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A Letter to My Alter-Ego, or Perhaps an Imagined Person to “Fall in Love With”On Distance

Yesterday, I really did just sit on the couch and start crying. When I told my old poetry professor about it and he asked what my family thought I just told him the truth, and the truth is that I didn’t let anybody notice because my crying while sitting on the couch on a perfectly regular, American, suburban southwestern day is not about being noticed. And it is most certainly not about having someone asking you about why you are crying or what is “wrong” with you.

It is about having a disconnect in every part of my body, especially on the outside.  It kills me to imagine the “remoteness” of a “real” “connection.” What really kills is the perception that in order to “have” (here: posses, experience) something “real” (what, is this capital T, Truth? Bullshit.) an inordinate amount of distance or pain is required by the person wanting and the desire itself. This, this perception is in itself, fucking stupid. The truth is I feel lied to. And now, I’m writing about either as a way to test myself or as a way to maybe lie to myself further. Continue reading

On an Breakdown

 For about two weeks now I’ve been in the United States. There are lawns, and cars and stars and memories and house parties and bars with good beer. In two weeks I am scheduled to go back out into a world that’s supposed to be, feel, smell, seem “realer.” I’m reading and meeting and breathing and ____ and ______ and _____, ___________ in the ____time.

I am scraping the bottom of yogurt containers until my hand starts to shake out of some hunger to consume everything. And I don’t feel like I’m taking anything in, rather whatever “everything” is as a subject is going through me, wrapping my guts around its ugly iron neck like some stylish boa, trailing them along a highway it’s repurposed as a cat walk. Continue reading