what’s wrong with you is wrong all the way through you. cormac mccarthy, blood meridian.
for r., who posesses amazing cheekbones:
Will I always be eleven,
lonely in this house,
reading books
that are too hard for me,
in the long fatherless hours.
The terrible hours of the window,
the rain-light
on the page,
awaiting the letter,
the phone call,
still your strange elderly child.
-f. wright, untitled.
the frenchman did not receive my email, what luck. i think his blackberry overloaded. i told him later what i had written and he asked if i still meant it. busting a sarah palin. i dodged that question inelegantly, muttering under my breath, “it must be fate.” he later reiterated the phrase in an email to me, spelling it incorrectly, “it must be faith.”
sometimes i think miscommunications are not miscommunications.
the sex is getting better. more bruises on my wrists, origins obvious to anyone who’d look. i stayed completely sober this weekend save for one cold corona at webster hall. to meet him there, i wore thigh high stockings and a garter belt. this got him really excited and so we escaped to some corner of the club where he proceeded to eat me out. go ahead, laugh and groan– i am a loose woman i never denied this. we went back to my place and he made me stand in front of the mirror as he touched me. anyone know a sick little story in “kissing in manhattan” by david schickler about a trader who ties up women in his bedroom, leaving them for hours on end to just gaze at themselves in the mirror? living my life i am dreaming of fiction, reading fiction i am dreaming of life.
in the morning after a congenial brunch in park slope, i was fucked very painfully. at some point, i wanted it to stop but my hands were cuffed behind my back and i was completely helpless. isn’t this what you wanted, he asked me. i couldn’t reply, the pain was so incredible. afterwards he looked at me worried, confused as if to say ”i enjoyed it, what does that say about me?” whatever man, reach a point where your desires lose their sophistication and meaning and become impulses, immediate and instinctive. and you’ll find the only true thing about yourself; we are base.
he’s gone on vacation, the whole month of october, to cambodia and taiwan. a honeymoon of sorts with his girlfriend. some humor, from the hand of my roommate:
but before he leaves, we sit on a bench in rockefeller plaza, the sun beating down on me. i turn at him sideways, cock my head to the right. i am trying to look pretty but am unsure if i’m pulling it off in this light. he is deep in thought, translating all those guttural r’s and disappearing h’s and presents me with two choices–we can start seeing less of each other or we can start dating, for serious, for reals. i nod my head contemplatively as if i am considering this for the very first time, i don’t even bother to ask if things can simply remain the same.
i don’t know what to say, i say. i am bound to another, i do not say. i am on a long leash, i do not say. my master, as much as i hate him makes me docile in his arms, i do not say. i dream to be free with you, i do not say. but if i were, i would dream to be chained to him, i do not say.
carved says:
good gracious – thigh highs and garter belts; freedom and restraint.
i like the poem. must send u some soon.
October 14th, 2008 at 9:32 am
Robisangry says:
F. Wright?
October 19th, 2008 at 3:35 am