The World Is Too Full to Talk About

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Philophobia: Strangers are easy to look at, loved ones are museums of brutality. I’ve tried very hard to exit the room my body is held in. My mother and father owned my body, it was a symbol of shame. My school owned my body, it was a fertile landscape in which catastrophe could grow, my boyfriend owned my body, he owned it secretly, owned it in allies, in small rooms, at unexpected moments, it was something to bend and poke, elastic deadness that stretches to fit a need. I tried very hard to secure a room of my own, a room of one’s own like Virginia said, to have space for my body to be animal and solitary and safe, to shed the concealing plastic off my skin, which tugs and mends into a better, shinier shape, to let my body be oxidized and rot as all living, striving human flesh. If I could own my life would my bones stop collapsing unto me? Like a building crumbling down daily with me walking aimlessly inside it. If I decide to own My life I will kill off all the surrounding love, it is the only way. Being loved is a symbiotic relationship in which two animals rot in the same room. Daily I gather objects of memory and build a fortress, books, notebooks, a business card, a dried flower. Scents of home to carry through the industrialized cemetery, where young bodies purge and holler for joys and forgetting, I could pull out my brother’s business card, he is growth and health- always it feels as if I’ve lost someone with whom life was less desolate, like a limb or a spouse of 15 years. But it is alright, and if today I am ugly and find no love it is alright, the hills are alive with the sound of music. All day a dull compulsion to be loved makes it’s self known, seeps into the half conscious desperate dreams of 10 minute naps on buses, a love that is an anesthesia, a burst of scent in the grey nowhere, muscles on bones, a way to move and connect. It is difficult to imagine someone loving me if I am not even a full person with beginnings and ends, how could one love scattered atoms? How could one love me if half of my nerves are fried into oblivion? To be loved is a kind of horrid answer to 16 of 44
a terrifying question, to be loved is to put on prescription glasses and see for the first time that the world is neither fire nor ice, but is an inhabitable adaptable place, it is you who cannot live non the less. To be loved I must walk I must march I must dance to the tune of the autumn wind in the trees and the car horns and the screaming ballad of homeless schizophrenia, the original soundtrack of a world built on human skeletons crushing human skeletons. To be loved I must adjust to the scent of burning garbage on a summer afternoon and the rhythm of the organic ecology of the pedestrian traffic, the clashes and rises of the 20 odd languages spoken on top of each other, mandarin Urdu Spanish English French Dutch Arabic a metropolitan inferno. To be loved I must be alive in the middle of living, with visible outlines, distinguishable from backgrounds; instead I have given up my body for the comfort of a small world which does not pretend to be anything but chaotic and absurd. Love is a choreographed balanced tango of forward and backward which does not fit in my small room. As I’ve quieted down the dull compulsions, a soft hazy image of you and I by the beach, ice cream, and small a small hum, don’t be afraid of loneliness. A soft flame, not grey but magenta and full of sun. The streets of my city are alive with a loud deadliness, a pseudoheartbeat, music and depressants and stimulants, a collective quiet beast with it’s poetry tattooed on the edges of it’s rough middle aged skin, my city is a dead metaphor, a ball of dull fire and I’d like to live or die but to pass through the narrow gaps between the bumping bodies of human traffic, not touching anything not making anything, not making a sound, quietly going home like a floating feather hovering over the beating heart, catching some of it’s warmth in silence, not going in but not leaving either. Morning and night strangers bodies represent possible landscapes, possible escapes, possible novelty that looks new and feels new and smells new, landscapes which have no knowledge of the state of my insides or my folds of loneliness of nameless reactions to utter doom, strangers are easy to look at, easy to kiss, loved ones are museums of brutality. 17 of 44
Page 1 and 2: 1 of 44
Page 3 and 4: “to be lost is a kind of leaving
Page 5 and 6: Book I: The Worst is To Sleep Throu
Page 7 and 8: Recurring Self Portrait I seek beau
Page 9 and 10: Born To Die In our backyard I am a
Page 11 and 12: Every day I carry my mother like a
Page 13 and 14: change my tongue become something a
Page 15: Birthday Song Sitting on my chair,
Page 19 and 20: The Insistence of beauty it appeals
Page 21 and 22: Mishima I am a seed incapable of gr
Page 23 and 24: Sea and Solitude (1) in the 90s, yo
Page 25 and 26: I am not sure what made you so arde
Page 27 and 28: and this death is seen all over my
Page 29 and 30: Book II: This Is The City You’ll
Page 31 and 32: Cities of flesh Like a falling leaf
Page 33 and 34: Waiting for the sun which cannot se
Page 35 and 36: Bodies and words. Beauty is not nat
Page 37 and 38: the sun is crueler than ever he hol
Page 39 and 40: Self/ home My existence is very sma
Page 41 and 42: To B, before he has left I do not k
Page 43 and 44: so small almost a hiss almost a whi

The World Is Too Full to Talk About

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