Front Page

Archive for November, 2019|Monthly archive page

at dinner tonight Paul told me

In 100, by Nora on November 28, 2019 at 9:16 pm

he was born in 1920, in vienna, a jewish family (fancy, it seems, since they didn’t speak yiddish). in 1939, his great uncle in london just barely secured him a tourist visa to england. the gentleman at immigration, after peering at him, reading his name, said, “vacation?” and he said, “yes.” the man eyed him evenly and said, “make sure you get your return ticket when you get there.” he returned, alright. 50 years later. after australia, the army, buying the first eichler house in palo alto, raising kids, grandkids, great-grandkids. and now turning 100, thanks to that immigration officer that day in vienna.

sorry i’ve been a bad girl !

In 100, by Nora on November 28, 2019 at 9:07 pm

sorry i’ve been unresponsive! my phone has been …. in my hand

sorry i didn’t get back to you last week! i was … home, doing nothing

omg i can’t believe we never…! honestly i was just really tired

i’m so embarrassed i missed your…! i really care about you but i can’t use my perfectly good brain or hands or back right now

oh man, i meant to write back to you about …! did i mention i’m moving? i already moved

wow thank you for offering! i just…did it all myself because i was too tired to ask for help

Patience is a sin

In 100, by Wyatt on November 28, 2019 at 4:12 am

I want to fall for you slowly

Little by little

Then all at once

Standing atop a diving board

Staring down at the water

Anticipating descent

Feeling cool air kiss skin

Feet singing on grip-taped concrete

A choice

And then gravity

Followed by contact

I seek the crisp bitter scent of pine

Longing for your look

Welcoming your wandering intrusions

Who let you in here?

I need you to find the key

Irreverently unlock the pantry door

And make a cup of tea in my chest

I want to hold you

But not yet

I need to need you

First

Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park

In 100 on November 25, 2019 at 7:04 pm

Earlier they had slid into their attire and glittered their faces. As they approached the line for the “Black and White” cruise Olivia chortled first before the girls spurted into laughter. Apparently black meant the culture, the skin, not the dancing hours. Only Heather hesitated, crossing her arms. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“What?”

Heather tucked her tawny hair behind an ear. “Do you think we should still…go?”

 “Um, of course, we paid.” A pause. Heather fluttered, then fell behind, extracting her phone. Heads hinged.

“Guys,” Kellie whispered. “Is Heather, like, a racist?” 

The ground is uneven everywhere I’ve ever lived pt 2

In 100, by Nora on November 25, 2019 at 3:58 pm

The scuffed wooden floor of my Brooklyn apartment sags deeply, comically, in the middle. If you stood on one side of the apartment, near the heat-leaky windows, on a snowing-cold winter night, looking back at the door to the closet and the bathroom, you would see it: all three door jambs slanted in wonky opposition, the floor sloping blithely toward the ground underneath, three floors below. When that floor was flat, this was an abolitionist neighborhood; now it sags toward the densely-packed C train, the only Underground Railroad left, which may be our last – deeply, comically inadequate – force for diversity.

Bern

In 100 on November 24, 2019 at 2:46 pm

“Jeannie is home with this dog, you see. We’ve been watching this dog for years and they really have a way with each other. And, the thing is, I remember when the dog was young, you know, a young dog, all full of energy…he would never quit! And now, he sleeps all day, barely gets excited to go around the block. He’s all covered with these nodules…And…and it’s making me think, you know. About life. A dog is just like us, but faster. And it’s – I’m just thinking about him when he was young…it’s sad, you know? Life.”

The Return

In 100 on November 24, 2019 at 1:16 pm

Yes, yes sure. It was the drugs.

Regardless, before I was hibernating. Or hemorrhaging. But in one thousand micro moments or maybe over a millennium, I remembered life. I glided over kingdoms of sea grass, kissing bubbles to the inverted sky. I saw friends. I stretched my muscles tightly and released! I felt the whirr of a jeweled cicada, deeply. I gaped at the stars and replied “Yes, I apologize, I had forgotten, and I do not know how.”

My head ached and it felt so good to be achy. And now I am able to chase the numbness away.

TSA Therapy

In 100, by Wyatt on November 24, 2019 at 11:26 am

Welcome to Astral Space Services, before you board your flight we’ll screen you. Do you consent to use of the Wand Investigating Personal Effects?

Is that a vibrator?

It’s a certified ASS WIPE.

Go ahead.

It seems you are carrying overweight emotional baggage.

I tried to leave my inner critic behind but it‘s been vocal recently.

Do you consent to removal?

Please. It’s in my shoulders.

You’ll feel a buzz.

I think you’ve got it!

It’s not letting go.

Pull!

It is heavy, sir.

*Grunt*

And, it’s extracted. Here’s your claim tag, pick it up after your flight.

Keep it.

Not all armor protects

In 100, by Wyatt on November 23, 2019 at 7:24 pm

It’s too easy not to ask the woman with two corgi pups if I can play with them. Too simple to hide behind reflective steampunk sunglasses and ignore inquisitive glances. Too safe to hold in a compliment, a question, an offer, and wonder what the response may have been.

But it’s too fun to pat their silly ears. Too joyful to smile and dance a little jig in this large fur coat for a stranger who pokes her cheeky tongue out. Too delightful to admire the existence of each new person by assuming old friendship and saying, “Where to now?”

Sleeves

In 100, by Wyatt on November 23, 2019 at 7:13 pm

Brightly colored puns gaff taped to the hallways; silly string mangling hipster chandeliers; tacky wallpaper repapered with shimmering emergency blankets: we sought out and co-created this funhouse of reckless human play but now that we’re breathing its air, what do we say? This Museum of Sleeves (established in a bedroom’s bathroom) celebrates Banksy’s and Houdini’s shirts, at least the arm covering portions, and we walk its absurd hallways with bemused expressions, trading glances. I don’t know how to flirt in a sleeve-filled toilet. If everything is a bit, are you? If we are both in a performance, who am I?

The ground is uneven everywhere I’ve ever lived pt 1

In 100, by Nora on November 22, 2019 at 7:02 pm

The ground is uneven everywhere I’ve ever lived. Today with inappropriate city boots, I stumped through the grove of sparse and craggy northern california oaks, my re-soled heels finding no purchase against the miniature rolling foothills beneath them, blanketed in dry-yellowed, spiny oak leaves, crisped from their sprawling, just-dying california summer. Jurassic-smooth bone-bleach dead palm tree fronds, feet long, litter the ground like the carcasses of our mesoamerican, ohlone, spanish, gold digging, frontiersmen ancestors. I miss running around barefoot til I was nine basically, feeling the stolen sandstone gravel, the geology and archaeology of my birthplace, through my thickened soles.

diebenkorn pt 8

In 100, by Nora on November 22, 2019 at 6:49 pm

I was only thinking of this as a running prompt, a way of thinking about my move with the healthy distance of my training in art history, interpreting through painting, inserting an object between me and real life. But there it was: a real Diebenkorn painting, closer than I thought, right on my campus, my old playground, the bruise-berry-blood blue of water damage seeping where smooth white wooden window frames meet dun colored, textured stucco. Flatness and distance. Ocean and asphalt. Many edges and the never-ending-ness of each edge. Color is light made solid, or air made liquid. welcome back.

fuckin spiders

In 100, by Nora on November 21, 2019 at 12:11 pm

I’ve never been afraid of snakes. their slick, waxy scales running over smooth, powerful bodies, contracting and stretching, flowing over and around obstacles. spiders, though. motherfuckers! even the little cute ones: HOW DARE YOU TRY TO DISAPPEAR AGAINST THE WALL BY BEING NEARLY TRANSLUCENT? California houses, in my experience, are full of spiders, jittering, jerkily folding and unfolding crooked legs, always showing up in the corner of your eye, in the corner of the white-painted molding, the long crack hair-splitting the curved Spanish colonial entryway, the blue-enameled edge of a terracotta pot. This I had forgotten in New York. Fuck.

under water

In 100 on November 21, 2019 at 12:02 pm

i am underwater underwater waving seaweed darts hitting me from every side i hate being here i love being here i don’t have an identity my back hurts i paid too much i give too much i don’t get what i need i’m selfish i’m selfless i give i give i take it gets taken from me the rope the darkness the edges the hot soft wet water over my head normal treading tread water forever never stop never float tread hard pump your legs kick hard harder than ever but from the top it better look like water ballet

A funeral

In 100, by Wyatt on November 21, 2019 at 6:11 am

Stasis, perhaps. Or familiarity. It was unclear what they mourned, standing in their dining room huddled over an alter of beeswax candles and repotted grocery store basil. Their black skinny jeans and organic cotton henleys crinkled each time they shifted their weight.

Their eulogies were bursting with celebration, intensity, levity and mourning. What a time it had been. How to honor it, and move on? Each song on the meticulously curated playlist coaxed new emotions to unfurl.

They hugged, wept, smiled. They were scared. And excited.

“Each of us comes first.”

When it was over, they cooked okonomiyaki and danced.

there and back again 2009 / 2019

In 100, by Nora on November 19, 2019 at 10:26 am

spent my first night in NYC on ambien watching the patterned wallpaper wave beautifully in underwater wind (after my first cockroach incident and because anxiety, need to sleep well for college move-in next day) and here I am ten years later three ibuprofens and the diazepam they forced on me for my IUD because my neck and arm are immobile with fire pain but maybe it’s psychosomatic the pain of leaving New York but probably the pain of moving 70-plus-pound bags either way I am loopy crazy both coming and going and i still feel i’m moving through a fog.

Sweet bean

In by Wyatt on November 19, 2019 at 8:28 am

There must be many like you. How else could we have tumbled across each other on the scungy pine-green carpet twelve years ago, stealing glances over plates of spinach and daring each others’ clothes off? We are too good at math to believe that we are unique.

Each love is a bubble. Bouncing, refracting, overlapping with mine for an instant. Some resonate more than others. (Vulnerable candor will always beat defensive certainty.) Some captivate in ways you don’t. (Green grass is a sassy siren.)

But amongst all those rainbow spheres, only you and I overlap fully.

So far.

Thank you.

Religion

In 100 on November 19, 2019 at 4:35 am

I decide what this cult means to me

I cradle the tender seeds

Incubate them in my core

En route to an alluvial plain

I aspire to love enough

To walk into the forest

Amongst tattered flecks of lights, untethered  

I ordain to fill your vessel

To gift you polished stones

Put the cool flesh on your tongue

I cultivate reverence for life

So I take the dragonfly to the glade to die

Near tannin water, the beginning

I bow to the sanctity of the earth

Worshipping dew drops

Because if you only look

You see the prism, then melt

Bits

In 100, by Wyatt on November 18, 2019 at 8:22 am

My mind cannot fathom you.

You’re not your mischievous eyes.

You’re not your reckless laugh.

You’re not the crease between your butt and thigh.

You’re not your letters, meticulously stashed from meteors that shot into and out of your life, brief sparks of connective love.

You’re not your scent.

But I can’t hold all of you from here.

I can only hold your bits. One at a time.

I pick each up and treasure it.

Then I put it down before grasping another.

When I hold you in person, forgive me for collapsing under your magnitude.

Your wholeness is blinding.

Ray, On Writing

In 100 on November 17, 2019 at 8:36 pm

Ray says I must start with life, to bisect my animus and delve deep into the love and hate. I need to collect my most percipient memories: the moments that define my gradients and what I spit.

I have many.

I have held the warm hand of a dying man who held his consciousness so acutely. I have the knowledge of how after someone dies, for a time, all new moments are painted in an oily sheen of grief. For the greater the love, the greater the inevitable collateral of loss: by the laws of nature someone must die first. 

Singularity

In 100 on November 17, 2019 at 10:32 am

I.

It is diminished

In frost

Sometimes, moods recede

In tandem

Everything glacial, awash

In argentine

II.

I embrace the sun and conserve it

I possess a cloak that fights poison rays

I soak

Fearlessly

I am

A nurse shark’s pelt, without the glitter.

The pit of a peach. Involute.

Kindling.

Summer remembers my essence is gold

III.

While my true color is 

The Clear Light,

I relish the months when

I don’t feel like half of anything

On the surface, I have absorbed the universe.

And atop a foundation of gypsum,

I have created a color

That is mine

diebenkorn pt 7

In 100, by Nora on November 16, 2019 at 3:07 pm

as the temperature drops, i’m thinking about earning spring. after huddling through another persecutory winter, you feel exhausted, relieved accomplishment at that first above-45 day. i hate that watery wishy-washy waste of a temperature, the 50s, the 60s, each new cheeky green bud a miraculous gift, when you just want to be fucking sweating in your cutoffs and birks again.

now i’m packing my things, preparing to spend my first winter in ten years in a place where it seems to be perpetually spring: the coolest warmth, wind-bitten sunlight, a pastel diebenkorn-color temperature, all greens dampened with fog dew drops.

Life is brutiful

In 100, by Wyatt on November 15, 2019 at 3:44 pm

“Life is brutiful,” she said. Her mouth tasted like his mouth, only someone else’s. It felt strange to make out with a friend.

She continued, “Sometimes it sucks so much I can’t breathe. Sometimes it’s so fun I never want it to end. What?”

She smiled tentatively. “I’m being cheesy, shit.”

“No, you’re good,” he said. “Brutal and beautiful. I feel that.”

“Then why the face?”

“Nothing.”

“You were about to laugh.”

“Promise you won’t hate me?” She nodded.

He whispered in her ear, “‘Sucks and can’t breathe, so fun you don’t want it to end’… that’s what she said.”

a few new words

In 100, by Lara on November 14, 2019 at 3:30 pm

Podimania: The creepiness of seeing too many of something when only a one or a few is usually tolerable, even desirable (e.g. ladybugs).

Embrick: When two or more people go in for mismatched physical greetings (e.g. handshake and hug).

Symtocks: When your pet licks their butt and you feel a tickle in your butt.

Cafulaggio: A savory sunset.

Paraductive: Putting off work by unnecessarily organizing the way you plan you will do work.

Flashmom: A mom that loves flashmobs.

Mispagatic: When two or more people believe they reach a point of understanding but a third party can see they haven’t.

A pup’s horoscope

In by Lara on November 14, 2019 at 3:20 pm

It’s November and Mercury is retrograde. You might assume that this month brings you willpower, independence, and self-worth. That when life throws the ball and it disappears from your field of vision, you will not chase the ghost of that neon yellow orb. Instead you will spit in your master’s face. But you know as well as the stars that willpower doesn’t exist in rebellion, but rather in finding joy in your own decisions. Fetch that ball, but don’t do it for the orb. Do it for the journey. Find meaning in each step you take because you’re choosing to.

Drought breaks

In 100, by Wyatt on November 14, 2019 at 3:13 pm

“Are you awake?”

“Shhh what are you doing?” She asked.

Smirk. Was this what a smirk looked like. He hoped this was what a smirk looked like. “You tell me.”

This definitely wasn’t what a smirk looked like.

“You’re trying to make out with me,” she said.

Explosions. Maybe the smirk worked. He needed to say something. Now. Anything.

Silence.

“So, kiss me,” she said.

He swallowed the Mediterranean Sea pooling by his gums. The taiko orchestra in his chest roared for blood of war. Every nerve in his lips had put its fork in the toaster. He leaned forward.

nothing is feminist

In by Lara on November 14, 2019 at 3:13 pm

You wake up and decide to say, fuck it, I’m not going to wear make up. On the subway, no heads turn as you walk by (though do they ever?) and you wonder why you care or notice, but with each indifferent man, you score another point for feminism. As you walked into the office, your bff coworker says, you look sort of tired today, everything okay? And you look at her a little shocked because what happened to solidarity from women. The male gaze has infiltrated sisterhood. You run to the bathroom and burst into tears. What a cliché.

C train downtown platform, 23rd street

In 100, by Nora on November 14, 2019 at 1:52 pm

Three E trains have gone by. A frumpy middle-aged white man on the uptown platform opposite is singing Elton John over his standing keyboard, voice sweet and clear

I hope you don’t mind

I hope you don’t mind

and I’m just listening, only listening, between the wild racket of each passing train. A Chelsea native behind me calls: “BEAU-tiful!! Play it again!” So he plays it again just for us. Trains stop,  disgorging busy be-headphoned people. At the end, the old queen and I clap and a couple tears dry on my cheeks as I step onto the long-awaited C.

Afar

In 100, by Wyatt on November 13, 2019 at 4:50 pm

Steph was moving to France. She wasn’t happy about it. Her parents had found good jobs there, so she had no choice. It sucks to be the hot girl, viciously uprooted, suddenly alone.

They had been talking every night. First using text, then recording their voices in bubbly snippets of raw emotion. Maybe eventually they’d have a real-time phone call. It was impossible to fathom meeting in person. Nauseating. Electrifying.

“You won’t be alone,” he typed. “I’ll be here.”

“My friend Olive has a thing for you,” She replied. “Do you like her?”

“She’s great,” he tried. Not you, though.

Back on land

In 100, by Wyatt on November 13, 2019 at 4:45 pm

“Kary said you two were going out.” She looked down at him with her beautiful, confused eyes. “Are you really?”

Horror surged. “No! I mean, we chat. We’re friends. But no, we don’t… go out.”

Because I want to do that with you. He couldn’t say.

Her expression was dubious, quizzical. “Okay. Help me put this canoe back up.”

He reached down and they lifted the fiberglass frame onto the rack. Her tan, lanky body glistened in the fluorescent light. The sun had set, and it was getting chilly in the scout hall.

“See you next week?”

He nodded, destroyed.

dark too early, too late

In 100, by Nora on November 13, 2019 at 3:15 pm

i’ve watched the sun set from this 5th-floor tribeca window so many times: when it’s 4:30 and i’m already dreading walking home, bone-shattering cold, bumping along canal; when it’s a totally reasonable 6pm, either cozy fall or bubbly spring, ready to pounce on some oysters and unearned spritz drinks; when i’m isolated in a whirlwind of ineffectiveness and motivated-drained boredom; when i’m hours-deep into furiously buying, cataloguing, shipping, and framing an artwork worth more than my entire lifetime net worth; when it’s bruise pink and champagne clouds; when it’s snow barreling in from jersey; but this time it’s the last time. 

monday evening 11 november

In 100, by Nora on November 12, 2019 at 12:46 pm

leave the tribeca edifice, one gutted and then filled with wafting palo santo, pothos and late-capitalo-feminist yogis, trace Broadway up through new corporate “artist” markets that used to be pearl river mart and real paint stores, the cast iron facades encircled windows that used to open onto the essentialist squats of artists, now squatting finance bros, left on Spring past croissant-hybrid-hyped bakeries, past four separate parasitic weworks, up Hudson through the resolutely neighborhoody part of the village, with real old people, real low-rise brick townhouses, unlimited nearly-nameless bars line small streets, arrive in japanese-american highball bar, order an ume-flavored sake.

Snap n’ Tap

In by Gracie on November 12, 2019 at 11:51 am

Mania feels so…unreasonable.
Like pouring 350 marbles into a bag I KNOW only fits 10,
watching them spill over the sides in gleeful release and deciding I should juggle each falling ball.
With my feet.
Usually, it manifests in snapping, tapping, rubbing, cracking.
I hear these sounds, but not nearly as loud as whatever threw me over.
Physically, this manic existence is so much.
So much unease.
My current is not comfortable. Therefore, I need to physically exist differently, even by a little, than I do in this moment.
Even if it is just the snapping of two fingers together.

my lucid dreams could be bigger, but they’re still pleasant

In 100, by Lara on November 11, 2019 at 4:27 pm

This time it happened to be a music festival on a sunny day. Green grass, big stages with impressive displays, and miscellaneous colorful art pieces. I immediately manifested the perfect group of people, but had to socialize with no more than three at a time. We were also all wearing overalls and able to go to the very front of the stage. The music was no louder than was safe for our ears and no quieter than was fun for our limbs. Abundant space to dance. No elbows, no shoving, no tall people. And clean bathrooms accessible a moment away.

Listening to Colors

In by Gracie on November 11, 2019 at 12:31 pm

I have only been in this cafe during the daytime.
But I do think I knew they turned it into a bar at night, or at lease a cafe that serves alcohol.
Now it is nighttime and we have ordered and finished a hazy IPA. It is really the only beer I know I like.
One feels like enough.
The “we” in my previous thought is the man I am in love with and myself.
The musician begins to play “Creep” but it sounds very pink and green.
That’s why we are here after all.
To listen to different colors.

Animal Style

In 100, by Michael on November 11, 2019 at 10:34 am

Animal style is being active, every day. Move by default.

Animal style is spending time barefoot.

Animal style is moving like a cat, working like a dog.

Animal style is eating only when you’re hungry, and then eating well.

Animal style is eating meat, not donuts.

Animal style is instinct and intuition. Use the thinking mind to train your animal mind, but never lose your animal energy.

Animal style is quick, strong, relentless.

Animal style is relaxing and recovering when the hunt’s not on. Animals sleep well.

Animal style smells a certain way.

Animals style is hanging with other animals.

True proof

In 100, by Wyatt on November 11, 2019 at 8:54 am

here are all the reasons why biscotti is a vegetable

  1. it is mostly butter
  2. butter isn’t meat, therefore it a vegetable
  3. there is flour in it too
  4. flour comes from trees, which are vegetable
  5. cranberries are in biscotti
  6. cranberries are a cousin of rubies, thus vegetable
  7. also pistachios
  8. pistachios come from nuts
  9. biscotti tastes good just like vegetable also does taste good
  10. it is okay to eat unlimited biscotti same as okay to eat unlimited vegetable
  11. too much vegetable makes you sick, just like when i eat the whole box of biscotti
  12. i’m proud of myself when i eat biscotti

natsukashii no kogarashi

In 100, by Lara on November 11, 2019 at 5:51 am

There’s a word in Japanese for the wind that welcomes the winter (kogarashi) and another one that means nostalgia but in a broader sense of the word (natsukashii), And I find myself these days in a complicated déjà vu of the start of this season. The first time I expected winter, my apprehension was so gradually coated by the darkness. The days got shorter, just a few minutes each day – such plausible deniability for any extreme. And it wasn’t until the frost broke the following May that the coat lifted off and my shoulders felt surprisingly light. Winter is coming.

How did you get here

In 100, by Wyatt on November 10, 2019 at 4:21 pm

Her body rocked with jagged sobs. This was an acute sadness, triggered by primal, ancient fears.

The forest can swallow you whole if you let it.

Behind each tree might lie clarity, or at least calm. Movement is progress when you’re under fire. But where were the hidden brooks, or a secluded glen, or the birds who would chirp the sun up? They were nowhere. All she felt was the cool damp darkness cloaking her in its heavy folds.

Brace for the journey, she told herself. Each step goes forward, each breath makes you stronger. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted nonchalantly.

diebenkorn pt 6

In 100, by Nora on November 10, 2019 at 9:59 am
hills surround the bay, making visible its form; even from the abstraction of childhood, i understood it. my grandparents were always driving us up and down hills (Zelda blasting old tapes of Gilbert and Sullivan operas from her boxy green Saab, Da and Mennie singing along to the Beatles). From the botanical garden, from zen museum cafes, i could see how the grid was lazy, grid but counterculture, grid but protests and runaways and the haight free clinic and 1968 student protests, a diebenkorn grid. i’ve seen them auctioned in new york for unethical sums; there its the entanglement of life.

job description

In 100, by Lara on November 9, 2019 at 10:22 am

[insert company name] is on the cutting edge of [insert industry that needs disruption]. Be part of the revolution!

Job title: Pick one of each — [senior / junior / lame] [strategy / product / typing] [manager / analyst / meatsack]

Responsibilities:

  • Disrupt! Do anything to disrupt stuff. Innovate. Interrupt meetings. [insert color] post its!
  • Work cross-functionally with teams to [action verb] the next big thing.
  • Get shit done. Easier to use that acronym than SIO (spell it out). Explaining is time and time is losing.
  • It would be cool if you picked up lunch.

 

how i am a slob

In 100, by Lara on November 9, 2019 at 10:10 am

Folding laundry but not putting it away
Using the dishwasher at less than maximum capacity
Wearing the same sweatpants two days in a row
Making the bed but not tucking in the sheet
Reading articles that “could” be seen as advancing my knowledge
Putting the rest of my hot cheetos in the fridge for future me
Leaving a greasy pan on the stovetop for the next fried egg excursion
Reusing the same tea bag five times
Hanging my jeans on the radiator
Googling athleisure instead of going to yoga class
Rewatching episodes of The Office at 1am on a weeknight

manifest destiny

In by Lara on November 9, 2019 at 9:35 am

the sun heats up the left side of your body as you drive down that stretch of 280 where the views get particularly breathtaking you know the one it’s right before the sawyer camp trail starts next to the reservoir and the forest across stands familiar though you’ve never explored it despite having gazed at its many trees almost every day of your life from age six to twenty six and its this feeling of endless expansiveness in one view that beckons you back forward in time to move your body through space that is both home and perpetually unknown

Finally

In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2019 at 9:35 am

At 1 & 2’s House

3: “You put it up!”
1: “Hi you! What are you working on?”
2: “She’s painting a still life of her bedroom! Great light.”
3: “The shadows aren’t quite right yet. What’s new with you?”
1: “Oh, work, trivia nights, camping trips, you know, hanging up a painting that my ex just gave my roommate of her new hot boyfriend.”
[Beat]
3: “It’s been two years.”
1: “I know.”
3: “I thought you and I were good.”
1: “We are.”
3: “I’m sorry.”
1: “Look. It’s a damn fine painting. The subject matter’s just a little tone deaf.”
3: “I thought it was funny.”
2: “Tea? Anyone? I’m making tea.”

 

Avoidance

In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2019 at 9:18 am

2: “I love the colors.”
3: “I’m trying to capture the light’s softness before the days get shorter.”
2: “These shadows are so cold. And the sun on the bed, here, is so warm.”
3: “I’m not happy with it yet, but thanks.”
2: “Thank you for our painting, by the way! Such a lovely birthday present.”
3: “I’m pleased with how it turned out! His flesh is so… fleshy.”
2: “Such a juicy butt.”
3: “I was worried you’d think it was weird, but it’s the only painting I’ve finished.”
2: “It’s great!”
3: “I’m getting a beer, you want one?”
2: “Sure.” [Texts 1: “I can’t tell her! Can you??”]

diebenkorn pt 5

In 100, by Nora on November 9, 2019 at 9:18 am

at least, up at the top of the long, proselytizing trail of the camino real, california was a colonial backwater: the forced labor and conversion inflicted on the ohlone was exquisite, but not the elaborate, rigorous casta system of the spanish viceroyalty. though the dutch of new york massacred the lenape occasionally, they were not the slave plantations of the british caribbean, the portuguese extraction machines, but rather a free-wheeling mercantile port. i guess neither were so free as the french, who lost new orleans for 19 years along the banks of the mississippi, while gambling and smoking their little cigarettes.

Gifts

In 100, by Wyatt on November 9, 2019 at 9:04 am

1: “It’s unbearable.”
2: “It’s not that bad”
1: “I can’t believe she did this.”
2: “It’s kind of funny.”
1: “What do we do now?”
2: “I think we have to keep it!”
1: “For how long?”
2: “It’s ours now.”
1: “Well. Do we have to put it there?”
2: “Where would you like to move it?”
1: “I don’t know. The basement.”
2: “No! She’ll come by and notice it’s not up!”
1: “I don’t want it here! This is my home!”
2: “Our home. And I think it kind of matches the furniture.”
1: “I can’t believe she gave us a painting of her naked boyfriend.”
2: “He has a good butt.”

Onwards

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:39 pm

Back home. Drenched in it.
Cultivating one reality costs another.
Both cannot be held simultaneously.
Pendulums swing one way first.
They pause. Then they return.

These words are already old.
Even as I write them.
Pen in hand. Sipping chamomile.
None of it is static.

Yesterday’s mind is already gone.
Perfect! A fresh mind today.
Continuity is a sweet adaptation.
A new day, never done.
The only one like it.
It will never happen again.

So glide, my pendulum. Venture.
The world vibrates. Dance along.
Gently sometimes. Sadly other times.
Hopefully, most often with joy.

Be a flash of lightning.

So long, so brief

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:35 pm

You can’t expect enlightenment always.
Perhaps, don’t expect anything, ever.
How pretty this leaf is!
Even pain can be joyous.
It’s a reminder: still here.

Sunset’s reds will fade away.
Teacups will be sipped dry.
Geese will honk during silence.
Winter will descend. Then lift.

A phantom shinrei bell tolls.

Perhaps rocks contemplate their existence.
In any case, we do.
Let black holes lament loss.
Your task is more urgent.

Find a way to live.
It’s all there for you.
You must never stop looking.
Shooting stars travel so far.
To look pretty for you.
A streak of light; done.

 

How did that get in here

In 100, by Wyatt on November 8, 2019 at 1:26 pm

First there was only energy.
It was all the same.
Matter formed and spread out.
Some grouped itself into stars.
Some stars exploded into planets.

None of that needed anything.
It simply was. No reason.

Some chemicals formed into chains.
Light linked the chains together.
(Everything was still just energy.
Now dressed in fancy clothes.)
A grand dance of transformation.

Some chains grew into us.

***

I just rescued a moth.
A random, emergent matter chain.
Just like myself, only smaller.
It clung to my hands.
We want to continue dancing.

We call it being alive.
Energy calls it simply being.