If I slept with you, you're in these journals. If I partied with you, you're in these journals. If I loved you, you're in these journals. If I worked with you and found you any bit entertaining, you're in these journals. If I cried on your shoulder, or begged you to stay, or hated your fucking guts, you're in these journals.
Raising the dead
I cried this morning. No. I sobbed. Pernille sent me an ordinary email this morning regarding D and I being picked up at the airport upon our arrival in Amsterdam. Within the email it listed the ways in which the others in our group would be coming into the city. We would be coming in from Philadelphia. C would be flying in from London. And E would be taking the train in from Germany, I believe, and didn't need any help getting to the hotel. It was this last bit that reminded me of trains.
You are listening to Weird by Clem Snide, driving through Indianapolis. The sun keeps playing tricks on you and the landscape changes like a slow twirling kaleidoscope, reconfiguring the horizon with sparkly newness the farther west you drive. Indiana sinks behind you, back into itself- into its own drabness, and you’re glad to be rid of all... Continue Reading →
you are not erased
I remember you like a woman who comes up and out of the subway like a flower opening in the spring. Quite unsuspectingly. Brushed by the crowd. Thinking of nothing in particular but the sun on your face, the clarity of sound of your shoes on the pavement. I remember the lightness of your thoughts... Continue Reading →