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September 2011

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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.


Thank you.
you are so beautiful. everything i have endured as a mother is acquitted by your beautiful heart and your brilliant expression. i feel blessed to know you. thank you for sharing yourself with me.
Sharing myself with you is a matter of course- Part of what I am is you. It's a marvellous thing, this being a kid. I can only guess at the being a mama part, but I'm doing my best. Forgive me my moments when I'm just kind of...far away. I'm not self-sacraficing enough yet. I will be someday. Less self-centred that is.

Hopefully someday soon.

Let's just pretend I said something with the same core message as what your mother just typed, and almost as eloquently. Deal? Sweet.

thank you.

With thousands of miles of land and sea between us I can see your delicate and capable hand touching that woman as she expected nothing and silence. I can see your beautiful face and your mind spinning as you shared a moment of humanity with her.

Dodge just pulled up.
I have to go.

I love you.


The Noose, Hanging out with

wait a second, i thought the point was to get the fuck out of dodge...Ok. I love you. I won't tell you not to go too far, because that's hypocritcal, considering how far I went. How far I'm still going. Who can say?

I *faints because you called my hands delicate and capable* I love you. I dunno how else to say it beyond "I love you", what a dumb phrase. Maybe it means more in other languages. (I want to believe that)

(Because you may not have known)
you are awesome!! im thinking of worshiping you ~_~
Oh man, I bet you could find someone way more reliable and awesome to worship. I bet these guys (for example):

Thank you though, I really really want to be awesome. I want to be awesome and kind and full of life. I am tired of being such a black hole of nonsense. Well, not the nonsense, I don't think I'll ever be free of nonsense given that its my main method of expression/humor.

But the blackhole part. Yeah. That could go.
nah...those penguins are shit-fucks
Your MUM is a shit-fuck!

but 3rd in whole of northumberland for sex in mouth!!
Your mother hugs people in the butt.
your mother cleaned my dirty with her soap fish
Where the fuck are you, online? If we're gonna mama-trash then we've got to do it in hand to hand...internet..ing. Interneting.
im approximately 50ft beneath the internets....working my way back up!
man what a dick
Bitches ain't shit but hos and tricks, lick on these nuts and suck the dick...

Oh man. We have got to quit this. It is not good for our...somethings. No good at all.
Hiro. I have told you how I feel, already, and I hope you know, but like everyone else, I feel like I need to put my mark down as a witness to this. You are wonderful. What the world needs now is CPR and then perhaps a good long holiday
(part of me wanted to suggest that what the world really needs is an early retirement, but the most of me does not believe that this is true at all)


Early Retirement. I, also, both do and don't believe/want that. That is why I am always and forever tearing my life down and then forgetting what I was doing and putting it back up again. I'm just such a fucking mess. I am such a wonderfuly well-loved mess.


CPR is only marginally helpful, at its very best. In most cases, one has to break the breastbone while administering it- a fact they don't exactly tout around when they put up the 'how to give impromptu cardio-pulmonary resuscitation' signs next to the deep end of pools and in the school-nurse's room.

every action has an equal and oposite reaction. You press down on someone's breastbone and the cartilage cracks, and sometimes a plate fractures and a splinter of bone wedges into the heart. Sometimes you touch someone's leg and they start crying. Luck-of-the-draw
Quite so
Hello, Math. Hello. I hear you have five buck's worth of un-redemable credit, a great sense of irony, and taste in music. We should probably spend more internet time, internet talking.

Do you like Mauro, btw? Have you heard him? Do you like metal molly?