I'm overwhelmed


Juilp , take me to the nearest famous city middle
Where they hang the lights
Where it's random and it's common vs. common

I have weird memories of you
Wearing long red socks and red shoes
I have weird memories
I have weird memories of you
Pissing in a sink, I think

Parking your car, you said, I'm overwhelmed
You were thinking out loud, you said, I'm overwhelmed

I think I'm like Tennesse Williams
I wait for the click
I wait, but it doesn't kick in
I have weird memories of you 


Never Helen



This is the woman who opens her legs to them:
To Achilles, to Oddyseus. Never Zeus.
This is the woman who puts fire to her hand

and pays, and pays like Prometheus against rocks
and now she knows: what's inside her is forbidden
but not for its value, not for its threat to the

gods of the villages--for its lasting stench which
she fights to sleep. Which wakes her always. This is the
woman. She is Philoctetes, never Helen, 

seamless Helen, for whom men boast their own wounds. This
woman is wounds. This the woman who does not
know the difference between Zeus and Achilles, or

that the reason he bears the waves to Lemnos is
to strengthen himself in the sick presence of her.
Unimaginable, miserable. To feed
on her like the awful gulls that circle waiting
to drink form an unguarded opening, not for
an earthly value, merely its existence.
(Barbara Decesare, Jigsaw Eyesore) 

Yellow House

(Our choice is ours but we have not made it)

The Ships Are Made Ready In Silence

(W. S. Merwin)

Moored to the same ring:
The hour, the darkness and I,
Our compasses hooded like falcons.

Now the memory of you comes aching in
With a wash of broken bits which never left port
In which once we planned voyages,
They come knocking like hearts asking:
What departures on this tide?

Breath of land, warm breath,
You tighten the cold around the navel,
Though all shores but the first have been foreign,
And the first was not home until left behind.

Our choice is ours but we have not made it,
Containing as it does, our destination
Circled with loss as with coral, and
A destination only until attained.

I have left you my hope to remember me by,
Though now there is little resemblance.
At this moment I could believe in no change,
The mast perpetually
Vacillating between the same constellations,
The night never withdrawing its dark virtue
From the harbor shaped as a heart,
The sea pulsing as a heart,
The sky vaulted as a heart,
Where I know the light will shatter like a cry
Above a discovery:
Emptiness! Look!"
Look. This is the morning.

How Shit Works

Or how Denmark is a magical land filled with unicorns and hotdogs. ALSO: Cheese which, while delicious, bears NO resemblance to the cheese it is named after. Like this really freaking delicious 'gouda' I am eating. NOT GOUDA, DENMARK. Really not! But freaking delicious while not being gouda is fine, i just wish you wouldn't make me worry all the time about it.

A King Neutral Presents production:

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to the front

Cracked Lengthwise: One hour

let it go-the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise-let it go it
was sworn to

let them go-the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers-you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go-the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things-let all go
so comes love
-e.e. cummings, 1944

I walked out of CLL, and the indecisive rain came edgewise on the wind. I had stayed late after my usual evening course, to finish some lesson plans for the upcoming week. Anxious, semi-broken, and not really having slept in days, I felt like I had been stuffed haphazardly into my skin. It fit me ill, that night- all loose in some places, strangling in others. The boxes in my head were in disarray. My internal office personnel kept bringing me the wrong files. Every thought I had felt worn, and over-used. I was sick of my own voice, but that voice was internal, and so impossible to shut off. Spurred by my feelings of helpless frustration, I took an alternate route home. I got off the metro at Montgomery instead of De Broùcker. The man in the little hermetically sealed information booth pointed me towards tram 81. I boarded, wondering why I had decided to do so (81 takes nearly a quarter hour longer than 55). The only answer I got was the inarguable “Why Not?”

The darkness of the night outside isolated those of us inside, in that special, grandiose way that only late-night trams can manage. It laconically clattered down the cold damp lines, and I was left alone with the riot inside my head. I looked out the window and only saw my own tired face reflected back at me. The harsh fluorescent lights illuminated each contour and line, emphasizing the near-hysteria behind my eyes by contrasting it with the stillness of my features. This nameless apprehension! This silent face

At the next stop, a woman who was not beautiful got on. Her eyes were stolid doormen who let nothing through from behind, opaque and dour. Where skin was not sallow it was red and chaffed where the wind had tried to whip life into it. She had thick, unbeautiful, worker's hands and she wore her clothes badly. She was carrying a large camping backpack, which was oddly incongruent. She sat catty-corner to me, across the aisle, and I watched her more as something to look at than in an attempt to see her features. Suddenly her shoulders slumped, and she seemed to collapse into herself, her thick square-jawed face cupped in her palms. Someone on the tram was coughing. I couldn't look to see who it was because I was transfixed. I knew this woman so well. I was not able to see the shape of the things she was bearing, or what had brought her shoulders forward, but the shape of things being defined by their curve. We live our lives trying to capture how we are formed, not by the major actions that occur because of us or to us, but by the space between them. I saw her brush, not at tears, but at where tears were trying to form.

I took a quick look around. No one was noticing, or they were busy trying not to notice. Often of late, I have been grateful for Belgian conservatism. It is isolating, but it gives one a measure of privacy, even in the middle of a public tram, or a street. She breathed deeply, and her mousy no-colour hair covered her face. I leaned over.

"Pardon, Madame… Vous êtes fatiguée, ou est-ce que vous êtes triste?"

My poor French.

The quiet, late night tram.

The rain outside the window.

She looked up startled and didn't reply, but my hand had stretched out over the space between us to touch her knee, and she looked down at it; impassive for a moment then her heavy eyes filled with tears that ran down her cheek to her jaw in silence. I took her hand. We didn't speak. We sat hand in hand, diagonally across the tramcar aisle her bag between her knees, and her face turned slightly away. She smelled slightly of travel. Her skin was dry and cool. Two or three stops further on, she got off the tram, without saying goodbye. I sat watching but not seeing my face in the window until Horta, near la barriére. No one said a word. I walked out into the dark night, and I was still. Silence had infiltrated me, and was profound. I still could not sleep, but I did not care. I felt emptied, and it was blessed.
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The bones of eerily familar things

A History of Lost Objects

Since we agreed to let the road between us
Fall to disuse,
And bricked our gates up, planted trees to screen us,
And turned all time's eroding agents loose,
Silence, and space, and strangers - our neglect
Has not had much effect.

Leaves drift unswept, perhaps; grass creeps unmown;
No other change.
So clear it stands, so little overgrown,
Walking that way tonight would not seem strange,
And still would be followed. A little longer,
And time would be the stronger,

Drafting a world where no such road will run
From you to me;
To watch that world come up like a cold sun,
Rewarding others, is my liberty.
Not to prevent it is my will's fulfillment.
Willing it, my ailment.
-Philip Larkin

The heart has terrible appetites.
The hands hold themselves out and look to be filled, but expect nothing themselves. They are hands. They are extensions of the body. Donne would have had you believe that simply being part of the whole would entitle them to filling, or at least being noted. The heart argues that there is no such entitlement, and the corresponding dead lack of compassion in nature buoys this argument. The heart knows what it is to want, with its terrible appetites, and to never be satiated. The heart knows that, in and of themselves, the hands have no inherent rights to objects; It is always incidental that the hands are ever occupied. What has no will has no refutations.

With no direct means of action yet possessed of an awful will, the heart is silent but beats its constant, terrible, rhythm into every gifted moment. I say no direct means, but it has ways of bringing about what it wishes. One stands before the mirror and sees the passage of its beating, the price paid in seconds turned to hours turned to years. It is like this, your face changes. You’ve gained something, you’ve lost something, and maybe they balance out but you are not sure and will never be sure. It shows up in your eyes, for certain but even more plainly (if you have been taught to read such script) in your jaw, and the lines of your lips. There were photos of me, taken at my birthday party- This is another me! Where did you come from?! What did I lose to make room for you? Life doesn’t pass in a grand series of contained acts linked by tiny increments; it is the increments alone, strung together by ever smaller pieces. It moves by a mysterious locomotion; contingent upon nothing but its own self, its mere existence a sort of raison d’être.

What I mean is something like this: I bleed a lot. I get blood on everything. It is less my tendency to injure myself (which I am quite prone to) than not caring a whit for blood. If it seems natural to be always bleeding from some part or another, it follows that blood will get on things. The house I live in is old. The wood floor has aged itself to varying levels of deep umber or black mahogany. In the dressing room I noticed a single, rather large, drop of nearly dried blood on the smooth planking purely by chance. Then I wondered that it shouldn’t have been before; the perfect roundness of the droplet, the contrast of its colour against the grain of the wood, even its slightly raised congealed surface. It must have made a sound when it landed; I must even have stepped over it (It being almost dry) a number of times. I was staring at it letting these little realisations wash over me when I noticed another. Again, perfect; near the door. Then three more, all-a-line, in the exact centre of a plank, following the grain.

I started to hunt for them then. They went up the stairs, into the bedroom, and down from the dressing room into the kitchen, where they stopped rather abruptly. But they were there, inclusive to my life for what may have been over a week, being stepped over by not only me but Bram. Of the twenty seven perfect drops only the twenty eighth was marred in the slightest. We did not step in them. We did not know they existed. With our neat footmanship we had proven (the best, the only way) that the majority of our lives are lived in-spite of facts rather than defined by them. There are too many things beyond our control that we merely don’t notice, to allow for it to be otherwise. Those droplets didn’t exist as far as I was concerned a mere five minutes before I saw them, and once seen they were impossible to un-see. I had to worry about them, and they worried me until I got a damp towel and rubbed the (surprisingly stubborn) stains out of existence.


Evidences. The fresh foam left in coffee cups, for example. Not the dried, crystal sparkling foam glaze, later, that’s too sad. But the fresh foam is just sad enough. To come home and find an espresso cup, perfectly formed cheap ceramic with the soft, oily crema still clinging to the sides, sliding down a little, and no one in the house. Maybe it is a pair of cups. Certain someones drinking espresso and never noticing the perfect traces they’ve left behind, which is a sort of sadness in itself. Forgetting these things, the traces you must leave behind by living, it’s all sad in the end, isn’t it? That is, if this sort of thing can make you sad.

And so, the heart has terrible appetites. Nothing is ever buried. You cannot but turn your back for a brief moment and there will your voiceless heart start a clamor. Your legs do not ask to walk, and your arms do not ask to bend with such immediate voices. You can see it in the etymology of phrases, the language of love showing plainly the constant, often insidious, whisperings of desire. They bound together and become a powerhouse of intentions, fused through grief, joy, and indifference; when we first know the monster of these amalgamated internal shufflings we name it separate, even as it is inside us and of us; we name it Heart.


There are so many idiomatic phrases that run “The right hand washes the left” and concurrently “The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand does” – that they are both true is an essential rupture of logic that must be accepted in order to live with any sense of calm.
It is galling that so many things exist without the help of our knowing they do so. In the end its only what we mean to each other, and what meanings we give ourselves defined by our relationships that affects us. The grave looms at the end of every road, and it will not stop existing just because we are not aware of how close it is to us, every day, beside us as we do what we think necessary or true. It is not a new idea. It is perhaps the oldest Idea. So it bears repeating.

I go on living and making breakfast and seeing myself naked in this house where the droplets were, crossing mirrors and the faint reflections from windows. I go on thinking to my self of Bly “What one loves when one loves what one does love...” But now I live conscious of my traitorous heart. I would like to lie to myself but I can’t. I must admit that there is always a weakness, a desire to return to the certainty I had for those few, brief, years that I had reached and understanding with myself. That grief was a thing I could reason, that I had reasoned, that I had muscled myself into one being through the action of rigorous watchfulness. Love has an inchohate voice and doesn’t ask to be anything but itself. What it is, is quite enough of a mess already. What else renews itself seamlessly, like the phoenix, not seeming new but truly being new? What else believes that each time is the first, the only, time? Nothing else.


I was sitting in the tiny park opposite the grand sablon. My feet felt strange. This wasn’t something completely new. Sometimes a part of my body will begin to feel alien somehow, or far away. It occupies my mind in such a manner that I know I will not be able to suppress it. The most I can do is live around the strange, uncomfortable fancy and be Generally Occupied. Only now do I think I understand it, though that might be another manifestation of my madness I think this is a vestige of my dissociated heart. I am not a person whole and entire, I’m a trinity. A mind, a heart, and something between the two that is neither and exists in grace. The mind is not a subtle thing. Our subconscious minds utilise blunt hammer blows in comparison to the fine chiseling stratagems of the heart. To mistake an emotional understanding for a visceral understanding is an unforgivable affront to that second self.
The heart is subtle, it will wait, and you will pay.

So subtle! To migrate along the pathways of my body, diverting its stifled will into such careful sabotage; the affected part, suddenly possessed of intentions (imagine hands that desire to be filled!) on loan by the saboteur heart…

Stalked by my possessed limbs, something always following me, checking my motion . Something clinging to me and turning my head to glance behind for…what? There is nothing. There is never anything. But when I face front what I turn to seek is there, I am slowed and stopped and I must look at my second self. I am left with a ghost of myself, what I am or might be, walking beside me inside my skin. One always pays.


The accumulations of tiny actions.
The range of motion and circumscribed awareness
" Between the conception/And the creation/Between the emotion/And the response/Falls the Shadow
“Against the endless reckless siege of battering days/when rocks impregnable are not so stout/ nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays…”

I felt as if my hands were new, and unfamiliar things. The small bones sliding over each other in an oiled symphony of ligaments and counter-balances. I turned the keys in my door lock, started the engine" engaged the gears... Each move distracted me, my fingers orchestrating themselves perfectly to semi-voluntary demands. The complex actions of our bodies, occurring each second on levels we cannot even imagine. I watched them dart about, my hands, on missions I was not aware I had sent them upon.

Desine fata deum flecti sperare precando.

Et il est parti sans même dire au revoir
On a un image de soi, et on doit se souvenir de maintenir cette image de soi

My life is becoming a cluster fuck.

“Lost Love”. What a stupid, little minded phrase- of all things that can be lost! Love is never lost. It happens, and it happens entirely within the first few moments of it’s being felt. What you have with someone is nothing more than the unfolding of those first few moments, that first face, over and over again. There’s never any more of it, and there’s never any less. So the process of losing someone is one of waiting. One wants to say “I will not wait for you, I am braver than that” but that is a lie. What recovery from love essentially is; is waiting. Waiting for the phone that will not ring. For the admission or the apology that is never said. A letter that doesn't materialise on the matting.Waiting for the love to change itself over again, to transmute itself. Waiting out the reasonless hope..

There’s an unbearable silence in my heart. I am aware of how love is never “lost”, at the most it is misplaced for a moment. Into your leg for instance. Or your hands.

It’s easy to love imperfect things. We see their funny edges and unfinished faces and devote ourselves to these flaws like we do to nothing else. Our lives are all wabi-sabi pots, or are if we are lucky, inherently screwy but essentially useful. Those who are not so lucky- we try to live around those. In a house with all the vanished droplets of blood. In a garden with traitorous limbs.


I was just sitting here with my coffee, thinking about how much i love coffee, when coffee started giggling and whispering little nothings in my ear. I glanced at it suspiciously, and it asked me to lean in a little closer.

"What's that, coffee? I didn't hear you."

And that is when coffee punched me in the teeth. "Coffee! Why would you do that?!!"

"Have you ever thought about how much like your bestfriend your boyfriend looks?"
"Dude, coffee, of course I have."
"You need to document that shit."
"I already did! Why did you punch me?!"
"Cool. Just checking. Put it on THE INTERNETS. Things are more real when they are on THE INTERNETS."

And then coffee got all quiet and introspective. Fucking hell. I love you coffee. What is your problem?!

Look, you have to watchout for EuroBoyfriend. If you are not careful it will just roll around in leaves, get arrested by black kids, and do a creepily spot-on impression of someone related to your bestfriend. It will also have no respect for cannons and flip around all over them looking like gumby. Looking like gumby if gumby were designed for a italian advertisement campaign.

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