A day that resists definition, that ends only when you hand the phone over to the person beside you. It's late and you realize you're hungry. Then suddenly you know there was one more thing to say but you've already handed it over. For a moment you realize that unless you press it firmly closed your thoughts will flap in the warm wind. Until then, the person on the other end will follow you in the wrong direction. What you said will never be what you meant, an imperfect urban plan. Some day in the past, the entire conversation would have taken place in letters. You would have pressed firmly closed what you never said. The person beside you hangs up.
You're always so busy I don't want to interrupt you. I took it as encouragement that you even wanted to talk. This is calling it a day.
A structure depending on associations made of a bird's nerves rather than the sequences of rooms; there is one smudged purple hallway that is also a throat. A vertical knowing of the dying fall; a way to conduct design by making mistakes. The only option is to go public in the grief of a story which is part of a structure that has no floorboards, only mutterings of cold fisted birds left over from last year's old words. Or: a way of listening to the ramblings of possible light, crossing your arms around your sequence of events. Or: but this is a rumour on the radio, also a nightmare about a cat who kept you company during a pregnancy.
"Hey, that was like SO Architecture 3!" "I know. You know?" "Yeah. Like two years ago at that party? That wasn't as Architecture 3 as this, tho." "Totally. I felt much more incoherent and subconsciously tired this time." "For sho. Remember that night we jumped off the bridge into the cold water?" "Yes and it tasted so good." "That reminds me of drinking Sprite in my uncle's truck in a clearcut." "Architecture 3!" "Yeah!"
A day composed of edges
Any day when the laptop is a neighbour with three dark eyes and a civility agenda and you cannot speak to your lover because there is a file always bottomless with responses and memories, all this eaten up and spat out as the hours, always the hours and the hours, the laptop still waiting for more dark informational snacks, and you call your lover instead to apologize, but the electrical wire that runs through your wrist is cold, it squirms and holds still only when you are silent, without the sentence to hold you up you are a chameleon wishing for fewer edges, only time rubs itself against all subjective things and you finally sit alone typing, remembering a sound behind your back, watching the body arc and splay and fight itself across the road as the spirit leaves this day. Hard day.
In the event of being born, I figure, everything is improvised. All or in part, one moves as if in a painting, whether in the Renaissance, in the twentieth century, or not. The gallery goers (who might be schoolkids for all I know) realize that place and time are unimportant. This thought is so intimate everyone thinks they had it themselves. Ultimately, only circumstances we notice are the thing: the horoscope, the canonization, the flight into Egypt. The high marble reliefs. The whole darned tableau. Being first is a cure for so many things.
"How'd you just appear like that?" "Easy. Word of mouth." "I've traveled all over the world and I've never seen someone do that before." "You haven't been around kids enough." "Nativity."