i spent the summer in pieces. a piece here, a piece there. that summer, we had two full moons, crying your sorries, over and over. that summer, your new neighbors, behind closed shutters and deep balcony awnings, watched as you walked, tracing the morning and evening shade. water dripping down buildings onto the street, and the smell of water street summer concrete rising. bags heavy, morning light, and evening brings the sun’s retreat from your window, like an old friend, or a new game. we played, with pieces missing – a piece here, a piece there. we cobbled together a meal of try this and what’s that. remembering and lying, an old game, a new friend. we said i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry. crying, we caught the moon between our fingers and squeezed for warmth. we climbed aboard, we disembarked.
that summer was already over.
it was over.
Posted by toby | reply »a summer in pieces
…i think you are the one i have been waiting for. maybe i am your missing piece
but i am not missing a piece. there is no place you would fit
that is too bad. i was hoping that perhaps i could roll with you…
you cannot roll with me, but perhaps you can roll by yourself
by myself? a missing piece cannot roll by itself
have you ever tried?
(from the missing piece meets the big o, by shel silverstein)
Posted by toby | reply »costumes for goodbye ceremonies
be with me.
somewhere not around you
“The schizo knows how to leave: he as made departure into something as simple as being born or dying. But at the same time his journey is strangely stationary, in place. he does not speak of another world, he is not from another world: even when he is displacing himself in space, his is a journey in intensity, around the desiring-machine that is erected here and remains here. For here is the desert propagated by our world, and also the new earth, and the machine that hums, around which the schizos revolve, planets for a new sun. These men of desire—or do they not yet exist?—are like Zarathustra. They know incredible sufferings, vertigos, and sicknesses. They have their specters. They must reinvent each gesture. But such a man produces himself as a free man, irresponsible, solitary, and joyous, finally able to say and do something simple in his own name, without asking permission; a desire lacking nothing, a flux that overcomes barriers and codes, a name that no longer designates any ego whatever. He has simply ceased being afraid of becoming mad. He experiences and lives himself as the sublime sickness that will no longer affect him.” [Deleuze & Guattari, Anti-Oedipus]
.but must i choose between truth and light, untruth and darkness? you and your sickness affect me, and so what then of it, you prick. must i take part, too, so long as you are happy? your cultural bullshit makes a we of i, but then what of the you? before it was about getting rid of this dance, the pronouns, because yes, we are all human, but your little hurricane can play with notions of society and take off when and if you please. what is wrong with choosing society, with wanting it, to take part in it, isn’t that here, too? i live it, plug into it every fucking day, on the bus, i wake up, step up, into, and fall back asleep again. some days are better than others. spring comes again. a mud ball shines like porcelain. i would like we to be happy, too. but if it’s my neurosis, your psychosis, still wanting to accept, just “somewhere not around you.” my love is a fucking wall right now, coupled with half-truths, awe-struck darkness and the grossest sadness. thanks for the process.
Posted by 丫 | more »terminating or sonnet lxxv or “lass meine schmerzen nicht verloren sein” or ambivalence
kushner remix: she always glances at the clock and comments on how quickly the time is passing. always with a tinge of disbelief and slight panic in her voice. a train barreling past that she cannot ever seem to catch. how ironic that running would be futile. and sitting still amidst the storm of rage, frustration, sadness and uncertainty our only hope. saying goodbye, the squeeze before letting go.
Posted by r | reply »gifts from china: anita & emily: tiny socks and oolong tea
i try to stop drinking coffee.
you taught me that the coffee would be better if you fold the flaps of the cone-shaped paper coffee filter. the bottom flap to one side, the side flap to the other. i didn’t really believe you at the time, it seemed like such an unimportant detail, but i wanted to be polite and said, oh i see, following your instructions. but later, when you were not around, i became lazy, placing the filter into the coffee maker without the careful creases, still thinking that the coffee tasted great. later still, a nice coffee machine with its own reusable mesh filter, and i did not have to think about you and your careful, creased paper cones. i tried to stop drinking coffee. but now, years later, another apartment, another city, no coffee maker. the coffee here is pretty good, but the cafés are expensive. i gave in and bought one of those plastic one-cup drip filters. started making coffee again every day. the motion came back to me, and i’ve started folding the flaps of the paper cone again, the bottom flap to one side, the side flap to the other. i still wonder if the coffee tastes better. still think of you every day.
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