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Jun. 26th, 2012 05:00 pmi'm reading Notice by Heather Lewis right now, among other things, a huge stack of library books and otherwise, split between my bedside table (a children's wooden clothes dryer picked up at a thrift store years ago) and the little stool near the bathtub. also there is tina fey's book by the toilet. i keep wanting to love tina fey. so far, i really love her smirk, and her scar, and her thing that she's accomplishing with women's places in comedy, but i kind of hate the book. it's ... so sitcom-y. i probably won't finish. sorry. wait, i got distracted...
so, notice is abstract in a straight-ahead way. she starts sentences plain and full of facts-only sharpness, and then following sentences shift, making thick inner-commentary in fragmented thoughts. i love it. it's intense-as-fuck and challenging me. also, it's almost exclusively about sex and being fucked up, so, you know.
the intensity of these relationships remind me of how i used to write about you. this is what i meant to say at first. and how often i painted the villain's mustache above your lip. maybe because it was still so fresh that you'd left and i wanted attention. allowed myself to take refuge there. it's something people do, i guess. i figured you must've known what you were doing, your fingers light on my throat, tracing the creases. and down my center, from sternum to stomach and lower and through. i forgot how often i did the same thing, and the way i drew you to me, the press of my fingers plain and purple on your upper arms.
you left, and i forgot why. i remembered i thought you were selfish and young, and how could you after all of the promises, and just when i'd allowed myself to relax. that time we made spaghetti in the kitchen and the wine stained your teeth, and i kissed you with my knee pressing your legs apart so i wouldn't have to look at it, feel so embarrassed for you, being human. your hands pulling the straps of my bra away from my skin, letting your fingers slip underneath the fabric.
i forgot my place there. what i wouldn't give, how unreachable i could be. i remember your letter, saying 'you'll never crack' and your silence. how i tore it up and pieced it together panicky when i couldn't find this middle section, the part where you talked about my mouth and your mouth, kisses of gasps and teeth. a piece i would find later underneath the dresser, taping it all together, and would masturbate to at least a few times - as much as i'll admit.
in this time, i would write daily emails. desperate, at first. probably always desperate, since we're finally being honest with each other. and then mundane and daily. or just when i had something to share. a new job, or had lost someone again. and something like 20 years later, it's all i wish i could get back. not your proportionally small hands with the tightest fit. not the butter of your thighs spread greasily before me. not the time you cried against me and i could feel the burden of trying to be stronger, knowing i couldn't. but all the words--my words. my lessons, that person. the fly's life's worth of times i touched down to tell you what i was doing since you'd gone mute. face-rubbing bullshit. guilt trips. i miss the fire and ashes i made, my most unreachable child, your eyes trying to touch me--moving on in your interminable quiet.
i wrote until i got the fatal error message. did you ever read them? don't you wish i would've ever just shut the fuck up?
so, notice is abstract in a straight-ahead way. she starts sentences plain and full of facts-only sharpness, and then following sentences shift, making thick inner-commentary in fragmented thoughts. i love it. it's intense-as-fuck and challenging me. also, it's almost exclusively about sex and being fucked up, so, you know.
the intensity of these relationships remind me of how i used to write about you. this is what i meant to say at first. and how often i painted the villain's mustache above your lip. maybe because it was still so fresh that you'd left and i wanted attention. allowed myself to take refuge there. it's something people do, i guess. i figured you must've known what you were doing, your fingers light on my throat, tracing the creases. and down my center, from sternum to stomach and lower and through. i forgot how often i did the same thing, and the way i drew you to me, the press of my fingers plain and purple on your upper arms.
you left, and i forgot why. i remembered i thought you were selfish and young, and how could you after all of the promises, and just when i'd allowed myself to relax. that time we made spaghetti in the kitchen and the wine stained your teeth, and i kissed you with my knee pressing your legs apart so i wouldn't have to look at it, feel so embarrassed for you, being human. your hands pulling the straps of my bra away from my skin, letting your fingers slip underneath the fabric.
i forgot my place there. what i wouldn't give, how unreachable i could be. i remember your letter, saying 'you'll never crack' and your silence. how i tore it up and pieced it together panicky when i couldn't find this middle section, the part where you talked about my mouth and your mouth, kisses of gasps and teeth. a piece i would find later underneath the dresser, taping it all together, and would masturbate to at least a few times - as much as i'll admit.
in this time, i would write daily emails. desperate, at first. probably always desperate, since we're finally being honest with each other. and then mundane and daily. or just when i had something to share. a new job, or had lost someone again. and something like 20 years later, it's all i wish i could get back. not your proportionally small hands with the tightest fit. not the butter of your thighs spread greasily before me. not the time you cried against me and i could feel the burden of trying to be stronger, knowing i couldn't. but all the words--my words. my lessons, that person. the fly's life's worth of times i touched down to tell you what i was doing since you'd gone mute. face-rubbing bullshit. guilt trips. i miss the fire and ashes i made, my most unreachable child, your eyes trying to touch me--moving on in your interminable quiet.
i wrote until i got the fatal error message. did you ever read them? don't you wish i would've ever just shut the fuck up?
