— sections you’ve underlined in the copy of A Farewell to Arms you let me borrow when we still wanted this
In the car with Jason, Elana, and Tim. Tim is reading Norman Mailer. Elana and Jason bicker in a loving way. They laugh a lot together, and sometimes I join. Jason tells us how Sam Cooke died as we listen to his music in the background, very much alive. "What a wonderful world this would be." No one speaks for a moment, and I listen to the steady pulse of the wind in the open window. Tim’s right wrist rests on top of his left while he sleeps against his rolled up sweatshirt, the one covered in paint stains with the logo of a bar that shares his last name. Jason’s rearview mirror is adorned with some kind of necklace with large beads. From here it looks like a string of small globes. Elana switches the music to Santigold, abruptly changing the tone. The lyrics fit with my thoughts. An ant scurries across my bag, and I see it for only a moment before it disappears again. Jason says he never used his car air conditioner because he thought it was broken. It’s not. "If I can stand up mean for all these things that I believe." Elana cuts off the end of the song for the next one. From here I can see Jason’s fingers vibrating against the steering wheel, an echo of the wheels against the street a few feet below.
“If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for a moment.”
photo by Alfred Steigletz
This summer arrived with a heaviness my heart wasn’t prepared for. I go about my days with the pervasive sense of something soon ending. Today I find myself heaving great, wrenching sobs that spew unnamed tears. The aches question every choice I’ve made thus far: “What about now? What if you’d chose differently?” and in my weakest moment I succumb to my What-If bullies and pull the hair from my head in unchangeable agony. I am pulled over, but I don’t know who to ask for directions. I am lost, I am lost.
And you’re my cult leader"
Spend a lot on clothes got a lot of skin to show
People in the pool like the drowning army
Smoke along the moats and the hotel lobby glows
Wish that you can dance but you’ve got no partner
Keep tapping on your glass because you want to make a toast
To the ennui of our times
To the selfishness in everyone you know"
— conor’s still got it
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell
and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and
execute strides of cobalt
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming
something a little different,in fact
hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings.
The Poetry Does Not Matter
“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.”
— Frida Kahlo
- “I wish people were all trees,
I think I could enjoy them then.”— Georgia O’Keeffe
- “To create one’s own world takes courage.”—
Share the world you’re creating for Submission Sunday!