the in-between.

f.26.09

01_24_09bird1

I do not want to write about women meeting each other on dark streets.

But I have been watching fat people climb mountains on television for three hours, and this is what I have. There is no bottom of me to write from tonight; there is no Blood Meridian or Beloved down there, though I am currently plotting my revenge against the universe for this. I do not want to write about an obese woman chewing pizza and crying; I do not want to write about this exact couch I’ve been sitting on all day, or that other couch in that library that I sat on earlier today, walled in by books I was not reading.

I do not want to write about the in between.

Because I have done the run-away-to-Spain thing, and I have done the sleep-with-a-bunch-of-dudes thing, and I have otherwise arranged my life like a fantastic doll house around me. I am sick of aesthetics; I am sick of courting vertigo, of LSD and ashrams and lying awake, thinking of the dark.

I do not want to write about her rounding the corner, us both with our keys between our knuckles, but that is what has been given me. She was afraid, and I was afraid, and I was the poet on the street that night.

Art by Marc Fischer.

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