Seeing you, I always have novelty in mind.

Outside my window, the street was lit by cars going somewhere fast. There were others, too, going nowhere with no place in mind. The inside was as dark. And the only way our faces showed up in the black air was by the film advancing. I pulled the sheets over my head, whispering, come find me. You listened, touching my toes first, my lips last. Underneath the bedding, we fell asleep to Rosemary’s Baby. I woke with novelty still in mind. And smelt the same smells, as if the night hadn’t touched us. My citrus fingers, your taffy mouth of candy-cane. We certainly indulged in our addictions. And remained close because of our differences. Like apples and oranges. We smiled, opening our eyes to light and the television still on. “Should we name her Clementine?” Fingers felt beneath your shirt—the shirt—I was wearing. “Only if she’s a red head and grows up to be a real fox.” I laughed, pulling at your black beard, “Page it is.” This is how we begin our mornings. Canopied in purity. 

You knew I’d been waiting and wondered if there was someplace I wanted to go. “Let’s drive nowhere.” “Come on, today is special.” “Yes and no. There’s a chance nothing will come of it.” “And there’s a chance you’re being too hard on yourself, like always.” “Nerves…reality.” “We’re going for a ride.” 

I swore I’d be in no rush. Today. And, yes, and during the new year. It was an impossible promise though. Believe me, I’m always out of time. 

Even with helmets on, we rode in style. Water bottles filled with champagne. Even with nowhere in mind, we knew what we wanted. We biked through Snapper Creak with the morning still on us. I am yours and I don’t need anyone to know. You ask how I’m feeling and I say, happy, happy we’re already ahead of the afternoon.

in the new year, i want more of this time.

First do I take off what I have on top, then underneath? Or the other way around? Do I go from outside to inside? Or vice versa? "...?" And because she has always been secretive, she has always hidden everything, and because in this hiding place no one has discovered her, she thinks it will suffice simply to turn everything inside out. To expose herself in her nakedness so that she can be looked at touched, taken, by someone, by him -The Looking Glass, from the Other Side by Luce Irigaray

The Panics - Don't Fight It

How can we guarantee the permanence of another? How can I make feelings like these last? Last longer.

Yesterday I applied to and for my dream. A date I have had in mind for two years. 

I have been living in writing for a portfolio sent January 2 2009.

Afterwards, exhaustion took me over. For the first time.

I only want to be.

"Tell me about yourself. What do you want to do with your life?"

"I want to be a gymnast."

"I thought so," says Stella. "Well, you're going to be a book reviewer."

"What's that?"

"A job with books. You'll read lots of books and say which ones you like and why. Cartwheels aren't everything... Listen, Stella, you'll survive, that's all that matters. There are encoded solutions."

I'd Like by Amanda Michalopoulou

070206

Dearest You,

How come you always read my mind? Even miles and miles away.. me amongst the wilderness and you consumed (in a positive way, who wouldn't be) in the City of Angels.. you are able to know when I am entirely too eager with wanting to speak to you or just feel closer. And at that exact moment, when I am about to admit to it all (my complete and utter love with your voice)/cave in and not just think about you, but hear you - you call. I guess you have always been a bit further ahead of me. A few seconds more in tune with what you know I want. Ah, I am rambling.. you are much more than just a few seconds ahead of me. Basically, just thank you for being.. so damn good.

So, like I said, I am watching A Swiss Family Robinson. And I will let you know that I am counting on you. Counting on you for what, you ask? For directing the generation's next classic movie. I am talking at least one film that speaks grace and purity. How is it that all these actresses seem like they should be named Tulip? Even the men have soft and simplistic voices. I do miss the times where gay was interchangeable with happy. Because that is exactly what Disney was about - gay dreams. Haha, now I know you think I am out of my mind. Okay, maybe 24 hours of North Carolina has already done me in. If there is something or someone you want to hold responsible for my utter craziness, blame it on Seclusion (capital 'S', indeed). But if there is one thing you can definitly be sure of.. it is that one of our homes WILL be modeled after the Robinson's bungalow (or mansion, for that matter).. quite obviously.

For as good as things are or can get, nothing seems unreal. Unbelieveable. Unimaginable. Without you. This realization could be depressing, sure. But knowing all I have to do is factor one thing into my equation to make times, seconds, memories worthy of memory and capable of being unreal, unbelieveable, and unimaginable makes everything and anything seem tangible. And this 'one thing' is something and someone I am not searching for anymore. I am not searching. I am not trying to convince myself. I am not trying to convince anyone else either.. of the importance of myself, whom I am with, and/or the activities I am consuming my with around. And the reason for all of this [change] is you. You are the one factor that I have, that I need, that I want, that I desire, that I inspire for, that I admire, and that I imagine for making each second a second to love. "Live in love, don't live and love" - you will always be held responsible for that quote.. and thanks to you - it is so easy to do.

I apologize for my grammatical incoherence and disconcern..

I am letting it flow off my tongue,

Chelsea Faye Leigh

I'll make this sound as easy as possible.

I should try to make you stay.

You always see me wearing a robe.
But when I show up in memory, I am dancing. Away from my body.

We listen and I try to remember the feeling of ecstasy.
In your mind, I am moving to the same song.

On some platform, that’s where I am.
So high. So I’m the only one you see. Still.

That was then. Now I am lying in bed.
You sit, inside the memory, at the corner.

Once or twice, covering my stomach with a pillow.
You put your head down.

We are so close.
And can’t touch.

You swore you wouldn’t sleep with me.
Unless there’s a couch.

But I gave it away, and toss a coin.
To know if I can get it back.

I can’t. Not in time.

It’s one face of reality.
And has nothing to do with whether I should.

If we hadn't happened.

I also have a tumblr account now to take advantage of what exists.

We spoke like we always had. Our words free of inhibitions. Even when our last breath felt used, we found some way to take advantage of time. Vulnerable to any unconscious meaning our tongues might make. We didn't care that the others left us with empty chairs and extra space to feel alone. No, no. It was us who became closer. Not them, living life from the inside; never sharing the stories written on their bodies. Indulge me with this vowel around your navel, and I'll tell you how it feels seeing these scars around my thighs. We bared our skin, and never heard silence. Our bodies led us. Even though the night was blind. We made out. Gestures, I'm talking the subtlest touch, felt out the pitches. It was dark, but I saw you perfectly. No, not another ideal situation. And we laughed - barely - pretending it was a joke, that we didn't have our ideals. Yes, we wished it was easy to take ourselves lightly. Then, together, we stopped laughing. And smiled with everything we had... left.

If this isn't real romance, what is it?

If this isn't art, I don't know what we are creating.

If this doesn't show itself, then I've never seen genuine beauty.

If we aren't feeling the same, then I want to know what it's like to be in your body.

I want to come inside.

It was dark. But I saw how you touched me.

I felt the feeling you felt.

The feeling we will never be forgotten.

he said, she said.

I've written before about my professor's letters of criticism to me. I also wrote about the last thing he wrote me. When he said I was passionate. When he said passion was my obsession. I am not even sure I know what passion means, but then again when you live inside something every day, you forget that it is there, that you are living it, that you are living as that. Whatever that may be for you. For him - or rather, what he saw in me, what he read through me - was that I want to write passion out of my body.

Well, I found something more today. I found some more of his words. Words where he defined the passionate person. 

"I think, maybeperhaps, passionate people have learned there is really nothing to lose. If you give up passion, you are punished twice over. You don't give yourself the chance at those highs, and your life spills like sand through your hands anyway. You are marched to the wall at the end, passionate or not. So why not go ahead and risk everything, because what are you risking? What is the worst thing that can happen?"

I am. I am willing to risk everything. My every word. My every secret. Anything I have. Anything you say I have that I should give. I'll give it. I'll give it if it will make us mean something more. When I was a young child, I remember being fascinated by the Boston Tea Party. I devoured history. It's why I began writing plays. Making a newspaper in Elementary School and selling it before class. I suppose, I knew early on this life is my one chance. There will be others. But I'll be someone else. Someone slightly different. Under other conditions. But right now, right here, as me, this is it. And back then I felt the same as now, I don't want to just be here and not leave a trace. Not be able to communicate what it is like, how it feels, what the concerns are. As a young child, my passion was to tell time. Tell time for those who wouldn't be able to imagine it, see it in their life. That's why I have my photographs. That's why I have ink. That's why I have this name. I want to use this name. I want to use myself. It could sound arrogant, egotistical, sure, but I began risking that too long ago. And I would never regret what I have written and which can't be erased, even if my feelings have changed. It was true at one time. It is what I felt. So yes, I could sound arrogant. But someone has to risk their Self. And I am willing, just as I am sure others are. Maybe even you. We can't live in a fear. We could go in an instant. I know no one wants to hear that, but then again, most people try to live quickly in order to avoid thinking of what is really going on. And what is really going on is that time is running. And it is out of our control. If there is one thing I can promise you is to not live in fear. I spent so much time fearing. I wasted so much of myself. Sometimes even writing can be time taken from living. But...? I wonder whether that teacher severed the romance out of my flesh. Somehow I have listened to him, even when I thought I shouldn't. He said not to write sex, that it couldn't be tasteful, that women couldn't do it. And so I committed myself to it. For the last six months. I let others come inside me. I risked what he advised to avoid. But it is the risks we need. And so, I bared whatever has come from it. Knowing that it is only one of many ways to try out my thought, to see where my words go. I suppose this an apology for all the relationships I write about it. There are other things. There is other lives I am living. Other discourse I am present and hearing about. Those things will come, too. I hope. I hope I will never stop learning about others. I hope I will only become a better listener. But back to the now. My passion sounds passive. I guess it is just the current reality I am trying to translate. Passive because it all seems so fleeting. I want to make it permanent, but we can't be. My writing can't capture you. It won't make you stay. But, maybe, just maybe, I hope, writing can touch you. I want us to feel like we know each other. Know what we want the other to know... if we didn't fear so much. Don't fear. It isn't worth it. Say it. Show it. Make someone stop and stay. Stop and stare. Otherwise, people will keep going, keep living the fast life. You know - I've said it - and I meant it; all I want right now is someone to lay down with, who will pause with me, even if it is only an hour of the day. Maybe I want someone to touch me because I feel like... all of this... is me giving myself, trying, trying trying to touch someone other, other than myself, so we can together make a difference. But a difference in what? Oh I don't even know anymore. I've been living this too long. And I will always. I will always be writing to reach you. 

"All artists must compete with the inventions of the 20th century: film, radio, television, amplification, jumpcuts, millisecond MTV attention spans. Some writers have responded to the cranked up volume by writing fictions that are like poems, their language distilled to diamonds - Hempel. Other writers respond by writing the quietest brick-like sentences ever written - Carver. 

I'm not saying all this noise is bad. I'm just saying it is. And it might be good. Because whenever there is more, more grist, more chaos, more more, there is more possibility of juxtaposition, for creating the new. 

So, in conclusion, what the hell am I saying? I don't know. Maybe, if you hope for a career in writing, or in any of the arts, see if you can get it jumpstarted before you start jumping a boy to make babies. See if you can get a book or two on the shelf, the nI think you might have a fighting chance. So, sure, make the babies, but, if possible, make them on purpose, not by accident, and in full understanding of the tradeoffs.

And the father in me speaking: If you aren't ready to sign that check, don't be imitating baby making without pill or condom or whatever. Sure, there are remedies, but abortions cost more than money, no what are your beliefs.

I wish there was something I could say, but I can only stand here, silent, watch you start off again on your walks."

I wish I could tell you, the admission's council, what I am doing. But I just don't know anymore. I can't even think about it. I'm just doing it. I've been doing it so long. And yes, I guess, no definitely, it is my obsession.

There were three hims here.

How many were there? 

Four hundred knocking back cocktails? 

Or was that my imagination? 

Eight hundred?

Or were the memories of events always exaggerated?

I’m not certain of anything, but I was there—having went—never once pausing to gather an expectation. I came sober, knowing that was the law but also, admittedly, was not my reason. “I’d rather get there before they get more wasted than they already are.” I rushed with nothing on my breath. He caught me as I stepped down on the limestone, my heel almost betraying the effort of my ease, “There you are and in no time at all. You look ravishing.” As my lips settled on the curve of his cheek—my hand heading up underneath his jacket—I wondered whether it was the steel shadow that acted as a crutch for immediate decadence or my own essence he was complimenting.

In that instant was I substantially or artificially wanted?

Have you ever felt like a piece of meat—flies landing on and flying off you?

I had nowhere to go, and yet, people were everywhere. But that didn’t make it easier to feel close with someone other. I felt nothing, usually I do. Events are my comfort zone, tonight though I didn’t want to be out. I just wanted to be lying in bed with someone who said I didn’t have to speak at all. 

As soon as I took up my attention elsewhere, looking out into a crowd of…plenty,…I saw him walking toward me. I had only seen him out socially three times before we ever became physically engaged a year ago, and now I couldn’t avoid always being in close proximity with him. Then again, maybe I hadn’t seen him before, because I was never looking. 

He was better than I was at acknowledging our “friendship”. But I couldn’t bare it. I had spent too much time picturing him when he was no longer present in our engagement, and now I couldn’t swallow whatever way I thought we were being toward one another. We could say all sorts of things, trivialities I thought, but we…or myself—because I am certain of that much—was not being genuine and this I couldn’t bare. 

“Now those are a set of earrings.”

“You remember them…”

But my words trailed off, my intention amounting to nothing, as I saw some other female step out from behind him. 

I remembered our third night, when I apologized to him for being shy and saying so few things, and he assured me his intuition had already made him overlook it. I swear I had never heard the word used prior to him. But, I trusted my instinct, as well. Which is why, I never believed him when he said he wasn’t capable of a relationship. It had always frustrated me because I knew he was better than the non-feeling he tried to convince me of. I knew he was sensible, sensitive and vulnerable (even if it had only been a handful of times that I had really witnessed it). But above all, I knew if one wanted something than they were capable of committing time to it. 

Why did he look at me like that when he introduced her? With both shoulders turned toward me?

These last few engagements he had really begun staring into me. I felt the intensity.

Had he seen through me?

Why had he grabbed my waist as I stepped away to answer my phone?

I never knew what he wanted with me. He was one of the few people I had been so intimate with and yet, never remembered having exchanged a thought. For months I felt like I was being conditioned to deny him. It was something I had never done, nor ever believed I could do. During the summer, I spent a month and a half building his character in two notebooks for a novel I was writing at the time. But somehow, when I finally began writing it—one word turning into another—I couldn’t introduce him to the page. Fifty pages later and he still hadn’t appeared. I wasn’t ready for him. I didn’t know him (his interior) well enough. (He was too guarded, too afraid). And I didn’t think I needed him either, but rather wanted him to want me. 

But I’m not certain. I still look at him and wish he could tell me anything at all that didn’t sound so programmed. My behavior for the last year had been a result of him. I tried to make myself not feel. I slept with others to be inside and I quickly let myself casually go, only to return and use them for my text—lay them upon the page and hope I could feel them there, somewhere between the spaces of ink and silence of words. I didn’t blame him. It had everything to do with us. 

The party was a spectacle above all else. Wine bruised my lips and made me look looser than I felt. Adults came to be seen. Have their picture taken by the tree. Possibly be in the society section of the newspaper. Supposedly the hosts had a reputation for the roast beef. Men told me that was why they came. Females stuffed miniature cookies and chocolate covered pretzels into baggies by the door. Christmas all of a sudden became a tribute to every conceivable holiday. 

For a few minutes, I sat by the edge of the pool, absorbing what I could. Around me were three men I had been with at one point or another. They all were just as aware. I wrote a note on my iPhone—making it as short as possible, just in case anyone by chance got a glimpse, and passed the judgment that I was always making a judgment. “Avoiding the feelings of others eventually results in them denying attention toward you.” I looked out at these men who I had been close to—in some ways or others—and who I now felt less associated with. I didn’t want to be there amongst many. I wanted to be somewhere with only one. And at that instant I admitted it inwardly more and most. My appearance betrayed my thought. My desire to live in the instant had somehow also betrayed the morals of my character. I projected being unavailable and in return, I assumed I was achieving less permanence. I wished I would leave. I wished someone would come.

Ultimately, I ended up not ending the night and rode on the lap of another “him” to the beach. I had no interest, aside from maintaining my social being, which didn’t seem like it meant much of anything. One argument in the car later—sticking up for the guy’s lap I was on as my best friend reduced him at all costs—and we were there, entering the club for a drink, but in my case—I hoped—just a dance, the chance to let a few feelings go. 

I was dancing with my High School sweeeetheart, and loving his being there against his initial nerves not to. He just went with the plans, which was a new trait of his and actually how we had reconnected after seven years of otherness. Over the summer, we spoke—really—for the first time. And we laughed, always, that from July to August we made up for all the words we never exchanged. I had been a freshman, he a senior and our relation had consisted of drive by kiss-fests. I always thought he was attractive—attractive but an asshole. However, after growing up, I met him as if he were someone else, someone I had never spent my early years kissing. He was dorky and loveable. And I say a dork because he didn’t try to control his appearance; he is genuine, raw, consistent. A dork because he is endearing and because he always reminded me that since the summer—when I began calling him out on all his ways (something he hadn’t expected)—he now knew me, got me, understood me at the core. He was right. We had something special. And as a result, I stopped kissing him. I didn’t pursue the touch because I knew he was too sincere for the ways I was behaving when elsewhere. 

However, it seemed like no time before I was on the curb of 7th street, defending myself on the phone, crying. And he found me, circled me in my distraction and eventually closed in on the space right as I was hung up on. I suppose I said all sorts of things, metallic jagged down my face, trying to explain an inexplicable interruption in the night. I don’t remember what was what because I don’t think there was any purpose or any meaning I’d like to flesh out. I just was ready to leave. 

Did I cry because my body truly was as tired as it felt?

My dreams were hallucinations. I suffered in my sleep. 

Was I crying because I was there, not wanting to be, but being because I was trying to escape?

I couldn’t remember being a presence in a scene like this. But there I was—Gucci tuxedo pants, a silk blouse, jeweled earrings hanging to my shoulders and silver shadow now patched around my face—with him standing in front of me and his hand underneath my eyes, his fingerprints absorbing my tears. He hadn’t lied. He had forgiven me for curiously seeking out other relations. And then and there I didn’t doubt whether when he said he knew who I was, he meant he could see I was hurting, too. And that more times than not, I didn’t want to be tangled up in what I was, but I was because I wasn’t an inventor of meaning but a translator. I translated what was written on my body, which meant I needed to be touched, I needed someone’s hands to explore me.

He knew at times we never wanted to be as social as we seemed, so he waved over a cab and we went where we had always wanted to be for $55. The price made me feel guilty for my tears. And he told me that wasn’t what mattered.

“Do you want a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes.”

“Then…”

“I’m never looking for anything.”

“But…” 

“But I do feel things out.”

“I know. Never deny that.”

I ate chocolate. Two dark doves and four mint truffle heresy kisses. The calcium made me sleepy. He asked if he could take his shoes off and I said he could do whatever he wanted. He held a glass of water with an arm around my neck. I can’t remember what we talked about. He may have said I didn’t have to speak at all. It felt good, and soon after, I feel asleep on his chest, only to wake in the morning in bed with my dog and cat, both who I never remember being present. He wasn’t there, the light was on and it hurt. But it was exactly what I had wanted. To lay in bed with someone that understood me as much as I understood him. And to close my eyes for a while. And rest my mind.

running away from the body.

Last night, in the kitchen my friend's mom asked me what I wanted to portray. I said, the emptiness. There is something romantic about it, even something ideal. In times of distance, between two a profound silence can be heard. I want to catch those compartmentalized thoughts left lactating on the tongue. When I said I wanted to write the emptiness—I meant I have been wanting to portray the solitary presence. Between an engagement I need others to be vulnerable. I want to read that. I want to see it happen. I want us shown and heard raw, uninhibited, closest to the instant of a thought. From the romance, I want to empty out the sentimentality. 

However without the sentimentality, people fear there will be a lessening of feelings and that this will make the fiction and romance seem empty. People want the ideal, not the real and never the normalcy. But I like this. I prefer this theme to write upon. I want to capture the core. I want to make that captivating. I believe we are always distanced. We cannot become my other (as in my ideal projection and dream being) nor can I become an other (a partner, a friend, a stranger), no matter how hard I imagine their situation or myself as him. We can assume, but that is us trying to become. We can never truly look out through his eyes and think in his head. Oh, but I would love to be so close.

These days I eat chocolate, stand sideways in the mirror, watch myself enlarge and try without trying (as in have it be a mentality integrated into a new lifestyle) to train myself to be accepting, not resistant to the change or spiteful of the desires that motivate my behavior. Most of my daytime hours has to be spent—especially now—writing, reviewing, reading, situated in thought. However, I feel stale. My mom comes into my bedroom as I am writing a poetry paper that is long since due and asks me what type of sub I want. I have been good. I have eaten them when they are bought. There are no crumbs on the plate. They are delicious. But now she says that she notices how inactive I am as a result of all this writing. How am I suppose to take that? It is true and as result, I resist reading into the statement and discovering her intention. I miss my running. I miss the sports. The competition with others, instead of being solely against my self. I always feel trapped in my body. I have always felt someone inside trying to gain distance from this skin, this shell. In my video art days, I always dreamt of having multiple large projections of myself running—different angles—behind the eyes and beneath the gaze—I wanted words to speed up while another stream of conscious was slowed. I wanted others to see how quick I was going, while simultaneously hearing how my thoughts matched my physical speed and sometimes outran it. I still want to do this project. I still want my self to out run my body. I know that isn’t the answer. I know this mentality is prolonging things.  

But I have multiple mentalities. And another is I cannot wait till all my applications are over on January 15, so I can run—run faster than I have in years. 

Pessoa's Tendency: To Other Himself.

The Book of Disquiet

Any nostalgia I feel is literary. I remember my childhood, but they're rhythmic tears, in which prose is already being formed...I feel nostalgia for scenes. Thus someone else's childhood can move me as much as my own; both are purely visual phenomena from a past I'm unable to fathom, and my perception of them is literary. They move me, yes, but because I see them, not because I remember them.

fiddler in the subway.

Others narrate with lyres or harps;
I tell with my thought.
For he finds nothing, who through music
Finds only what he feels.
Words weigh more which, carefully measured,
Say that the world exists.

-Pessoa

is it true the mirror doesn't err?

On This Whitely Cloudy Day I Get So Sad It Almost Scares Me

(Pessoa wrote from many personas)

Just as words fail us when we try to express a thought,

So thoughts fail us when we try to express a reality,

For just as the essence of thought is not in speaking but in thinking,

So the essence of reality is not in thinking but in existing.

Thus everything that exists simply exists.

The rest is a kind of slumber we have,

A feebleness that's with us from the childhood of our sickness.

The mirror reflects correctly; it doesn't err because it doesn't think.

To think is essentially to err.

To err is essentially to be blind and deaf.

These truths are imperfect because they were spoken,

And before they were spoken, thought,

But the main and true point is they negate themselves

In the negation opposed to affirming anything. 

Being is the only valid affirmation,

And only what's affirmative doesn't need me.

1 October 1917.

Pessoa.

To see the fields and the river

It isn't enough to open the window.

To see the trees and the flowers

It isn't enough not to be blind.

It is also necessary to have no philosophy.

With philosophy there are no trees, just ideas.

There is only each one of us, like a cave.

There is only a shut window, and the whole world outside,

And a dream of what could be seen if the window were opened, 

Which is never what is seen when the window is opened.

If poets merely dish out to the reader what they really feel in their day-to-day life, then they are giving too little.

(according to Fernando Pessoa)

Caylee Anthony

If you haven't heard about this case, it's time you read about it. The entire Miami Herald article can be found here.

Caylee's mother, 22-year-old Casey Anthony, was indicted in October on first-degree murder and other charges, even though no body was found. She has insisted that she left the girl with a baby sitter in June, but she didn't report her missing until July.

Last month, the Orange County State Attorney turned over almost 800 pages of documents showing someone used the Anthonys' home computer to do Internet searches for terms like "neck breaking" and "household weapons."

In mid-March, someone searched Google and Wikipedia for peroxide, shovels, acetone, alcohol and chloroform. Traces of chloroform, which is used to induce unconsciousness and a component of human decomposition, were found in the trunk of Casey Anthony's car during forensic testing, the documents say.

Among the investigators' findings:

*Anthony's mother, Cindy Anthony, posted a lengthy message on the social-networking site MySpace on July 3 -- nearly two weeks before Caylee was reported missing -- "This precious little angel from above gave me strength and unconditional love... Jealousy has taken her away. Jealousy from the one person that should be thankful for all of the love and support given to her..."

*A posting titled "diary of days" that appeared on Casey Anthony's MySpace page July 7 stated: " ...What is given, can be taken away. Everyone lies. Everyone dies. Life will never be easy... " Anthony posted the message while she was apparently watching American Psycho, a horror movie about a New York executive who is also a serial killer.

*Anthony's ex-fiance' Jesse Grund discovered she had deleted more than 200 photos of her and her with Caylee that were online.

let your self, go on.

the moment may be forever, if you don't think it otherwise. 

the moment may remain unchanged, if you don't know its difference.

-the point of not having let go.

I Dreamt It.

You have me. In the pool, I trace an O with my toe. Arms wrap my waist. This makes me feel good, feel safe, feel conscious. I could sit between your legs forever and never ask about time. But thinking about it now, makes me wonder whether I have become cold. Cold and passive. You don’t follow me? My back is always to you. Your arms are always reaching out. I could sit between your legs forever and forget I’m not alone. I should show concern for you, but some how it is hard to remember that this is not always about me.

 

Forgive me?

I’ve already forgotten about it. Come on, let’s go inside.

I want to stay.

Even when my words are meant for you, I’m speaking toward no one. 

But it’s almost dark.

What? Are you afraid?

The quantity of light began to fascinate me nine months ago. At first, I didn’t understand why. I didn’t question it either. But now, I think I’ve come closer to figuring it out, or maybe just myself. What does that mean? This is forever the query. My fascination has something to do with presence and absence. Necessity and deprivation. How it affects the quality of something other. Was I curious because I wanted to learn how to manipulate mood? 

I like to kiss with the lights on, but take a shower in the dark. You could overlook this—and I had, too—but it says a lot about me. It may even explain me a bit.

I would do anything to avoid seeing myself. But you—or who ever I was engaged with—I needed to see. I didn’t want the intimacy to disappear in the darkness. I didn’t want substance to be obscured in the night. I never wanted my memory to be, me having kissed a shadow. But, it’s true; I prefer to be blind to my body. It’s not ironic. It’s just how it is.

Fine we’ll stay.

You can do whatever you’d like.

Well, then, I’d like to be doing what you want to be doing.

Why does that always sound so complicated?

Always? Watch out now kids! Chelsea always has someone wanting to do it her way.

Oh, stop, teasing me. You know that isn’t what I meant. I just would rather you do what you want to do.

I told you, I want to be with you.

Fair enough.

You can tell me a story…and then we can go inside and pretend like we are sleeping.

Fuck you. You know I don’t have any stories.

You’re a writer. Stories are the only thing you ever want to have.

I want you, don’t I?

But we’re a story.

Well, I’m not using you.

You ask me about December 2nd and I tell you, I’ve forgotten it. You tell me to be spontaneous and I ask you what that has to do with anything.

You swore you’d tell me a story if I stayed.

I promised nothing of the sort.

You’re impossible.

What if I told you I’m in love with you?

I'd say you don’t act like it.

Well, that’s because it isn’t a performance.

If you love me, then you’d remember December 2nd.

What’s with men and dates?

There you go again. Bringing up other men.

Fuck you. I’m talking about my father. He recalls a date before he can remember what was so good about the moment. 

It’s called prioritizing and categorizing. It's what men are good at.

It’s called nonsense. What was so special about December 2nd?

It was the first time we slept together.

I don’t remember that.

That’s because you were all fucked up on sleeping pills and you didn’t tell me until you took me to the door.

I tell you I remember and you say of course I remember now. I say I can’t really remember much though and you tell me I should try not to forget everything. I tell you some things go in and some things go out and you say I shouldn’t be so controlling.

What is that supposed to mean?

Don’t try to control the situation as much as you do. It’ll be better for the both of us.

You’re asking me about my memory.

No, I asked you to tell me a story and you immediately said you can’t.

But.

No, buts. Let go for once. Every story doesn’t have to be the truth.

Well.

Well, tell me about December 2nd before I push you into the pool.

Would you push me?

Yes, but I’d jump in after and I would only do it to have us both laugh.

That’s why I love you.

You love hearing you can be saved. Tell me the story.

It’s December 2nd. I just got home from the airport. My parents say I look great. My dad claims this is my best look. “Please, no unnecessary compliments tonight. I had the worst delay and was hallucinating at the airport as a result. Then, I began drooling on the flight. I’m never flying out of JFK again.” They ask me whether I want them to start worrying about me. I go into my bedroom and look in the full-length mirror. I’m wearing all black. My eyelids match. This is my best look? I look like I shouldn’t be fucked with. I’ve become permanently delirious. Life has become unreal and dreams seem like life. People laugh. I tell them it’s the truth. They turn quiet. It’s all the same.

It’s strange. In Manhattan, I prefer spending time alone in my apartment. But in Miami, I become restless in the evening hours. Something to do with people being present and that making me want to be involved. I can’t sit in a silent house of four. I can’t turn on the television and feel content. The idea of being in bed by twelve makes me uncomfortable, even a little depressed. I am ravenous to be engaged with someone other.

You text message me.

I’m happy you’re here.

It’s good to be back.

What are you doing?

Tired.

How are you doing?

At home.

I have everything backwards.

Should I come?

I’ll give you a hug in exchange for pot.

I like hugs.

Then, we’ve got ourselves a deal.

Before your message, I already committed myself to being home for the night. But I still wanted things to be fun. I took an Ambien—not to go to sleep, remember that makes me depressed—but to indulge in an out of body experience. But then you messaged me and I couldn’t say no. Remember I am ravenous to be engaged. And plus, Ambien doesn’t effect me like it use to. I’ve acquired a tolerance. I assumed I’d be fine. You’ll be stoned anyway.

You’re on your way and I think it feels special. We are friends.

I’m just gonna throw it out there. First and foremost, You’re sexy. But at the bottom, you’re my friend. And if that’s all you’ll ever be, then I’m still happy.

It sounds like we’re fishing. 

Well, then, have you caught on?

But I hadn’t. Or I just overlooked it. We were attractive people. Was I supposed to assume that meant we were attracted to each other? I mailed you CDs. But it wasn’t my intention to have you think of me when it played. They were just songs I mixed together. In the mail. For you. No return address. I never expected to receive anything. I just figured you might hear a beat you like. Will you tell people later, that was an example of me being controlling?

I open the door. This time you’re clothed. Before, you’d arrive and still be dressing. It wasn’t that you weren’t ready, you just wanted to tease me, tempt me, oh I don’t know, but you had it planned. Did it work? I guess so. We’re together now, aren’t we? I introduce you to my sister. Let her give you the hug. You tell me that wasn’t the deal and I say the deal was ambiguous. I have you follow me to the kitchen and you grab me from behind.

Come on, be nice. I want a hug.

It’s not like I’m unaware. I’m shy. Sometimes. And act aloof to keep my vulnerability a secret. But now, you’ve done something that makes me feel more. You’ve pulled me towards you. You’re holding me back. And I like being in your arms, but that doesn’t mean I want to kiss you.

You’re sister is a lot to handle.

I’m nothing of the sort.

She’s a tease.

I hate when people talk like I’m not in the room.

People? Has everything been done to you before?

Why are you always so tough on me? You make me out to be the bad guy.

I’m sparing with you. Allison, tell your sister she should have sent me that CD like she promised.

I did send you music!

Two songs.

The two songs you wanted.

Please, you were teasing me.

And you hug me again. This time speaking, to me only, "Come on, you know I’m happy to be here."

I’ve missed you, too.

It’s true. I have.

I give you my end of the deal. But I don’t pull away, which isn’t what I anticipated. It feels nice. We feel special. You spark the joint. The three of us are beneath the umbrella table. The night is filled with ink. Our bodies can barely be seen. Our faces light up one by one, depending upon who is inhaling.

I’m stoned. I’m hungry. I say I have something special and you ask if it tastes good. I ask what you are implying and you say I better bring me a treat. I say you’re demanding and you ask if we can have some fun.

In the kitchen, I pour three mugs of milk. Half lactose, half 2%. I stir in two tablespoons of honey and microwave them for a minute and ten seconds. I open up the cabinet, take an Ambien, swallow it because I’m stoned and not thinking. I grab the container of chocolate chip cookies my aunt left for Thanksgiving. But there is only two left, so I go to the cookie jar and take an assortment of Milanos.

This is why I love…like…your sister.

I love your internal self-edit. Your welcome. I make sure Christmas comes early.

Delicious.

My sister has only said one thing this whole time. “Thanks for the smoke. I’m high and feel more like myself.” But I’m glad she is here, getting to know you. It sounds ironic. But it’s not. It’s just how it is.

I want you to try my favourite type of cookie.

I pass you the Chocolate Mint Milano bag. 

I don’t want those. I want your aunt’s.

But you should try these. Trust me. They’ll make you delirious.

Nah, chocolate chip is classic.

I don’t win. You devour the cookies you want. 

Somewhere between my third and forth cookie, I start seeing things. My sister says I look tired and I tell her it must have been the milk.

I love her because she’s silly and not self-conscious.

Stop talking about me like I’m not here.

Chelsea, you’re imagining things.

But I don’t feel that way. It actually feels like things are gaining clarity. I watch you, but can’t remember what you looked like. I see two girls trying to take you. I call attention to this. You laugh and say I’m high as fuck. But my sister knows what’s going on and tells me no one else is here. I say I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened though and you tell me you’re not going anywhere. This feels nice and I forget to worry. Supposedly, I keep talking but I don’t remember saying much. My sister says I should go to sleep and you lead me into my room.

I tell you I don’t want to make love and you ask me what love has to do with it. I say it must be on my mind because of the holidays and you tell me I was made to be a writer. I ask you if you want to make something and you say it would be fun to make cookies. I tell you I don’t think I have any chocolate chips and you say that isn’t any fun. I say we can hang lights around my bedroom and you say let’s do it.

We drape them across the mirror above my bed. They are flower lights. The box says the petals are real. You point out how crushed and tattered they look, so I dab water on them. We watch as they come back to life.

I know you don’t want to make love, but I’d really like to kiss you.

Can you wait? I’m tired.

I don’t want to.

You hug me and the hug becomes a kiss. I push you against my bed. 

Hey, I said I couldn’t. My sister said I should go to sleep.

Then let’s lie down.

I’m coming in and out of every moment. How can you not see this?

Okay, put me to bed. But first help me pull all the curtains closed. Lock the door, too.

You rush for the door. I guess I implied something I wasn’t conscious of. But I remember being ready for bed, so I carry out my demands. In my hand is a variation of pink satin. I move from one window to the next, making sure the outside is blind to the inside.

We are drenched in ink. Your hands write all over my body. I forget how it happened and I can’t remember when it started. My memory vanishes in the blackout. I wake in my skin and nothing else. I had been wearing a one piece and can’t fathom how we or you got me out of it. But I’m naked as a result. And you’re inside of me and I ask you what is going on and you tell me it is what I asked for and I say I always forget what I want.

The flowers frame me in light inside the mirror. I see my body and hate how it looks. I dry up immediately. I remember being bloated with hate. Hating how one minute two people can be clothed and than within a blink of the eye they are naked, exposed and inside each other. I hate feeling this experience. This experience where no one spends time touching anymore. I tell you I want to sleep alone. You say I am too sexy to be settling for that and I tell you what I see is disgusting and I need you to go.

You dress immediately. I stand outside in the hallway hallucinating this mess. I walk you to the door and you look confused, hurt and say you feel used. I tell you I can’t feel anything and I apologize. You tell me it’s okay, it happens sometimes when you’re high. I hate that you keep referring to drugs, when it’s really all about pills. Am I being ironic?

I'm not high. I’m just tired.

Understandable.

And I’m sorry for the way I look. It’s just, you know, Ambien changes the way your body appears.

What’s Ambien?

The sleeping pill.

You took sleeping pills while I was here?

Can we talk about this later. I told you I’m really tired.

Just tell me yes or no.

Yes, before you came I had one.

Before I came?

I didn’t know you were coming.

But why would you say I could, if you took something to fall asleep?

I don’t take it to fall asleep.

How many have you had?

When? Tonight?

Yes, tonight.

Two.

Chelsea, that isn’t good.

Listen, I’m tired of this double standard. You smoke pot. I swallow pills. Same difference.

I just wish you would tell me these things.

I’m sorry, I forgot.

Well, I wish you would try to remember.

Remember what?

In the future. Just remember to tell me.

You have me. In the pool, I trace an O with my toe. Arms wrap my waist. This makes me feel good, feel safe, feel conscious. I could sit between your legs forever and never ask about time. But thinking about it now, makes me wonder whether I have become cold. Cold and passive. You don’t follow me? My back is always to you. Your arms are always reaching out. I could sit between your legs forever and forget I’m not alone. I should show concern for you, but some how it is hard to remember that this is not always about me.

Forgive me?

I’ve already forgotten about it. Come on, let’s go inside.

I want to stay.

Even when my words are meant for you, I’m speaking toward no one.

But it’s almost dark.

What? Are you afraid?

No. I just know how you get.

Why do you always reference the past?

Because it helps explain you.

December 2nd was one night.

The night I fell in love while you were busy dreaming.

Fuck you. You don’t act like you’re in love with me.

That’s because I’m natural about it.

Well, no one should normalize love.

Will you tell me what you remember?

From when?

That night.

I told you, I've forgotten.

I think you are trying to forget.

Well I'm not accomplishing that if you always try to get me to remember.

I don’t know. I’m hopeful you’ll tell the story right.

There’s a right way?

There’s a better way. Come on, our story has to be something people want to hear. You’re a writer. You know more than anyone that love is mutable. So, remind me of December 2nd. I want to make sure I never forget. Tell me something I’d like to hear. Make it sound like it means something.
It?
Us. We.