Category Archives: scenes

Between a life actually lived and a shadow cast on…

At some point choice became this really bad thing.

There was one room in the Los Angeles art world like Wonderland, where we stood three feet shorter than the table, near chair legs like pillars. What we wanted, what we chose to want, was to feel our feet swing over the heads of the balding, the aging. We saw banality, and femininity, but we chose the biggest choice. 

No but that wasn’t the choice. The choice was can we get away with it, how much can you lift, do your two hands fit around the back of those pillars. 

It’s the same choice. What can we get away with. Not dying. 


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Fourteen August Three AM

There are sixty seconds of 3 to 3:01. In the first ten I think I saw my ribcage move, sort of in the way the sand breaks over ghost crabs. The right leg splits at twelve and the left at thirteen. The trembling of an unstable leg emerging shakes off a black shiny oil, like that on water, upset. New fingers break free from old fingers at twenty-seven, and other hip bones like diamonds tear through bone. The emerging thing now only attached from the neck drips clean at forty-one, until fifty when flesh tears there too. Fifty-eight and fifty-nine I heard the final tear inside the back of my head, like the last few sinews of the tooth to the gum. Anyway, that’s what’s sitting here now. You probably shouldn’t touch me. 

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Self pity is the least interesting

Two knees to the floor. Scarred, both. Two kinds of falls, and this a third. One bled forever, the childhood one. Off something. The second was adult, and superficial. These scar the worst because they don’t bleed. That was into something, in a way. Carpet burn. 

This is not like that. Two palms together and a head to the bedpost. 

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It is too hot in Venice in August and there is too much rain in Ireland to live. There are pictures only: the sun, the humidity, a small distant window. In fairness, a holdover from twelve years of Hawaii keeps a heater at her feet in fine, stable weather: marred, always, by the weather of this office, the temporary one.

Finger taps at her temples are conspiratorial, because she only likes the clever ones. Television television televison, she says, while she practices the parts from her Native American flute lessons during meetings. No one should ever stop learning.

Keeping afloat seems like trying to keep the rest from sinking, but there’s little to do. It’s the television; where else do they go at night? A solid connection with the delivery man: familial, geographical, and the world does seem small. It was a tiny town on Maui, but the view isn’t bad from this desk either.

Please tell them to dust the bunnies from underneath. She makes it to Venice.

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