

Here we go, I say to the smile, I might as well be yours.

 


I’m cheating a bit, you know, because this was originally published last summer on my personal site, Art & Insolence. Don’t tell anyone. Or do, because a writer without readers is like a chicken without eggs, nobody knows which comes first. I promise that doesn’t make any sense, but you probably catch my drift.

Standard
prosetry

Cipher

Thunderstorms again, and with each flash I count the miles between soul and spirit, closing fast, thinking of what if and what to say.

Between you and me, I miss it. How’s that for a start.

A start, but will a last act follow before it’s curtains, you ask? Yes, certainly, without a doubt, though I’m afraid it’ll just be words again.

Words like a bottled message to a someday later me you might someday later one day meet, if we’re lucky, if I ever get on a plane again.

It’s striking, again, and I wait for the rumble after the flash of thought of trying to alter present conceptions of self by internally revising past interactions as though changing my own remembrance translates to changing minds I can’t even know are set and past presents which no longer are, astonished by the supreme lack of profundity in that.

And out goes another batch of words rattling around in another bottle and I imagine the thunderclap is the glass shattering against a wholly different façade, somewhere out there again, out between fact and wish.

It’s a matter of is and isn’t, grays and approximates, selves swathed in raincloaks, shelters sought, the way I speak to you—to anyone—from angles, the same way I cast glances at the anyones on the train, around the city, in the corners and cabinets of my memory and imagination, and always have, there and here, never straight on, active onlooker obscured by obliques with only partial truths to tell and all the rest nestled between the lines, again.

Standard
fiction

Date Night

Those two over there, yeah, the table in the corner right there. Before you got here he said: “Are you more of a wine girl or, uh, martinis? I’m not much of a wine guy but I’d maybe go for a pinot grigio.” The waitress has come by their table three times already. Oh, no, don’t be sorry. I was enjoying myself, doing a little eavesdropping, just hanging out, killing time, etcetera etcetera. When they sat down he opened his menu and remarked that it was much longer than what he saw online as if making a pronouncement about a new land he’d just set foot upon, his crew of weary sailor-explorers in tow. Then they were talking about some tabloid scandal, hard to say which one, hard to say it matters—“I never really followed up,” he said—really said “followed up”—“but from what I can tell, he was totally in on it.” She said “yeah.” That’s the only word I’ve heard from her, might be the only one she knows. Yeah, aren’t you funny. Look if you can, at the earnestness of his expression, look how vacuous. It’s astounding. I feel like we’re on safari. How does a face get so empty? I know I’m being judgy, I know, I’m probably just trying to impress you with the astuteness of my observations and my charming prattling commentary. It’s really not cute. Does “judgy” end in -ey or just -y? Ah but now here comes their food and wait… wait… yep, their phones….

Anyway, I’m just dodging, to be honest. Funny how people say things like that, like “in all honesty,” “to be honest,” “full disclosure,” and then don’t tell the truth. It’s like a blatant pretext for a lie. But it’s kinda nice to know the truth’s not coming, so you don’t have to ferret it out. I’m not lying, though, just talking to keep from saying anything. Or getting lost in my thoughts and having a noticeable detachment sort of driftaway. That’d be uncomfortable. At least I assume. And you’d need ferrets. No, it’s not you, not at all. Well, sort of. Sort of you. That looks delicious, what they got. I should ask her if it is. I bet she’ll say “yeah.” It’s mostly me and sort of you. I’m not sure what that means either. It’s this. Me. And you. Full disclosure. And I’m afraid if I go down the path I feel is before me—us—it’ll be almost impossible to keep from going at it too… I don’t know… fervently. I was gonna say “hard” but that sounds weird and it’s not a matter of forcefulness. Like that time I was typing away and the period key popped right off the keyboard. I couldn’t tell where one thought stopped and another began. Just think of all those endings lost. Yeah, I really did. I know, happens all the time, not that interesting, but thanks for indulging me. I know that’s not what you’re saying, I am. Let’s put a period on that. Very funny indeed. He just sniffed his wine.

So here’s the thing, a very serious thing. The thing is I’ve had a thing for you since… I don’t know when. Kidding, kidding. That’s what he probably just said to her, right after the sniff and a slow blink. Then we’d end up like them, photographing our food and talking of scandal. Have you heard of the impostor complex? It’s a cognitive-behavioral thing. Did you know that thesaurus.com lists Siberia as a synonym for “limbo?” and “nada” as a synonym for “cipher?” Yeah, that was her name.

You’ve always made me a little nervous. I’ve been told my emotional intelligence is too high. That’s probably why I have to listen to music when I paint, so I don’t sit there and analyze each and every stroke for what it may probably not even remotely mean, falling down a wormhole of self-awareness with self after self after self flitting by and Matt Fucking Damon waiting on the other end on some unsustainable planet—did you ever see that movie? Or film, I guess, film. Let’s be sophisticates, yes. Did you know that was his middle name? No, that’s not all it was about. It was about time and love and alternate realities, parallel universes, shit like that. I think. And the end of the world. Then I think at times like this, times of pointed, scatterbrained observation and hyper-present-ness and unnecessary explanation, of something I read recently about advanced pop criticism. That it sits too firmly in the now, pulling all the rest of life and thought and time to the pinnacle-present. It’s like Buddhism gone wrong. Or wild. Or one aspect of it, flashing its tits on spring break and calling it a phase. Or an experience, yeah, funny. Like that, it’s like that. This is, I mean. Oh, yeah, no, not like that. Of course, no. There are too many people around and I have no such expectations. But, later, if you were to find yourself inclined… No, I’m kidding. It’s totally different and absolutely the same.

“Look, it’s nothing obsessive or overwhelming, just an enduring, definite thing. You appear without conscious intent, you show up in dreams, playing roles of a romancer of sorts, a close companion, a secret lover,” he says, and I wonder why I hadn’t thought of that, imagine he must’ve read it somewhere—or heard it, more likely—and I’m afraid to say so to you but just then our food arrives, breaking up the flow of thoughts and words and I’m glad there’s now something other than my foot to place in my mouth.

Standard
fiction

Seasons’ Spell 4

Part 4 of 4, the end. Reminds me: “The temptation towards resolution, towards wrapping up the package, seems to me a terrible trap. Why not be more honest with the moment? The most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning” (Sam Shephard). Another beginning, a new beginning, or the same beginning, like part 1. Then part 2 and part 3.


He has written a note and left it on the table. The window, now closed and locked, is doing its time-weary best to stand against a wind that creeps disregardfully through the cracks and gaps and spaces, frosting the eight frames’ edges and inadvertently softening the view of a bitter, fuliginous gray sky hanging over leafless brown-black branches, if anyone were there to see.

The oxalis is long-dead but its empty pot remains on the sill, pointless and inert. The curtains have been removed, the tablecloth is gone, and the chairs are tucked in, left behind as if to commemorate shared comforts, and also loss. The photograph is gone but a faint rectangle of long-shaded paint remains on the wall in its place, and the only sounds in the house are the occasional wintry creak and groan of tired timber and the wind’s solemn, discordant breaths. The note sits on bare maple nicked and scratched.

I love the you I’m sure you’ve become even though I’m not there to know and see, he wrote.

*

And spring returns, and the house remains. The trees, the hills, the sky, the night, the day—they all remain with time, ever changing, ever the same.

Standard