The powerlessness of the page is close.
I pet its imaginary fur.
Black mark indicate murder. Mother indicate
how many dot occur on the crime index
to me. Where my dot is in relation to the other dot?
Last night my brother start to blossom.
He call to me with his face.
I am going to die when I am fifty, he say,
my genitals have to betray me.
Some kind of power
rip me out of my socket.
No one die in my dreaming, only approach.
Now I am going to get kinky
because I can’t handle
Brother, your meteor face enter my room
and go up in flames hitting
my atmosphere. So personal
I know something about shame. Shame
that ebb when you approach.
When the obese star of your atmosphere
come without consent.
Confront the textual neuron.
The line you have died.
You are not fifty yet, yellow scoliosis mermaid,
somehow the dream killing
stroke something in me.
I feel anxious. I know because I have only eaten a piece of bread today with butter, and I am not desperately trying to get my paws on more food. I don’t care about food. This only happens when I am overwhelmed by different type of hunger. It is just as bodily, in the way soul is presented in chinese medicine… a set of tendencies, fluid movements of life and energy. I feel (it) being sucked elsewhere. This hunger feels old. Sometimes this means it is time to put on my hat and write “poems”. When I feel drawn to something and cannot help but prolong that wanting because it is a rare feeling for me. To want something badly and to feel it in the flesh. To be compelled. To be present(ed) in the world, for something in the world is calling to me. At the same time, this unreasonable desire is crushing. I like being crushed. Crushed to the point of being de-subjectivized (not dissociated). I am crushed and the other thing is swollen to the point of irresistible gravity.
The paradox of a self feeling more present when absent/crushed into zero dimension. Sometimes it is [because of ] music. Sometimes it is a landscape. The trace of a person. Especially the text of a person (text betraying the ghost of a person). It’s unbearable. I hate it. Do you know what I’m talking about? Who has not fallen in love with/through a body of text? But I catch myself. The death of the author has birthed a race of Catherines, wandering across the moors/internet.
It gets me thinking about something I worry about a lot. Dissociation. That I feel like I haven’t been in school (or in the world?) at all, despite having spent my whole life being shuttled from institution to institution… I’m not as “educated” as I’d like to be, for practical purposes, and for the compost of my spirit. The worms aren’t getting enough humidity, or too much, or they’re just not into the stuff I’m feeding them. They don’t actually want to be in the ground. Being an mfa has made me realize just how much I don’t retain/digest. I’m a clouded person, but as the people around me solidify and precipitate all sorts of gigantic crusty crystals, it begins to bother me more and more. I forget. Why? Why don’t I remember things? Very basic historical facts are missing from my gray matter. I’ve been trying to help it. It’s incredibly hard. I’m getting better slowly. I’ve said before that I care about very very few things. But then I suddenly turned 24 and now I realize, maybe because I’ve had to teach for the first time, that I actually want to care about things like the history of movements (that is left unspecified on purpose) for example, and the timely web of each one. But why do I feel so afraid of it? What does it mean to want to care? Why do I fear chronology? Names and dates? Do I want to stop being dissociated? Can I? Can I love the world? Why does it hurt? Don’t leave me.
Moving around every 2 years of my life across seas and borders trained me not to get attached to things and to let go of information very quickly, since I’ve had to shake out my emotional, geographical, and historical drawer over and over again. Are people countries? Can you be a citizen of other individuals? I’m always displaced, floating somewhere far away. When I was in school, nothing in the books seemed personally significant, no matter what culture, what discipline. I had 8 different majors. I had difficulty identifying with anything, or seeing myself as a participant in the world. This still happens, but to a lesser degree.
So when something pulls me down, I want to stay buried there as long as possible. I want to be the bug flattened underneath the blue shoe of heaven, face down.