A day with no edges.
Any day that has an airport, from which you text-message a person you once loved, and they write back, after 40 minutes: "Wow. Safe travels." And, feeling stupid, you stare out at the Manhattan skyline, observing how the Empire State Building
is both absorbed into the silver gelatin sky and periodically released by it, when the gold light floods the sky just after dawn. Clouds. Newark. The feeling that you are about to get on a plane and travel in the opposite direction to what the heart wants. That kind of bittersweet melancholy and imperfect nutrition -- you've just ordered a fruit salad that seems to be fermenting in it's plastic tub
-- constitutes the soft day with no misgivings, but a profound inability to think things through
Redness that's both linked and operative: mythologically unitary, but actually not contained. I refer you to the arteries and veins and also the valves which, on Miss Libby's echocardiogram, resembled baskets of kelp. Miss Libby
is no longer with us. The heart fails. Perhaps it is better not to pick up with another human being
. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
and raspberry jam for breakfast? No. The heart is an open system. The heart is real. I don't want a boyfriend
. I don't want another dog
. I want red things
: What moves my blood. Writing. I want the book to come
What was the name of that French film? The one with Beatrice Dalle riding a dog sleigh at the end? I loved that shot where the girl's heart was lying next to her, wrapped in a T-shirt, throbbing in the snow. Did I really see that? I always like writing afterwards, but then I write something new. I wish I still had the soundtrack to Betty Blue.
The inability to conceive of a happy ending.
Sometimes I think that the whole reason I met him was to discover that his wife was studying Counseling Psychology, if indeed that is the name of something a person might actually learn, with the great-grand-niece of Frida Kahlo. In the narrative of desire
, perhaps what matters is not intimacy but it's counterpart: a new thought. In this sense, the lover is a necessary force, but rarely it's limit. I said: "Maybe this is the reason we met." Thinking of the yellow table, the third eye, the monkey in her arms. Dominant. I begged for an introduction, forgetting for a moment who I was. To him. For her. A cunt
. Do cunts
get to meet Frida Kahlo? In the flesh? Greeley, Colorado is where the slaughterhouses are. I'd like to visit that university town.
The humanimal is a hybrid of human and animal features, biological characteristics and/or behaviours.
The Wolf Children of Midnapure: feral children found living with wolves in Bengal, India, in 1920. Their eyes, for example, shone blue at night: an humanimal adaptation.
who carries stories the way other entities carry bits of twig or children with big eyes or a carapace.
. I cannot say the human being has a set of appendages or that he or she has language.
It's not about that. It's not about movement. It's not about sounds that are held in the body.
When I boil up a human being (which is horrible to think about, I'm sorry), I get: narrative.
As the distinguishing trait.
I mean, she broke up with me, but she broke up with me in the morning. She was a real human being about it, you know? She spent the night.
The vertical axis of light, in the form of a hybrid
being: half human, half bird. The act of opening your body to that light: that intensity is the angel too.
I dreamed of an owl-man and when I woke up, I tried to orient myself to him, geographically. I opened an atlas at random, thinking of the feral
angel, and put my finger down. Where my finger landed, I went. I went to Colorado
. There, in the color red, I tracked something and did not find it. It's too late now. This is what it's like to respond immediately to an angel. I don't recommend it unless you want your life to change forever in ways that unforseeable to you.
A tropical modern
building with an elevator. The name of a club in Brixton. A definition of narrative
that resists complicated responses, because it's so fucking cool.
"What did you do on Saturday night?" "Oh, nothing much. Chucked back a few Malibu and Oranges, and all that." "Where did you go?" "Architecture 5." "Dude, that's really weird. That's where I went too." "No." "Yes!" "Shut up!" "No, seriously. I met this amazing, amazing guy. His name is Scott and when it was time to go, I heard this voice in my head, and it said, you have just met your future husband." "What, like a voice inside you or something you actually heard?" "I don't know." "Wow." "Yeah." "But, I think you should take it easy. You've been through a lot lately." "I know, but...he was really cute." "Define cute." "I don't know." "You're a little bit stupid, aren't you?" "What?" "Oh, I was just asking Terry where the olives were." "How is Terry, anyway?" "Terry! Terry, how are you?" "Fine." "He says he's fine."