Sunday, July 12, 2015
from a text message
Of course you haven’t responded yet! I’ve only sent you the most life-changing e-mail of all time. I shouldn’t have to resend my thoughts, but your lack of response is truly IRRITATING to say the least. How do I know where I stand. It is more important to know where I stand then how you feel as I’m the one who has put my heart out on a limb here and now it’s just DANGLING, don’t you see? I don’t know if you’ve drafted a response or not even because I refuse to log into your account like last time and check for myself. We all know it ended badly last time, and let’s just say once you know, you can’t unknow. But I am going a bit mental waiting for you to either confirm or deny your feelings for me. I know it sounds trite, but do you think of me the same way I think of you? Don’t answer this question. This one is riddled with self-doubt and neediness. Just answer the one I thoughtfully crafted for 3 and a half hours. YEAH! THREE AND A HALF HOURS! It took a long time to articulate. I wanted to be clear without being over-explicit. You are ALIVE, right???
Wednesday November 12, 2014
From a text from Bec
How’s it going? How was Jenny’s birthday? Party town balloon time?! I wish I could’ve been there. I miss you sooooooooo much. Like, you don’t even know. It sucks being here. My Dad is cool and my Mom is trying her best not to be a bitch but my brother? Oh my god. I honestly think that he’s an undiagnosed sociopath. Like, fully. He’s collecting dead bugs and archiving them on his wall. The wall of his room. My Mom says, “Leave him be…” as though there’s nothing weird going on at all. And he is totally obsessed with video games. He has a TV in his room now and sometimes he doesn’t even come out for meals. Mom leaves food outside his door like he’s in prison. It’s so weird. If I didn’t have Denny’s I would shoot myself in the head. But, I’m saving money, so that’s good. I guess. Ever since that DUI my parents aren’t helping with tuition so… I have to do what I have to do. I don’t want to be a bum my whole life so I have to finish this stupid degree.
Sunday September 21, 2014
Overheard at the beach in Levanto
I’m writing because Skype is bullshit. When your face freezes I feel like I’m losing something I never truly had and I can’t bear it. So, what I was saying when we got cut off is… I’m glad that you’re taking care of yourself but I worry about Bubble Syndrome. You know, that thing that happens and is awkward to talk about when you forget to call your father and you forget to text me and you end up in the bubble of your own head, of your own Halifax and it’s… painful. It’s painful the most, it’s the most painful for you, I think. You have this notion that you’re taking care of yourself, that you’re holing up with your work in a good way, but, be careful. Sometimes it’s not good. Sometimes it’s nasty and you smell like a hedgehog. Eat spinach and stuff, okay? If you only eat beef jerky and barbecue chips you will get scurvy. That’s not even a maybe. That’s a for sure.
Thursday June 19, 2014
killing me waiting on me to fold to fold over to bend to bend over and go and go somewhere so i can’t tell the time the time to wait to be killed or the time to wait to be kept alive
yeah she said that it was fast
on the phone
in an e-mail
i deleted it
deleted it all and all of it was killed
there was someone there giving directions to the parking lot
the parking lot of empty promises
drive away drive away away
and then i said i love you to no on in particular in particular
winding down and out and in and over and the time is out it’s running running
got on its kicks, its nike new balance its do it now it’s doing it something like that or something or other
and it’s still running because time runs it doesn’t crawl it doesn’t beg it doesn’t plead it doesn’t wait
it kills and kills and kills
i’m here on the mend on the mend and up and out bigger better things and bigger better moments
yeah he said that it was quick
on the phone
in an e-mail
i deleted it
deleted it all and all of it came right back
can’t escape the motions the slogans the misused lotions the potions the daily quotients
Monday February 3, 2014
The Essential Rumi
Rumi tr. Coleman Barks
Get on those steal toes, that hard hat, that tool belt. Get on outside where the real world fights its fights. Protected by the construction of our warm and cozy houses, we sit and we contemplate. We fear the windows when the blinds are drawn, we fear the callousness of strangers we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. We fear the ambulance and its never-ending cries. We stay indoors, thankful for running water and a steady stream of television programs or movies ordered by e-mail. We don’t leave the couch to see the world in action outside of us. There is a whole big thing out there, and it looks just like your imagination dreams it does. Only worse. Only better. There’s no way of knowing if the dead bolt on the front door stays locked. Just a thought. Just a hunch. That we thank those pillars and roofs and hardwood floors for keeping us safe and sheltered and avoiding anything that might cause us even the slightest amount of pain. There are people living in their nightmares all around, and not in a house with books rescued from the streets. Not in a house with a pumpkin loaf baking in the oven. Not that we should choose sadness. Choose hardship. But we should not stay in our pyjamas until noon, just because our jeans are cold from the wind blowing in through the cracks.
Tuesday May 14, 2013
Mark. R. Slaughter
I don’t want a picture of us kissing. I found one, just now, and it gave me a shock of electricity in through my belly button. It’s harder when these things are stored on hard-drives. It’s harder to be sure that we’re rid of them. These pictures; these e-mails professing love that has now turned to something else, something different, not disdain but…; these songs that you recorded on your GarageBand and sent late one night so that I would wake up to it in the morning. It’s harder to be sure we’re rid of those such things. When it was a print, the fingerprints bright, the colours lovely, when it was a print, it was easier to burn, to tear, to shred and recycle. The sound of the photo being dropped in the “Trash” is so much less satisfying. Will I regret it? Will I regret that the footprint of you and I is, perhaps, closer to being nothing at all? What have you done with the photos and the e-mails and the songs?