typing with my eyes closed: I want that comic book

Unerring contracts that slur the speech of dumb animals. To think that one’s own constellation is not anything like another’s, and also that where one imagines oneself in constellations is just illusory. Days get a little shorter until they waddle, and the air lays hot and heavy on the skin like a giant tongue. The reptiles get friendly. I wanted you to have a piece of my mind, huddling in the corner, the pink and white birdcaps like sprinkles on what was normal and cold. Eating a witch. But not out of a sense of travesty. I and you both perpetrate… but no promise that we will or will not die soothes this endless restiveness…. I say this with bones, because it is only bones that… not looking… green pen, law of waiting… I have a nickel, is a nickel enough, and the day continues in order to numb you. Heavy sparkle on the wind machine. Everyone I know is fancy, there’s some kind of blind recognition to the way we do things around here, but I’m not looking, I don’t want to look anymore. Life is too painful and those who can’t see the zebras, well, it’s their own damn fault, am I supposed to help them? So I need to calculate combinations, as if that would help with the… basically wistful… fronting I keep encountering as a woman in the wild. I don’t know quite what to make of this, except that small seas are pooling somewhere in my left calf muscle, and with them whole ecosystems of waving kelp and monkey’s uncles, little knobs on heads, I want that comic book, that one comic book I will never see again. For that I have a more profound longing than almost anything else, as if that comic book were the stand in for all of the other things I long for. Not that I really care anymore because the shortness of everything has made me catch my breath since I am also short of breath. I am trying to think and feel generously of everyone, and with that I feel a kind of photoshop filter of the mind: diffuse glow… if people would just take a minute, to understand me, then they would better be able to contextualize the strange actions, in the office, my head down to stretch my back, unfairness, power, mingling with an onscreen silence as a hydrating factor on the weather I already said is exactly like a tongue. But I don’t mind because I am as simple as a firefly, which is to say not even remotely simple, and not condensed. I shall never ever be condensed, and when I think of abuse it makes me think of bowler hats and their little grosgrain ribbons, and the people who cut the grosgrain ribbons to size in factories with beige machines honorably following the day’s work until its conclusion, and then feeling like star anise on a hobo’s tongue. Do we still say hobo or is that one of those words we banished for some reason? Like it is too idealizing? I don’t know. Chestnut hair. Mordern.[stet] Satellite.

2 thoughts on “typing with my eyes closed: I want that comic book

  1. I like this writing with your eyes closed a lot. I've done that, too, but try to get to a state of almost sleep and then write. What made you close your eyes when writing these? What was the initial reason or thinking behind it?

  2. Hi Lynn!

    Lots of things:

    I'm working a lot lately (at my job) then coming home to work on my book. My eyes are tired from always looking at screens.

    Blogs seem to be weakening, dying. Most people who have blogs are only using them for announcements, or reviews. Public language. Blogs are becoming more thoughtful, places for staged language.

    I wanted instead to fill this space with…garbage. Instant, unthought-through mind garbage.

    To feed my blog so it won't die in this hot humid summer. Something conceptual, but also confessional.

    Something that caresses language materially, but also just blecch. Id-stuff.

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