From outside to total inside.
Angry, bitting, upset at the you that stuck around. This mode is specific, it's like entrapment but forever in the moment, the memory begins to fade and it's out, I'm out of my mind. Nothing valuable can crawl out of me, I regret my past choices, I wish not to drown in regret. I need money to move, I need to move to make money. Stillness catapults me into nothingness. What friend I'd made, what lovers left behind, this tale could be different, try one more time. No bullshit this time.
Expanding horizons that is seeing across the broader water's. Reading Dionne Brand travel, making piece with company, reading Dionne Brand:
What holds poetry together in this city, what holds me together, is the knowldge that I cannot resist seeing; what holds me is the real look of things. If I see someone I see the ghost of them, the air around them, and where they've been. If I see the city I see its living ghostliness — the stray looks, the dying hands. I see its needs and its discomforts locked in apartment, its time that no one has — the growing citizenry of homelessness — (...) The middle of the city, where what looks like an ordinary life is composed of what is beaten into or calculated and chalked up to the world. What is accepted with a shrug but erodes the soul, burns it like so much acid. We'll go around again, they say, we admit, we confess to not being fit for your world. The exhaustion of it. (page 102, The Door of No Return)
I'm coming to see how much she writes through travel, travel through both space and time. She was born into this, born into a story of passage, of departure and arrival that is simultaneous and continuous to pump her blood. She's conflicted but she's not, she's a witness. She's sharp as a razor in her observation but there is also this shrug in the text, 'the exhaustion of it', a long and deep sigh.
Hi, good morning, still showing up. Fell asleep thinking about ..
With the turn of the year there is a clearing. I fell asleep feeling so old, woke up young and unexperienced. Or experienced just enough. Now there are chapters. The chapters contain stories and I can pin point 'I'm here.' There is no fog, I'm here on this page and I lack this, this, this and have that, that, and that. I look at the setting sun everyday. And the I see it go up. There is a clear 12 hours of light.
6am inside, the train is empty just prayer and breath with time the inside begins to resemble the road running by filled full and frantic it's the morning fever rush of job. I moved 3 hours up to a foggy, wet sea town at the cusk of a demographic explosion. babies and mothers and mothers and babies and boys shopping for redbull and waiting for their friends in cars while their friends buy weed. mostly empty. I reach to the ceiling and then I bend to reach under the radiators. I repeat. wave and wipe. the loudest machine is the car. and then I beat it sanding you down, sanding with satisfaction. is all touch a form of rubbing off? i rub off the train seat, contribute to its progressive perish. I'm not longer there. I wiped it all away or covered up or simply said goodbye.
Looking at you I struggle composing thoughts fit for speaking. There is some bulge between us but I can only look past it, I can't look under or from above. My words stumble upon it and I'm thinking this could be easier on my own but then I know it's because of the bulge, something's troubling you. I ignore the bulge or try to at least. I think I know what it is, but should I poke it anyway? How to ask? On those moments I think myself rude. Like, at times I just want to have either funny conversations or work. Like I've had enough of internal troubles, I am no longer.
Currently obsessed with: Lucy Ives, Dorothy Press, Between the Covers podcast, waves, Dionne Brand (always), thrifting, fireplace, my facial tonic, stretching, daydreaming, narrative.