Beloved Motherfuckers -
is the way I'd like to start all invitations - equal parts come here and fuck off and mostly I love how it sounds - that's closest to truth - Oh beloveds I go mad for a good sound! But I get away from my reason for writing - I have been sending off emails and trying to figure how to end them - Best? v/r? Cheers? Thank you? - I don't like any - I don't mean any - but anyways I come across this fantastic phrase Beloved Motherfuckers - I realize I also haven't liked my mail greetings until now but here it is - the one to end all ones - it reminds me of the way I get upset about animals getting killed but I still probably use products tested on animals because I haven't bothered to do adequate research - that's not admirable it's just - true - oh oh! - it also reminds me - this year is the year of Death for me in my tarot and it is also my golden birthday - yes I turn Midas-fingered twenty seven this month, the same year as my year of death - how delicious is that? - Here, I watch things die and here I bask in the yellow glow - How am I supposed to shed anything if I'm solid gold? Maybe I'll leave behind human form? A breathing dead. And through that - that temporal form that I am forced to take - I will... I'm in a café. The couple next to me is eating takeout thai food while sipping lattés and that disgusts me - my pretention and their thai food - not the thai food itself - but the thai food being so out of place.
-I think I'm going to accept that med school offer.
-Do it. Let's go. Let's move to Minnetonka.
And damn it! They've ruined all my train of thought because now I'm wracking to think if there's a Minnetonka that exists or if he is making a joke I do not get. How much will it cost them to get there? What is gas these days? The cost of things - managing my menstrual blood, greens at the market, letting you look at my eyes, my pants aren't fitting - is always the most interesting thing. Trust me. Look at what is left after a room burns - a ring, a filling, silver coins, a metal grate, ash, ash, ash - and all the flesh formed by consequence is gone - another year - I'm starting to see it in me now -I search other bodies for proof of pain - not for solidarity, just to know it exists as I believe in it - I do this frantically, as frantically as the way I read books, as frantically as the way I accumulate experience, as frantically as the way I come. I have done it again, I will do it again. I am no miracle but repetition. I avoid closure because I don't know how to sign off. And I don't know if that's for me or for you. And I am reaching - reaching so hard through this pen for the words - fighting through the crowded train - fighting for my life and my death - but we all know what a laugh that is - I am the person who will freeze and as reflex, offer herself to be the one pushed off - shit, could you imagine that walk home? I know how to end.
The senses are dead. Something about my work goes here.