Things I Realized In 2002

from this summer

photo: Cedric Bihr

Someone Got Himself Married

Ok, so if you’ve been following my whole thread on Ernest Greene and Washed Out and how I asked him for an interview and he wrote back saying, yes of course, you may wonder what exactly happened to that interview. I was wondering myself. Besides blowing up big-time overnight, he went and got himself married to the cutest girl. Aww… !   Congratulations, Ernest!

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To the 2 girls who drunk-called me in London: I love you too. Why you gotta be calling me and telling me I’m missing out? Pshaw. I will come in the spring. Be ready for me, bitches.

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Lines of the Hand

by Heather McHugh

“The soul is like the hand; for the hand is the instrument of instruments.”
          —Aristotle, De Anima, 3.8

Someone once said he wrote to find out what he thought. I write to find out what I mean.
On the one hand, what we mean is what we intend.

But that’s the less interesting hand. Even were I able to clarify my intentions, the fact remains that what I intend is far less interesting than what I portend.

What we mean in the larger scheme of things, what we mean when we aren’t meaning to or toward a thing at all—now that’s more interesting. But we never really know what that is.

I write toward something utterly unknown.

The heart’s unruly, out of hand. In the dark, I feel for it.

yeah…  i kind of love her.

Agreement

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…they had agreed on 9 pm. she was to leave the doors unlocked. she was to feign sleep. she was supposed to be doing whatever it is that she does on a faceless evening during the week.

what will you be wearing, he said. i don’t know, she said.

she left the first 3 doors unlocked, and, at 9 pm, she heard feet, and then the lock unhooking. the first door closed. then the second door, unhooked, she imagined, by a careful hand, off the small metal hoop on the wall, and that door closed. then the front door opened, and he entered. she could imagine that he saw the carribean blue fish she had placed on the table, swimming, endlessly in the spherical globe, his atmosphere, on display, the windows without curtains, the carefully scrubbed floors, the one paper light she had lit to guide him.

and then he closes the door and walks to his right. feet careful. he pauses before her door and stands there. she can’t even think. her breath is rising in her chest but not expiring. he does this on purpose she thinks. he does this to make her wait. he places his hand on the knob and she can hear his hand his wrist as it turns and then a pause, confusion. she had locked the 4th door.

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Happy Friday!

Hope your weekend is great!   {oysters and rose wine for me tonight}

The Bird

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“The bird is a creature that has a very special feeling of trust in the

external world, as if she knew that she is one with its deepest mystery.

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That is why she sings in it as if she were singing within her own depths;

                                    that is why we so easily receive a birdcall

 into our own depths; we seem to be
                                           translating it without residue into our emotion;

             indeed, it can for a moment
                                                

    turn the whole world into inner space,

               because we feel that the bird does not
                                                     

   distinguish between her heart and the world’s.”
                                     

  -Rainer Maria Rilke
   Letter to Lou Andreas-Salome
   February 20, 1914

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