time is endless

i was a small, hot, dot

Open letter to vague ideas in their most primordial, beautiful forms:

Thank you for showing me where my friends are at and where my friends aren't at and everything in-between.

Thank you for revealing deceit.

Thank you for I know that fabulosity exists and exists to be enacted in places that long for it daily.

Thank you for the idea of salvation.

Thank you for the pleasures of grief.

Thank you for chocolate.

Thank you for the idea of Yes and No.

Thank you for giving us objects of wrath.

Thank you for spatial coordinates.

Thank you for demons and lemons and Le Monde de Biscuit.

Thank you for making death consequential.

Thank you for consequences.

Thank you for making us unstable creatures groping in the darkness to latch on to unsuitable metaphors every single time, believing in the idea of truth, believing that our beliefs are ours and ours alone, being able to sit down and eat hummus in air-conditioned sadness.

Thank you for brokenness and thinness and their adjectival playmates.

Thank you for the skull that houses the mind and this garage-door mouth.

Thank you for the things we say to hear other things said to us in return.

Thank you for coins.

Thank you for pockets.

Thank you for street alleys and diaphragms.

Thank you for the language of flowers and the swelling of tides and the phases of the moon.

Thank you for wrists and toiletries.

Love,
S

gurl.

surely goodness and mercy

I have set a couple of trays of salted caramel in the freezer to write this on my ageing macbook, bought with prize money from Being Clever And Passing An Interview, that is now a symbol of deterioration/a vestige from happier times. 

I want to write this: that I am so excited and nervous and dreading the thought of leaving home to begin a new life (albeit with chains to organisation x) in liberal arts college y. I want to say, all my dreams are coming true and this scares me because I have nothing to look forward to now. I forget that the futures I construct for myself are couched in the language of melancholy; they stem from a loss that is so palpably felt in the present, with real physiological manifestations that frighten as much as they surprise me. 

Generally: I cannot relate to the reciprocity of love/affection, perhaps because I am constantly sickened by imagining myself the agent for this. I will deny things repeatedly, in an incantational way, unchangingly. I am unchanging and mired in stasis. Shorn of accretions, I am signified by a lack, a yawning abyss, a pointless aperture that says Please don't even attempt to love this. 

lispbon

I want to secure a place somewhere far away where Gayatri Spivak and Judith Butler hold up the cafeteria line regularly to order vegan quesadillas, so I may sit in an armchair and eat chips all day and dream. 

I want to hold a boarding pass that says "Novi Sad" and Instagram that.

I want to fry something in first-press avocado oil that I will buy while listening to a podcast about religious extremism.

I want to read a non-fiction book that will make me say "yes" audibly on a train to meet the future of my language abilities/the number of times I will say "the opacity of the text."

I want to tell someone what I read about the AP stylebook and the use of the phrase "illegal immigrant."

I want to be the kind of person who has an ironic wall calendar.

I want to watch pretentious films in a cool stranger's basement while the trees in the quad are bronzed and autumnal.

I want to be, like, "this work is about the complexity of human desire and the questioning of its structuring ontologies" while talking to a b-list celebrity.