"the tentative drift of the in-between years masks quietly seismic shifts that are apparent only in hindsight." --dennis lim
below is a digital copy of the second of this summer's zines. should you fancy a bound and printed hard copy, e-mail gorimbaud3@gmail.com
OH , RENOIR I SENSE/SCENTS
THE SMELL OF AUTUMN IN NORTHERN MICHIGAN. The smell of (a) cold coming on. Cross country season. Red, gold, and green leaves. White picket fences. A cold wind in the warm weather. Apples and pumpkins and spices. Pies. Tight thighs and gravel. Dogs barking, wanting to be inside. Lolling hills. Heated cars, not ones that you drive in, but ones that you are given rides in. The sound of white waves and jingling collars and running feet. Icy hot muscles. Football games. Homemade movies. Homecoming dances. Log cabins. Wax paper. Maple syrup.
THE WOMAN NEXT TO ME IS EATING POPCORN. THE SMELL IS DISGUSTING ME. I only expect to encounter it in movie theatres. Not in aeroplanes (themselves weird and amazing).
Flying in under the cover of night to be whisked away by love in a grandparent’s Mini Cooper to a bar in Greenwich celebrating/commemorating the 35th anniversary of the release of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. The theme song of the weekend being “I am spider.” What does it mean to have a spider weekend? I hate spiders.
Goldschlager, Fischerspooner, and collective references to “boys.” Downing cans of PBR on the dance floor to songs pulled from soundtracks to movies like Trainspotting and Marie Antoinette. Every once and a while someone dressed in layers of spandex, glitter, and hair saunters onto the stage, feeling the effects of alcohol, which is to say drunk.
Discrete skin contact.
New York City style pizza that is cheap and that you have to fold to eat and that fills yr stomach and that puts you to sleep.
Until you awake to the peculiar feeling of being in a familiarly unfamiliar place and yr only connection to it is still asleep and so you feel somehow stealthy and not unlike a burglar who has caught himself unawares, breaking and entering and experiencing a temporary amnesia, and you have no choice but to sit on the trundle bed and wait until yr knowledge of this place and yr place in it are returned to you. I remember having this feeling a lot after spending nights at friends’ houses in primary school.
A short summer storm subsides. Sitting in the lightning hazard bleachers, I watch a kid I know ok walk by. A minute later I watch a kid I know better walk by behind the first kid. Soon we are all gathered on a big blanket on a pile of woodchips with some musical instruments and some dogs and some girl talking about her vagina. We meet the Swedish adulterer at Alice’s Tea House where middle-aged wicked women don wings and fairy dust and revel in the fantasies of imaginative children.
Children are gathered throwing stones in the river as children are wont to do under the setting off of spontaneous fireworks over the Brooklyn Bridge.
Flying in under the cover of night to be whisked away by love in a grandparent’s Mini Cooper to a bar in Greenwich celebrating/commemorating the 35th anniversary of the release of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. The theme song of the weekend being “I am spider.” What does it mean to have a spider weekend? I hate spiders.
Goldschlager, Fischerspooner, and collective references to “boys.” Downing cans of PBR on the dance floor to songs pulled from soundtracks to movies like Trainspotting and Marie Antoinette. Every once and a while someone dressed in layers of spandex, glitter, and hair saunters onto the stage, feeling the effects of alcohol, which is to say drunk.
Discrete skin contact.
New York City style pizza that is cheap and that you have to fold to eat and that fills yr stomach and that puts you to sleep.
Until you awake to the peculiar feeling of being in a familiarly unfamiliar place and yr only connection to it is still asleep and so you feel somehow stealthy and not unlike a burglar who has caught himself unawares, breaking and entering and experiencing a temporary amnesia, and you have no choice but to sit on the trundle bed and wait until yr knowledge of this place and yr place in it are returned to you. I remember having this feeling a lot after spending nights at friends’ houses in primary school.
A short summer storm subsides. Sitting in the lightning hazard bleachers, I watch a kid I know ok walk by. A minute later I watch a kid I know better walk by behind the first kid. Soon we are all gathered on a big blanket on a pile of woodchips with some musical instruments and some dogs and some girl talking about her vagina. We meet the Swedish adulterer at Alice’s Tea House where middle-aged wicked women don wings and fairy dust and revel in the fantasies of imaginative children.
Children are gathered throwing stones in the river as children are wont to do under the setting off of spontaneous fireworks over the Brooklyn Bridge.
MOTION PICTURE SOUNDTRACK
Jordaan Mason
I
folded hands with cracked fingernails from bitten nervous winters, gently covered by the glow of floodlights, stumble across the steering wheel, as he is driving, speeding at an early hour in the morning with nothing at his side except an empty bottle of neon. he downed the entire bottle, thinking it wouldn't affect him. he was the king of the masochists! the numb! and yet, it's glitter filtered inside him, sat in his stomach, talked to his leftovers in a sullen whisper. the world hummed quietly in chaotic uproar. this isn't music! this is noise! traffic and city lights and a replay in his mind of you, telling your stories, the ones that made him change and transform, remold and revolt. he dedicated his life to satisfying your every need! he wrote all the songs for you, and he held them in his closet, afraid of what you'd have to say.
"so i guess this means we're in love now."
"stop giving it a name."
a pigtailed girl in the park spilled orange juice on his shirt. he kept his anger to a minimum. his hair was butterflies. "no, you are," she uttered softly.
he never finished the book he was reading. he dreamt his house burnt down and he lost his page. the book filled him with a feeling of hopelessness, and the fact that it was gone made that worse. he liked the books he did finish, though. he lived a disjointed addiction to live recordings. "the static ruins it." but that's the juice of it! the core! months went by, and eventually he only wasted his time with bottles of neon, and didn't listen to his walkman anymore. the batteries had been dead for months and so had he.
"the whole idea came from a song."
it became hard for him to sleep in his bed. the mattress and sheets were only a reminder of miserable lies and all the pills he had to take to even want to wake up in the morning. he started sleeping on the couch, in his clothes, and the dream occurred almost every night. he'd run out of the burning house, overtaken by white lights, run down the street and into town screaming, and no one would help him. they all just stared and said nothing. he couldn't understand the situation because he was trying to look at it from too many awkward angles. he'd wake in a sweat-covered outrage, searching frantically for the book which was now lost somewhere in his apartment. he found it the next day, but he didn't finish it, remember.
he tried to talk about it, to let it out and vent his ideas, and the animal boy blue told him he was dying every day, as he placed his clarinet against the door, and skeptically hung oil paintings of daffodil remains on his bedroom walls. "i feel like an insomniac in the arms of sleep around you, clawing in desperation. i can't think of any other way to say it, but i think you need to stop analyzing everything."
"i just miss you."
"you're a liar, a letter without a return address that never makes it. you don't miss me at all."
he'd pull on his hair and try not to think about it, hide in the corridors of buildings he knew nothing about, and constantly tell the ghost to leave him and let him sleep.
"are you awake?" no, but i could be.
a tune flickered inside him, coiled and worn like the end of a cigarette. he begged for something instant, something peaceful. "this isn't the movies," was what he had once said, misplacing him in that moment forever. his heart was now just carryon, baggage lost in terminal four. on the drive home from the airport he stopped quickly to buy batteries for his walkman, from a young man wearing a deep green vest, who hours later was robbed and kidnapped and murdered on the side of the highway.
"have a nice day."
night rearranged, and created dreams of that boy, the animal boy blue with the dirty blonde hair and maroon sweater, and all of the others boys before him, even the ones he never knew the names of and who came too fast. it fucked him up for days because he knew he couldn't have any kind of a relationship with them. the sensation of pale thought against skin consummated his entire body, his entire being, his entire lightweight sense. the ghosts in his apartment gave him no consolation. they threw bread at him while he was trying to sleep. it doesn't matter, it never matters.
he tried to alleviate the feeling, tried to shout it out or play out his blues on the harmonica, but it didn't work. his need for warmth and participation eventually left him feeling destroyed. he was too shy to do anything productive with his needs. it left him as an unfinished house far from the city, a naked retching skeleton of wood, without a roof and letting in all of the rain to drench and rot the frame; feeling somnolent where the streetlights and the city pubs couldn't see him. everything there was quiet, no distractions of noise besides the hum of crickets. he began to hear rain even when it had stopped. he thought nothing of it, screaming, "I UNDERSTAND, I LOVE, and, I HATE are misused these days," running through the trees in a melancholy dance for the deceased poets of the underground.
"is this what you wanted? i mean, is this what you've been waiting for all your goddamned life?" he had him by the shoulders, shaking him. "come on. chin up. we need people like you."
he didn't know how to believe that.
rewind. you missed something! backspace. ctrl alt delete. hum. whir. wires alive choking us. "she thinks it's funny when i get mad in notes and go (scribble scribble)." you can't edit it out.
"please, believe me, i’m just trying to figure it out."
"this isn't a fucking movie."
stop. rewind. stop. eject. the late fee is $1.56.
II
i found myself running, screaming trails of pitter patter heart thumping madness, across the park, drunken in the early morning, over tire swings that ache from the remains of the laughter of children playing when the paint was still new, when the chains were not rusted, when the parents were still happy, when twenty-five cents was expensive, when flying a kite and swinging on swings was enough, and the candy-apple hallowe'en parade put smiles on the faces of their neighbours, whose attics were haunted by boxes filled with yellow sweaters and compiling yawns, cluttering the small space, as the darkness becomes elusive and the strings of the marionettes hanging from the ceiling yearned and felt weak, and listened to the shouting through the floorboards and the crying from the television static below.
the working load is piling up around the soft, sweet, repetitive chucking from the houses in small towns, bleeding from unhappiness and centering themselves behind mass production, simplistic family photos and open doors. there's no talk of broken cable wires, death in quiet hospitals, heroin addicts and prostitutes and dead poets, radio stations beyond local limits, broken city lights, or hunger in third world countries. without images of death in their eyes when closed, they know they are healthy, wrapped in their sleep, with the smell of dinner being prepared for the sedatives they rely on to get there. "i know it's getting cold, you should probably wear a jacket, a scarf. something."
"i wish you wouldn't worry so goddamned much."
frost is forming on the windows of basement level pubs downtown, empty mugs on the counter and a man with a beer in his hand, sensibly handwriting a letter to an old friend. the bartender snaps his picture, and waits for it to develop. the man looks up from his letter and says, "polaroids are only for those who are impatient, like a child laughing, and… a record player, skipping."
"yeah, well i'm just an impatient bastard, then, aren't i?"
you're running down the aisles of the supermarket downtown, without thinking about worn out artists in junkie cafes, and pleading with narrow fingers. everything was out of place until october left orange streamers along the streets.
animal boy blue always played seduced green film overtures recorded with drunken and lovesick violin in a studio, east new york city, behind the glass of the stained churches that cover and darken the conceited thoughts of the father, feeding off the praise of out of tune christmas carols sung on the street corner in blasphemy, sneezing and coughing and shaking and screaming, and constantly fixing his hair with ink spilled fingers. "sing another tune, boys. sing us another tune, will ya?"
he was mindless and alone, behind his crucifix, behind the wooden doors. i went there to confess once, to ask him what i should do, and i swear i heard him crying. i started to cry, too. there was nothing else for me to do, and when i left it began to snow.
Jordaan Mason
I
folded hands with cracked fingernails from bitten nervous winters, gently covered by the glow of floodlights, stumble across the steering wheel, as he is driving, speeding at an early hour in the morning with nothing at his side except an empty bottle of neon. he downed the entire bottle, thinking it wouldn't affect him. he was the king of the masochists! the numb! and yet, it's glitter filtered inside him, sat in his stomach, talked to his leftovers in a sullen whisper. the world hummed quietly in chaotic uproar. this isn't music! this is noise! traffic and city lights and a replay in his mind of you, telling your stories, the ones that made him change and transform, remold and revolt. he dedicated his life to satisfying your every need! he wrote all the songs for you, and he held them in his closet, afraid of what you'd have to say.
"so i guess this means we're in love now."
"stop giving it a name."
a pigtailed girl in the park spilled orange juice on his shirt. he kept his anger to a minimum. his hair was butterflies. "no, you are," she uttered softly.
he never finished the book he was reading. he dreamt his house burnt down and he lost his page. the book filled him with a feeling of hopelessness, and the fact that it was gone made that worse. he liked the books he did finish, though. he lived a disjointed addiction to live recordings. "the static ruins it." but that's the juice of it! the core! months went by, and eventually he only wasted his time with bottles of neon, and didn't listen to his walkman anymore. the batteries had been dead for months and so had he.
"the whole idea came from a song."
it became hard for him to sleep in his bed. the mattress and sheets were only a reminder of miserable lies and all the pills he had to take to even want to wake up in the morning. he started sleeping on the couch, in his clothes, and the dream occurred almost every night. he'd run out of the burning house, overtaken by white lights, run down the street and into town screaming, and no one would help him. they all just stared and said nothing. he couldn't understand the situation because he was trying to look at it from too many awkward angles. he'd wake in a sweat-covered outrage, searching frantically for the book which was now lost somewhere in his apartment. he found it the next day, but he didn't finish it, remember.
he tried to talk about it, to let it out and vent his ideas, and the animal boy blue told him he was dying every day, as he placed his clarinet against the door, and skeptically hung oil paintings of daffodil remains on his bedroom walls. "i feel like an insomniac in the arms of sleep around you, clawing in desperation. i can't think of any other way to say it, but i think you need to stop analyzing everything."
"i just miss you."
"you're a liar, a letter without a return address that never makes it. you don't miss me at all."
he'd pull on his hair and try not to think about it, hide in the corridors of buildings he knew nothing about, and constantly tell the ghost to leave him and let him sleep.
"are you awake?" no, but i could be.
a tune flickered inside him, coiled and worn like the end of a cigarette. he begged for something instant, something peaceful. "this isn't the movies," was what he had once said, misplacing him in that moment forever. his heart was now just carryon, baggage lost in terminal four. on the drive home from the airport he stopped quickly to buy batteries for his walkman, from a young man wearing a deep green vest, who hours later was robbed and kidnapped and murdered on the side of the highway.
"have a nice day."
night rearranged, and created dreams of that boy, the animal boy blue with the dirty blonde hair and maroon sweater, and all of the others boys before him, even the ones he never knew the names of and who came too fast. it fucked him up for days because he knew he couldn't have any kind of a relationship with them. the sensation of pale thought against skin consummated his entire body, his entire being, his entire lightweight sense. the ghosts in his apartment gave him no consolation. they threw bread at him while he was trying to sleep. it doesn't matter, it never matters.
he tried to alleviate the feeling, tried to shout it out or play out his blues on the harmonica, but it didn't work. his need for warmth and participation eventually left him feeling destroyed. he was too shy to do anything productive with his needs. it left him as an unfinished house far from the city, a naked retching skeleton of wood, without a roof and letting in all of the rain to drench and rot the frame; feeling somnolent where the streetlights and the city pubs couldn't see him. everything there was quiet, no distractions of noise besides the hum of crickets. he began to hear rain even when it had stopped. he thought nothing of it, screaming, "I UNDERSTAND, I LOVE, and, I HATE are misused these days," running through the trees in a melancholy dance for the deceased poets of the underground.
"is this what you wanted? i mean, is this what you've been waiting for all your goddamned life?" he had him by the shoulders, shaking him. "come on. chin up. we need people like you."
he didn't know how to believe that.
rewind. you missed something! backspace. ctrl alt delete. hum. whir. wires alive choking us. "she thinks it's funny when i get mad in notes and go (scribble scribble)." you can't edit it out.
"please, believe me, i’m just trying to figure it out."
"this isn't a fucking movie."
stop. rewind. stop. eject. the late fee is $1.56.
II
i found myself running, screaming trails of pitter patter heart thumping madness, across the park, drunken in the early morning, over tire swings that ache from the remains of the laughter of children playing when the paint was still new, when the chains were not rusted, when the parents were still happy, when twenty-five cents was expensive, when flying a kite and swinging on swings was enough, and the candy-apple hallowe'en parade put smiles on the faces of their neighbours, whose attics were haunted by boxes filled with yellow sweaters and compiling yawns, cluttering the small space, as the darkness becomes elusive and the strings of the marionettes hanging from the ceiling yearned and felt weak, and listened to the shouting through the floorboards and the crying from the television static below.
the working load is piling up around the soft, sweet, repetitive chucking from the houses in small towns, bleeding from unhappiness and centering themselves behind mass production, simplistic family photos and open doors. there's no talk of broken cable wires, death in quiet hospitals, heroin addicts and prostitutes and dead poets, radio stations beyond local limits, broken city lights, or hunger in third world countries. without images of death in their eyes when closed, they know they are healthy, wrapped in their sleep, with the smell of dinner being prepared for the sedatives they rely on to get there. "i know it's getting cold, you should probably wear a jacket, a scarf. something."
"i wish you wouldn't worry so goddamned much."
frost is forming on the windows of basement level pubs downtown, empty mugs on the counter and a man with a beer in his hand, sensibly handwriting a letter to an old friend. the bartender snaps his picture, and waits for it to develop. the man looks up from his letter and says, "polaroids are only for those who are impatient, like a child laughing, and… a record player, skipping."
"yeah, well i'm just an impatient bastard, then, aren't i?"
you're running down the aisles of the supermarket downtown, without thinking about worn out artists in junkie cafes, and pleading with narrow fingers. everything was out of place until october left orange streamers along the streets.
animal boy blue always played seduced green film overtures recorded with drunken and lovesick violin in a studio, east new york city, behind the glass of the stained churches that cover and darken the conceited thoughts of the father, feeding off the praise of out of tune christmas carols sung on the street corner in blasphemy, sneezing and coughing and shaking and screaming, and constantly fixing his hair with ink spilled fingers. "sing another tune, boys. sing us another tune, will ya?"
he was mindless and alone, behind his crucifix, behind the wooden doors. i went there to confess once, to ask him what i should do, and i swear i heard him crying. i started to cry, too. there was nothing else for me to do, and when i left it began to snow.
drawing by annie wu
FOUR
FACES
OF
EVE
READ THIS FAST
Ana Dorado
so i went to this valencia party last night. i hear the younger the age group the wilder it gets. like at this one five-year-olds party, a six-year-old suggested strip pin the tale on the donkey. i don't know the rest, but by the end of the night two kids got there eyes poked out. you’re probably expecting me to say i didn't really want to go, and you know, but my friends made me. well it wasn't that way at all. if anything i wanted to go because i thought this girl was going to be there. see it doesn't hurt to be a little bit predictable. i wanted to see this girl, katie, when i got there. of course she didn't show. you know there's always something better to do than what you’re doing at the moment. she was probably out somewhere, i don't know, somewhere real cool or doing something pertaining to coolness, lying on broken tree trunks in a hot and sweaty setting while taking narcotics with indigenous people, philosophizing life. we got there, 6217 hayvenhurst dr, and outside there were christmas lights everywhere, the ones where the light moves. reminded me of, i don't know, if a caterpillar swallowed a neon bulb and took a hit of speed. it wasn't even christmas. i guess christmas lights do make for good decoration, though. i don't know, but for some reason i wanted somebody to fall in love with me that night. i know it might sound weird, it might not, thought it was pretty ambitious but doable nonetheless. i’d pick out someone anywhere in the room: the girl in the corner fixing her eyeliner, or the one near the bean dip, maybe that girl over there who just spilled her drink. rule number one: no drunkards. too easy, and they probably won’t remember your name in the morning, and you don't want to get too close. who knows, maybe you will. everything moves faster, holds tighter, lasts for much longer: pulling back hair, looking into strained red eyes, touching her arm while side muscles violently contract, holding her hand saying it’s going to be okay, really, while her beautiful head is almost in your toilet water. katie, remember me my name is patrick!
THERE IS A SPACE HERE
our hands grazed each other's while heading for the same bean dip. she said, "no way i thought i was the only one who liked this stuff," and i said something along the lines of it being underrated, the bean dip i mean, and i could've sworn i used the word fantastic. my god i'm such an ass. and she's not looking, but she's starring, and i was like two feet away, and i mean you can tell the difference between a look and a stare. and you’re probably thinking that the next thing i'm going to say is, "oh what the hell do i have on my face," but i'm one step ahead. i just got out of the bathroom, checked my teeth, skin, hair, smell, everything, and i'm good. so this girl is ready, she's already falling in love. to get myself even more pumped up, i'm like, “ok pat, let’s do it in five words, make this girl fall head over heels in love with you in five words.” i get a little more inspired and maybe i can do it in three. who knows, maybe even one. i mean, i sure as hell wasn't in love with her. she wasn't a real looker, but i was tired of the pretty girls anyway. they ask what’s wrong too many times, don't compliment you back, and i had a third one i forgot, but maybe it will come back to me. so i stood there with the good intentions of having good intentions. i remember telling her i like morning eyes and december barbeques. did i think those were my five words. god i'm such an ass. then i got thinking that maybe i shouldn't say anything, just nods, yeses, and compliments on her great breasts. they were great breasts. you see my mouth has this habit of always screwing things up, like right now, even when i'm talking to you. i'm a real genius inside, i swear, but when i get nervous i’ll put my verbs and nouns too close together, forget that there are articles and prepositions in between. it’s awful, i know. it’s real cavemen talk, not good for the ladies. we went upstairs, put on a movie. i would tell you what it was, but we didn't watch it very long, if you know what i mean. ok, it was ghost. and i would tell you what she was wearing, but it wasn't on her too long, if you know what i mean. ok, it was a mint green t-shirt, kind of laced at the top, a little low, and a denim skirt. i felt a little lost. why did i care so much. we didn't really have much in common, except for the bean dip. i mean, not even the bean dip. her favorite color was blue, mine was red. what was i going to say, i like your shoes, and oh yeah, thanks for the fuck, say hi to your mom for me. trying to get my pants from under her and put them on, i left the room with her still on the bed. her head was facing the window, and i was near the door, and they were on opposite sides, the window and the door. maybe if she had turned the other way that second, you know, reminded me that her name was sarah, i wouldn't have left. i closed the door softly, walked out, noticed that my zipper was half down half way into the hallway.
Ana Dorado
so i went to this valencia party last night. i hear the younger the age group the wilder it gets. like at this one five-year-olds party, a six-year-old suggested strip pin the tale on the donkey. i don't know the rest, but by the end of the night two kids got there eyes poked out. you’re probably expecting me to say i didn't really want to go, and you know, but my friends made me. well it wasn't that way at all. if anything i wanted to go because i thought this girl was going to be there. see it doesn't hurt to be a little bit predictable. i wanted to see this girl, katie, when i got there. of course she didn't show. you know there's always something better to do than what you’re doing at the moment. she was probably out somewhere, i don't know, somewhere real cool or doing something pertaining to coolness, lying on broken tree trunks in a hot and sweaty setting while taking narcotics with indigenous people, philosophizing life. we got there, 6217 hayvenhurst dr, and outside there were christmas lights everywhere, the ones where the light moves. reminded me of, i don't know, if a caterpillar swallowed a neon bulb and took a hit of speed. it wasn't even christmas. i guess christmas lights do make for good decoration, though. i don't know, but for some reason i wanted somebody to fall in love with me that night. i know it might sound weird, it might not, thought it was pretty ambitious but doable nonetheless. i’d pick out someone anywhere in the room: the girl in the corner fixing her eyeliner, or the one near the bean dip, maybe that girl over there who just spilled her drink. rule number one: no drunkards. too easy, and they probably won’t remember your name in the morning, and you don't want to get too close. who knows, maybe you will. everything moves faster, holds tighter, lasts for much longer: pulling back hair, looking into strained red eyes, touching her arm while side muscles violently contract, holding her hand saying it’s going to be okay, really, while her beautiful head is almost in your toilet water. katie, remember me my name is patrick!
THERE IS A SPACE HERE
our hands grazed each other's while heading for the same bean dip. she said, "no way i thought i was the only one who liked this stuff," and i said something along the lines of it being underrated, the bean dip i mean, and i could've sworn i used the word fantastic. my god i'm such an ass. and she's not looking, but she's starring, and i was like two feet away, and i mean you can tell the difference between a look and a stare. and you’re probably thinking that the next thing i'm going to say is, "oh what the hell do i have on my face," but i'm one step ahead. i just got out of the bathroom, checked my teeth, skin, hair, smell, everything, and i'm good. so this girl is ready, she's already falling in love. to get myself even more pumped up, i'm like, “ok pat, let’s do it in five words, make this girl fall head over heels in love with you in five words.” i get a little more inspired and maybe i can do it in three. who knows, maybe even one. i mean, i sure as hell wasn't in love with her. she wasn't a real looker, but i was tired of the pretty girls anyway. they ask what’s wrong too many times, don't compliment you back, and i had a third one i forgot, but maybe it will come back to me. so i stood there with the good intentions of having good intentions. i remember telling her i like morning eyes and december barbeques. did i think those were my five words. god i'm such an ass. then i got thinking that maybe i shouldn't say anything, just nods, yeses, and compliments on her great breasts. they were great breasts. you see my mouth has this habit of always screwing things up, like right now, even when i'm talking to you. i'm a real genius inside, i swear, but when i get nervous i’ll put my verbs and nouns too close together, forget that there are articles and prepositions in between. it’s awful, i know. it’s real cavemen talk, not good for the ladies. we went upstairs, put on a movie. i would tell you what it was, but we didn't watch it very long, if you know what i mean. ok, it was ghost. and i would tell you what she was wearing, but it wasn't on her too long, if you know what i mean. ok, it was a mint green t-shirt, kind of laced at the top, a little low, and a denim skirt. i felt a little lost. why did i care so much. we didn't really have much in common, except for the bean dip. i mean, not even the bean dip. her favorite color was blue, mine was red. what was i going to say, i like your shoes, and oh yeah, thanks for the fuck, say hi to your mom for me. trying to get my pants from under her and put them on, i left the room with her still on the bed. her head was facing the window, and i was near the door, and they were on opposite sides, the window and the door. maybe if she had turned the other way that second, you know, reminded me that her name was sarah, i wouldn't have left. i closed the door softly, walked out, noticed that my zipper was half down half way into the hallway.
drawing by annie wu
THE SMELL OF CAMEL CIGARETTES AND CHANEL PERFUME, which is the smell simultaneous of college dormitories and of PDX and of grace and delicacy. The smell of hair and beeswax. The smell of sisters and sisterhood.
It’s only been a month since I left graduated, but already I feel older, not necessarily in terms of age or maturity, but in terms of trajectory, in terms of being able to bracket off a portion section of my life, a young, dumb, and fun one, and look at it from a distance, both physical (spatial/temporal) and mental (emotional/nostalgic), but then again perhaps this has more to do with coping mechanisms and western conceptions of time and capital. For even if the above is true, it does not preclude, nor should even suggest that distance is irrecoverable.
It’s only been a month since I left graduated, but already I feel older, not necessarily in terms of age or maturity, but in terms of trajectory, in terms of being able to bracket off a portion section of my life, a young, dumb, and fun one, and look at it from a distance, both physical (spatial/temporal) and mental (emotional/nostalgic), but then again perhaps this has more to do with coping mechanisms and western conceptions of time and capital. For even if the above is true, it does not preclude, nor should even suggest that distance is irrecoverable.
“THE WAY BOYS SMELL . . . THAT ODOR RISING, ROSES AND AMMONIA . . . THAT FORBIDDEN ACRID SMELL.” Perhaps the most delicate of smells, which is to say the most sensitive. Sitting on the fence between repulsive and appealing. The smell of early underwear and climbing green maple-leafed trees, like the smell of jeans too long unwashed when the scent of hair and skin and sweat creeps up from beneath. It makes me miss intimate bodies. The smell from which makes me think (see), touch and taste. The accidental fumbling of legs in white long johns, somehow safe and removed from alcoholics and embarrassing acts performed by adults to the familiar naked skin that at once denotes so-called separates of love and sex. Four-lettered names.
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