past , present , future

three entries

past: MOLLY
In tenth grade we ate out of butter packets at a hipster diner and impressed boys with our bodies in your parent-less house. At twenty-eight, you send me a three-part story about your desperate need for attention that began as a child. About the euphoric transcendence achieved when somebody looks at you for as long as you need. In London, we watched a play together. There was a gunshot that scared you so bad that you jumped backward, champagne in hand, drenching the poodle skirt of the elderly woman seated next to you. I loved you for that. For your drama. I always loved your drama - there was a genius to it. When I tweeted, "we need more women who scream and faint on couches", it was your evil giggle in the goodwill dressing rooms of santa monica at fifteen that came to mind. You rescued a cat that nobody wanted with more health issues than you can count. You tell me about bathing him in the sink after the many times he lets himself fall into the murky trash-pond in the yard or rolling in his own litter-box. You tell me how all your roommates protest and ask that you bleach the sink after. I watch as that same cat walks into hot coals as if on purpose. In times like these, I am certain everyone knows exactly who they are.

present: STOMACH
I scroll through images of Parisian windows framing hotel breakfasts. Of flat-stomached girls in white cotton, face hidden behind an iPhone; it is the first and only photo of their stomach they will take that day because it is the morning and they haven't eaten the hotel breakfast by the Parisian window yet. It is only at this hour when a stomach can step into the glove of its 2D muse, its photoblog fantasy - because it is empty. The stomach endures so much. Physically, symbolically. In ways, the stomach exists in extremes, cradling birth and death and the micro-symbols of both of these found in life , like consumption and elimination. It is the neglected core, the neglected root. It harbors evidence of the vital vine of our own creation, a scar in place of where we were first plucked from like autumn fruits.

future: DJ
i just want to marry a dj who makes me dance remixes of my favorite indie songs . he will be my muse as i write from various cities . i can work from anywhere. i have a decent savings . i don’t have an addictive personality and i’ve never been a mean drunk. sometimes he will say “im just a dj” and i will say - “no. you are an energetic guide that brings souls together in unified worship. you are an altruistic god.” and i will mean it. when i have to leave for a month , he will let me. i will return from my journey with ghost stories and mosquito bites and new whims to follow. we will lock ourselves up in separate studios . exchange waves in the kitchen. wizards by day and humans by night. in fall, we’ll buy a steam sauna. in summer, we’ll buy an ice bath. for an entire year we will alternate between hot and cold water, doing nothing else but this, until fresh ideas come. we will say this is the meaning of life, and all of my writing will be about blood circulation again. i’ll never let myself go more than three days without twerking or speaking to my mother.

・゜゜・・ﾟ☆ .・゜ ✧・゜゜・・ﾟ☆