the quiet after the party

empty wine glasses on the table. she picks through the leftovers; a hunk of cheese, some strawberries and cold pasta. this is where he undressed her, and this is where they all laughed like children again. his hand sliding down the small of her back: "your dress is so sweet tonight," when he had meant to say "smooth."

ah, and who broke the tiffany lamp on the floor? whose foot it was that kicked the shade and cracked the metal wire frame? the yellow roses in the vase are past full bloom--they look more like cabbages than flowers. she can't be bothered to clean the apartment, walking barefoot and half naked through the empty rooms. she's slept most of the hours away, and still there is all that light coming in through the curtains. sometimes, she thinks, the long summer days are a curse more than a gift.

last night, she had a vision. she dreamt she walked by a restaurant on a side street and stopped to look through the window. there, behind her reflected image on the pane, were endless tables filled with late afternoon patrons--young and old couples, families with children and grandchildren--everyone eating joyously, reverently, their hands touching then passing one another gracefully like a waltz.

she stood transfixed by all the signals of culinary pleasure. the entire scene played in front of her like a silent film in color. she made as if to go in, but turned away abruptly when she realized the restaurant had no doors.

THE RULES OF ATTRACTION
[inspired by the work of tauba auerbach]

INTIMATE
-----I
---------ATE
------M ---E
------MATE
IN
---TIM ---E

"or june that breathes out
life for butterflies?" -keats


revising an old journal entry written nearly four years ago on october 3, 2006:

they mowed the lawns today, and the entire campus smelled like freshly cut grass. walking home from the library tonight, i breathed in the delicious scent rising from the wet earth. the air was cool and crisp. i wanted badly to share this with someone, but didn't know who to tell. who in my life would appreciate a simple pleasure like this one--the scent of cut grass on an autumn night--and care to hear about it from me?


i kept it to myself instead, and made a mental note to always remember smith by the smell of a newly mowed lawn. even after i've graduated, and this place is no longer home but just a dream, at least i'll have this moment: a blade of green to fold between my hands like prayer.

transatlantic pillow talk:

[ceci n'est pas une pomme?]

i'm (h)angry.
what?
(h)angry.
why are you angry?
no, not angry. (h)angry.

ohhh....hungry!

yes, (h)angry. no, HUN-gry. (h)AN-gry.
huuuuuuuuungry. (h)aaaaaaaaaangry.
uuuuuuuunnnnnn. aaaaaaaaaannnnn.

ah, close enough.
maybe in french, the two are one and the same urge.

but you are no longer innocent,
and you don't come from a star

[image from Leonard Baskin's "Birds of Prey" series]

when i was a child and still living in that large house in atlanta, georgia, i used to swim to the bottom of the pool in our backyard and scoop up frogs that had drowned by accident in the chlorine-infused water. i'd bring these frogs to the surface and lay them flat on their backs against the hot, sun-baked tiles that framed the water's edge. then, as if by ritual or meditation, i'd stroke their smooth, white bellies with my index finger, prodding the soft flesh as if i could bring each and every one of these creatures back to life with my amateur touch. i'm still fascinated by this memory. tonight, as i smoke alone in my kitchen with the window open, leaning against the counter to ash in a butter dish, all i can seem to think about is that small depression (about the size of a thumbprint) on a dead frog's belly once upon a time. this is one of those evenings steeped in frog-belly sadness; should i be ashamed?

marry me/marry me not

listen, dear x. don't fret. you won't die alone, and you won't have any cats! i'll buy you a plastic ring. i'll play that record you adore (oh and how i adore you, x).

remember the way fergus and wheaton used to play? such prettily-freckled boys (so small and pale). recess behind the wire fence...they stuck stolen forks upright in the ground and watered them with chocolate milk. hush! the two boys murmured, a tribute to the fairies.

now we are all grown up, dear x...but does it really matter? these darling little rituals. these ceremonies of chocolate milk and light. trust me, they're still the same. sure we are older now and meanings shift: stolen forks bend to form a wedding arch beneath who stand - a man, a woman - beaming.

tomorrow, i'll bring you a porcelain cup and we'll have ourselves a tea party. i'll tie a ribbon in your hair, and you'll fold a heart-shaped leaf and tuck it inside my breast pocket. then, dear x, we'll elope by train! (because this is a game even children know how to play).

"naked as a
lima bean"

[from "ciao, manhattan"
-poor little rich girl edie sedgwick]


these are not my people, i should never have come here. a sheep in wolves' clothing. ah, a black sheep at that. sometimes i wish i was truly my mother's daughter. i'd wear her dress, her high-heeled shoes...all the pretty things that the pretty little girls would kill to have. fuck you, new york. fuck your skyscraper stiletto, your made up billboard face, your flashing lights couture. fuck williamsburg as much as the meatpacking district, and god bless the jersey shore. all the beautiful desperate hungry people in this city, walking these streets, crowding these trains...they smell your sheep's blood fear, they know that fur is fake. these are not my people, i should never have come here. a sheep in wolves' clothing. ah, a black sheep at that.