On A Velar Pinch
Dinner Was At Eight
“In the inside there is sleeping, in the outside there is reddening, in the morning there is meaning, in the evening there is feeling. In the evening there is feeling. In feeling anything is resting, in feeling anything is mounting, in feeling there is resignation, in feeling there is recognition, in feeling there is recurrence and entirely mistaken there is pinching. All the standards have steamers and all the curtains have bed linen and all the yellow has discrimination and all the circle has circling. This makes sand.”
Gertrude Stein, Tender Buttons
I hate a bad dinner party because I love a good dinner party. So when conversation made me long for the company of anyone who embodied the softer side of a voiceless velar stop: Chris, Claire Clarissa… I said goodnight to the remaining wine drinkers.
In bed, I wrote a drunk letter to my dead dog:
When I was young, I wanted you to have puppies, so I would pretend that I would find them somewhere on the mountain and whispered in your ear to show me the way to your secret nest. Whenever there was rustling in the foliage, it was the puppies playing. I remember distinctly the sadness I felt when you passed away, as if it were my fault. As if, by sleeping over at Amanecer’s house that night, I chose your death. Mom didn’t mean to run you over.
In my dreams, I was driving. I took a wrong exit that looped to a new highway. A tsunami crashed into my road but I had a mechanical bird tied to a string that carried me to higher elevation above the shore. The bird tired and I put it in a box. And the waves subsided. The others went into the ocean and I followed. They were naked and pleased. I was clothed and unpleased and anxious about a potential storm. I tried to take my mechanical bird out of the box but it was covered in maggots, so I gave it some air. There was an abandoned palette on the shore with unfamiliar paints in the sand. I stuck two fingers in the copper colors and spread them on my index and middle fingers. They glimmered and shone, a burnt sienna glitter.
On The Last Day Of Summer
On My Cousin [B]inny
On A Collegiate Autumn
On The Library In Claire
On Tyler: In The Morning
Out of kindness comes redness and out of rudeness comes rapid same question, out of an eye comes research, out of selection comes painful cattle. So then the order is that a white way of being round is something suggesting a pin and is it disappointing, it is not, it is so rudimentary to be analysed and see a fine substance strangely, it is so earnest to have a green point not to red but to point again."
Gertrude Stein, Tender Buttons
On Africa Fashion Week in Barcelona
"In the absence of reciprocity there is no alter Ego, since the world of the one then takes in completely that of the other, so that one feels disinherited in favour of the other. This is what happens in the case of a couple where there is more love felt on one side than the other: one throws himself, and his whole life, into his love, the other remains free, finding in this love a merely contigent manner of living. The former feels his being and substance flowing away into that freedom which confronts him, whole and unqualified. And even if the second partner, through fidelity to his vows or through generosity, tries to reciprocate by reducing himself, or herself, to the status of a mere phenomenon in the other’s world, and to see himself through the other’s eyes, he can succeed only by an expansion of his own life, so that he denies by necessity the equivalence of himself with the other that he is trying to posit. Co-existence must in all cases be experienced on both sides."