Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
~Catullus
I do not feel afraid, usually, when I am not doing anything in particular, not planning on doing anything in particular, and so on and so forth. And yet...And yet...
I do nothing and I make nothing and I say nothing and I think nothing.
The woman to my left with the earmuffs on, dressed casually in a sweatshirt and jeans her cheeks rosy from the cold or from the sun, I don't know which, or the difference. The same. Possibly she just took a warm shower. Possibly it's simply her usual complexion. SHE is what I want to be.
"Excuse me," I say to the woman who, upon analyzing her appearance a little more while trying to get her attention, I realize isn't a woman at all but a philatelist, of no more than two twelves and not a very good one at that.
And then, "Miss!"
But she's gone. No more. Another person not a person I was lucky enough to love, if even for a moment no longer than a breath and still, I feel a loss.
"What do you dream about..." I might have asked her if given the chance "...when you sleep?"
Or "What is it that makes you smile? And on such a terrible day."
And though i'm left standing on a cracked square of carelessly poured concrete in front of a salon that used to be a bakery that used to be a studio that used to be a bank, wondering what happened to my love or if she ever really existed anyways, or if she never did and never will and never ever sever clever...something in me finds it necessary to move on. mooo...move. don't.
"Do you have any spare change?" I ask the man shaking the coins around in his coffee cup, repeating some phrase I don't bother to listen to. And so I fill it up with useful wealth.
"This is how you inject this stuff into your bloodstream," I teach him, when he is just a little boy. "And this is how you build a couch fort."
The shoemaker on 3rd street sells diamonds made from shmiamonds out the back door of his shop. The trash men know where all the portals are to hidden universes and drink licorice from a boot.
"I can't have any children," I tell the boy as a man as a bum as a coffee drinker. "My womb is not a tomb."
And on days like this, when I have all the answers, I know what my best course of action is, should be, should be is.
"Cantankerous!" I yell to the man as a stop sign as a thief, before he runs screaming into the night. "It means you and I are always friends. It means you and I love hate! Plastic! What kind of potato can't seem to make a break dance?!"
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
~Catullus
I do not feel afraid, usually, when I am not doing anything in particular, not planning on doing anything in particular, and so on and so forth. And yet...And yet...
I do nothing and I make nothing and I say nothing and I think nothing.
The woman to my left with the earmuffs on, dressed casually in a sweatshirt and jeans her cheeks rosy from the cold or from the sun, I don't know which, or the difference. The same. Possibly she just took a warm shower. Possibly it's simply her usual complexion. SHE is what I want to be.
"Excuse me," I say to the woman who, upon analyzing her appearance a little more while trying to get her attention, I realize isn't a woman at all but a philatelist, of no more than two twelves and not a very good one at that.
And then, "Miss!"
But she's gone. No more. Another person not a person I was lucky enough to love, if even for a moment no longer than a breath and still, I feel a loss.
"What do you dream about..." I might have asked her if given the chance "...when you sleep?"
Or "What is it that makes you smile? And on such a terrible day."
And though i'm left standing on a cracked square of carelessly poured concrete in front of a salon that used to be a bakery that used to be a studio that used to be a bank, wondering what happened to my love or if she ever really existed anyways, or if she never did and never will and never ever sever clever...something in me finds it necessary to move on. mooo...move. don't.
"Do you have any spare change?" I ask the man shaking the coins around in his coffee cup, repeating some phrase I don't bother to listen to. And so I fill it up with useful wealth.
"This is how you inject this stuff into your bloodstream," I teach him, when he is just a little boy. "And this is how you build a couch fort."
The shoemaker on 3rd street sells diamonds made from shmiamonds out the back door of his shop. The trash men know where all the portals are to hidden universes and drink licorice from a boot.
"I can't have any children," I tell the boy as a man as a bum as a coffee drinker. "My womb is not a tomb."
And on days like this, when I have all the answers, I know what my best course of action is, should be, should be is.
"Cantankerous!" I yell to the man as a stop sign as a thief, before he runs screaming into the night. "It means you and I are always friends. It means you and I love hate! Plastic! What kind of potato can't seem to make a break dance?!"
