Dream -- May 05, 2014
I buy an army bag at a yard sale from a woman with messy, cropped, bleached hair, who looks older only because of her desperation to sell her belongings. I like the bag because it reminds me of the one I own now, but thinning and stained; I rummage through the pockets, watching the muscles on the woman's arms stretch the dried skin around her tattoos. I find handfuls of beautiful crystal jewelry in the bag and I rub them in my palms, hiding a pair of square-cut earrings surrounded by diamonds that I can see my reflection in.
The woman panics, searching for a specific piece with enormous sentimental value. I deny knowing about the jewelry while fingering the stones in my pockets, the edges wrapped in an antique silk scarf covered in gold script.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Saturday, May 3, 2014
9:30
May 1, 2014.
Where are all the ghosts in Brooklyn? It is 2pm and I am drunk on wine, writing with a pen given to me by my partner. A beautiful man is sitting across from me on the L and I want to see him as a mirror, reflecting my face and tattoos back into my eyes. I want to see myself; I want to know how I have the same neck and eye sockets I had as a child.
I have dreams about snakes and human teeth found in the fossils of ferns and I think about my partner, a person whose loss of gender gives them the strength to grow fur.
How do we know ourselves without animals? Where does the tissue of dead minds rest between all the boroughs and brownstones? It is easier to find ghosts in grass and deer.
May 2, 2014
Life is alive in Bushwick -- I have skin, capillaries, oxygen, and ice cream.
May 3, 2014
I do not remember my dreams from last night, but I know I drunkenly moved through Manhattan, my laughter disgusting, fouling the air.
When I think of wanting I find novels, animals, and Matt's limbs braided with my bones.
Where are all the ghosts in Brooklyn? It is 2pm and I am drunk on wine, writing with a pen given to me by my partner. A beautiful man is sitting across from me on the L and I want to see him as a mirror, reflecting my face and tattoos back into my eyes. I want to see myself; I want to know how I have the same neck and eye sockets I had as a child.
I have dreams about snakes and human teeth found in the fossils of ferns and I think about my partner, a person whose loss of gender gives them the strength to grow fur.
How do we know ourselves without animals? Where does the tissue of dead minds rest between all the boroughs and brownstones? It is easier to find ghosts in grass and deer.
May 2, 2014
Life is alive in Bushwick -- I have skin, capillaries, oxygen, and ice cream.
May 3, 2014
I do not remember my dreams from last night, but I know I drunkenly moved through Manhattan, my laughter disgusting, fouling the air.
When I think of wanting I find novels, animals, and Matt's limbs braided with my bones.
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