chelleon

i would like to die and be reborn a mushroom

Wed, 22 May 2013 22:29:36 +0800

i would like to die and be reborn a mushroom

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Wed, 22 May 2013 13:28:05 +0800

Mourn, Frank Bidart

Sun, 19 May 2013 15:12:22 +0800

Why so hard
to give up

what often
was ever

even then
hardly there.

But the safe
world my will

constructed
before him

this soul could
not find breath

in. He brought
electric

promise-crammed
sudden air.

Then withdrew
lazily

as if to
teach you how

you must live
short of breath.

Still now crave
sudden air.

from Metaphysical Dog

Chinese New Year, February 2013

Sat, 18 May 2013 22:22:43 +0800

Chinese New Year, February 2013

If See No End In Is, Frank Bidart

Fri, 17 May 2013 23:46:00 +0800

What none knows is when, not if.
Now that your life nears its end
when you turn back what you see
is ruin. You think, It is a prison. No,
it is a vast resonating chamber in
which each thing you say or do is

new, but the same. What none knows is
how to change. Each plateau you reach, if
single, limited, only itself, in-
cludes traces of all the others, so that in the end
limitation frees you, there is no
end, if you once see what is there to see.

You cannot see what is there to see —
not when she whose love you failed is
standing next to you. Then, as if refusing the know-
ledge that life unseparated from her is death, as if
again scorning your refusals, she turns away. The end
achieved by the unappeased is burial within.

Familiar spirit, within whose care I grew, within
whose disappointment I twist, may we at last see
by what necessity the double-bind is in the end
the figure for human life, why what we love is
precluded always by something else we love, as if
each no we speak is yes, each yes no.

The prospect is mixed but elsewhere the forecast is no
better. The eyrie where you perch in
exhaustion has food and is out of the wind, if
cold. You feel old, young, old, young: you scan the sea
for movement, though the promise of sex or food is
the prospect that bewildered you to this end.

Something in you believes that it is not the end.
When you wake, sixth grade will start. The finite you know
you fear is infinite: even at eleven, what you love is
what you should not love, which endless bullies in-
tuit unerringly. The future will be different: you cannot see
the end. What none knows is when, not if.

"The rain is full of ghosts tonight."

Thu, 16 May 2013 17:16:58 +0800

“The rain is full of ghosts tonight.”

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Wed, 15 May 2013 15:39:24 +0800

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Sun, 12 May 2013 15:33:37 +0800

lovers ii, october 2012 lovers were instructed to write their...

Wed, 08 May 2013 10:52:09 +0800

lovers ii, october 2012

lovers were instructed to write their least favourite thing about each other on their most favourite part of each other

REALITY BITES

Wed, 08 May 2013 10:35:00 +0800

REALITY BITES

[Language exists because], Lynn Xu

Tue, 07 May 2013 12:35:17 +0800

Language exists because nothing exists between those
who express themselves. All language is therefore
a language of prayer. Held in the dark, without sleep. Faith

is the confession that there exists that
wherein one is faithless. Wherein faith isolates a position of value there exists
two essential hells. The one you are in.

And the one you are after.
Sound is positioned in the other and is poetic because it is unspoken.
Incidence
after incidere is positioned in from cadere, to fall. The point is incident

when it falls on the line is incident when it passes through a point even in
the dark
is only an idealized limit of a smaller and smaller presence. The heart
which is an orgasm. A long dagger. The prayer exists

because it is positioned. In that presence
wherein the heart is expressed. Wherein sound is incident to the heart
exists. I am not asking you to die for me. Say you will die for me.

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Tue, 07 May 2013 12:25:08 +0800

Intimacy, Raymond Carver

Sat, 04 May 2013 21:50:00 +0800

I have some business out west anyway, so I stop off in this little town where my former wifelives. We haven’t seen each other in four years. But from time to time, when something of mine appeared, or was written about me in the magazines or papers —a profile or an interview— I sent her these things. I don’t know what I had in mind except I thought she might be interested. In any case, she never responded.

It is nine in the morning. I haven’t called, and it’s true I don’t know what I am going to find.

But she lets me in. She doesn’t seem surprised. We don’t shake hands, much less kiss each other. She takes me into the living room. As soon as I sit down she brings me some coffee. Then she comes out with what’s on her mind. She says I’ve caused her anguish, made her feel exposed and humiliated.

Make no mistake, I feel I’m home.

She says, But then you were into betrayal early, You always felt comfortable with betrayal. No, she says, that’s not true. Not in the beginning, at any rate. You were different then. But I guess I was different too. Everything was different, she says. No, it was after you turned thirty-five, or thirty-six, whenever it was, around in there anyway, your mid-thirties somewhere, then you started in. You really started in. You turned on me. You did it up pretty then. You must be proud of yourself.

She says, Sometimes I could scream.

She says she wishes I’d forget about the hard times, the bad times, when I talk about back then. Spend some time on the good times, she says. Weren’t there some good times? She wishes I’d get off that other subject. She’s bored with it. Sick of hearing about it. Your private hobby horse, she says. What’s done is done and water under the bridge, she says. A tragedy, yes. God knows it was a tragedy and then some. But why keep it going? Don’t you ever get tired of dredging up that old business?

She says, Let go of the past, for Christ’s sake. Those old hurts. You must have some other arrows in your quiver, she says.

She says, You know something? I think you’re sick. I think you’re crazy as a bedbug. Hey, you

don’t believe the things they’re saying about you, do you? Don’t believe them for a minute, she says. Listen, I could tell them a thing or two. Let them talk to me about it, if they want to hear a story.

She says, Are you listening to me?

I’m listening, I say. I’m all ears, I say.

She says, I’ve really had a bellyful of it, buster! Who asked you here today anyway? I sure as hell didn’t. You just show up and walk in. What the hell do you want from me? Blood? You want more blood? I thought you had your fill by now.

She says, Think of me as dead. I want to be left in peace now. That’s all I want anymore is to be left in peace and forgotten about. Hey, I’m forty-five years old, she says. Forty-five going on fifty-five, or sixty-five. Lay off, will you.

She says, Why don’t you wipe the blackboard clean and see what you have left after that? Why don’t you start with a clean slate? See how far that gets you, she says.

She has to laugh at this. I laugh too, but it’s nerves.

She says, You know something? I had my chance once, but I let it go. I just let it go. I don’t guess I ever told you. But now look at me. Look! Take a good look while you’re at it. You threw me away, you son of a bitch.

She says, I was younger then and a better person. Maybe you were too, she says. A better person, I mean. You had to be. You were better then or I wouldn’t have had anything to do with you.

She says, I loved you so much once. I loved you to the point of distraction. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you imagine it? We were so intimate once upon a time I cant believe it now. I think that’s the strangest thing of all now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can’t imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven’t been.

She says, Frankly, and I mean this, I want to be kept out of it from here on out. Who do you think you are anyway? You think you’re God or somebody? You’re not fit to lick God’s boots, or anybody else’s for that matter. Mister, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people. But what do I know? I don’t even know what I know any longer. I know I don’t like what you’ve been dishing out. I know that much. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Am I right?

Right, I say. Right as rain.

She says, You’ll agree to anything, won’t you? You give in too easy. You always did. You don’t have any principles, not one. Anything to avoid a fuss. But that’s neither here nor there.

She says, You remember that time I pulled the knife on you?

She says this as if in passing, as if it’s not important.

Vaguely, I say. I must have deserved it, but I don’t remember much about it. Go ahead, why don’t you, and tell me about it.

She says, I’m beginning to understand something now. I think I know why you’re here. Yes. I know why you’re here, even if you don’t. But you’re a slyboots. You know why you’re here. You’re on a fishing expedition. You’re hunting for material . Am I getting warm? Am I right?

Tell me about the knife, I say.

She says, If you want to know, I’m real sorry I didn’t use that knife. I am. I really and truly am.

I’ve thought and thought about it, and I’m sorry I didn’t use it. I had the chance. But I hesitated. I hesitated and was lost, as somebody or other said. But I should have used it, the hell with everything and everybody. I should have nicked your arm with it at least. At least that.

Well, you didn’t, I say. I thought you were going to cut me with it, but you didn’t. I took it away from you.

She says, You were always lucky. You took it away and then you slapped me. Still, I regret I didn’t use that knife just a little bit. Even a little would have been something to remember me by.

I remember a lot, I say. I say that, then wish I hadn’t.

She says. Amen, brother. That’s the bone of contention here, if you hadn’t noticed. That’s the whole problem. But like I said, in my opinion you remember the wrong things. You remember the low, shameful things. That’s why you got interested when I brought up the knife.

She says, I wonder if you ever have any regret. For whatever that’s worth on the market these days. Not much, I guess. But you ought to be a specialist in it by now.

Regret, I say. It doesn’t interest me much, to tell the truth. Regret is not a word I use very often. I guess I mainly don’t have it. I admit I hold to the dark view of things. Sometimes, anyway. But regret? I don’t think so.

She says, You’re a real son of a bitch, did you know that? A ruthless, coldhearted son of a bitch. Did anybody ever tell you that?

You did, I say. Plenty of times.

She says, I always speak the truth. Even when it hurts. You’ll never catch me in a lie.

She says, My eyes were opened a long time ago, but by then it was too late. I had my chance but I let it slide through my fingers. I even thought for a while you’d come back. Why’d I think that anyway? I must have been out of my mind. I could cry my eyes out now, but I wouldn’t give you that satisfaction.

She says, You know what? I think if you were on fire right now, if you suddenly burst into flame this minute, I wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on you.

She laughs at this. Then her face closes down again.

She says, Why in hell are you here? You want to hear some more? I could go on for days. I think I know why you turned up, but I want to hear it from you.

When I don’t answer, when I just keep sitting there, she goes on.

She says, After that time, when you went away, nothing much mattered after that. Not the kids, not God, not anything. It was like I didn’t know what hit me. It was like I had stopped living. My life had been going along, going along, and then it just stopped. It didn’t just come to a stop, it screeched to a stop. I thought, If I’m not worth anything to him, well, I’m not worth anything to myself or anybody else either. That was the worst thing I felt. I thought my heart would break. What am I saying? It did break. Of course it broke. It broke, just like that. It’s still broke, if you want to know. And so there you have it in a nutshell. My eggs in one basket, she says. A tisket, a tasket. All my rotten eggs in one basket.

She says, You found somebody else for yourself, didn’t you? It didn’t take long. And you’re happy now. That’s what they say about you anyway: “He’s happy now.” Hey, I read everything you send! You think I don’t? Listen, I know your heart, mister. I always did. I knew it back then, and I know it now. I know your heart inside and out, and don’t you ever forget it. Your heart is a jungle, a dark forest, it’s a garbage pail, if you want to know. Let them talk to me if they want to ask somebody something. I know how you operate. Just let them come around here, and I’ll give them an earful. I was there. I served, buddy boy. Then you held me up for display and ridicule in your so-called work. For any Tom or Harry to pity or pass judgment on. Ask me if I cared. Ask me if it embarrassed me. Go ahead, ask.

No, I say, I won’t ask that. I don’t want to get into that, I say.

Damn straight you don’t! she says. And you know why, too!

She says, Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.

She says, You can’t look me in the eyes, can you?

She says, and this is exactly what she says, You can’t even look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you.

So, okay, I look her in the eyes.

She says, Right. Okay, she says. Now we’re getting someplace, maybe. That’s better. You can tella lot about the person you’re talking to from his eyes. Everybody knows that. But you know something else? There’s nobody in this whole world who would tell you this, but I can tell you. I have the right. I earned that right, sonny. You have yourself confused with somebody else. And that’s the pure truth of it. But what do I know? they’ll say in a hundred years. They’ll say, Who was she anyway?

She says, In any case, you sure as hell have me confused with somebody else. Hey, I don’t even have the same name anymore! Not the name I was born with, not the name lived with you with, not even the name I had two years ago. What is this? What is this in hell all about anyway? Let me say something. I want to be left alone now. Please. That’s not a crime.

She says, Don’t you have someplace else you should be? Some plane to catch? Shouldn’t you be somewhere far from here at this very minute?

No, I say. I say it again: No. No place, I say. I don’t have any place I have to be.

And then I do something. I reach over and take the sleeve of her blouse between my thumb and forefinger. That’s all. I just touch it that way, and then I just bring my hand back. She doesn’t draw away. She doesn’t move.

Then here’s the thing I do next. I get down on my knees, a big guy like me, and I take the hem of her dress. What am I doing on the floor? I wish I could say. But I know it’s where I ought to be, and I’m there on my knees holding on to the hem of her dress.

She is still for a minute. But in a minute she says, Hey, its all right, stupid. You’re so dumb, sometimes. Get up now. I’m telling you to get up. Listen, it’s okay. I’m over it now. It took me a while to get over it. What do you think? Did you think it wouldn’t? Then you walk in here and suddenly the whole cruddy business is back. I felt a need to ventilate. But you know, and I know, it’s over and done with now.

She says, For the longest while, honey, I was inconsolable. Inconsolable, she says. Put that word in your little notebook. I can tell you from experience that’s the saddest word in the English language. Anyway, I got over it finally. Time is a gentleman, a wise man said. Or else maybe a worn-out old woman, one or the other anyway.

She says, I have a life now. It’s a different kind of life than yours, but I guess we don’t need to

compare. It’s my life, and that’s the important thing I have to realize as I get older. Don’t feel too bad, anyway, she says. I mean, it’s all right to feel a little

bad, maybe. That won’t hurt you, that’s only to be expected after all. Even if you can’t move yourself to regret.

She says, Now you have to get up and get out of here. My husband will be along pretty soon for his lunch. How would I explain this kind of thing?

It’s crazy, but I’m still on my knees holding the hem of her dress. I won’t let it go. I’m like a terrier, and it’s like I’m stuck to the floor. It’s like I can’t move.

She says, Get up now. What is it? You still want something from me. What do you want? Want me to forgive you? Is that why you’re doing this? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the reason you came all this way. The knife thing kind of perked you up, too. I think you’d forgotten about that. But you needed me to remind you. Okay, I’ll say something if you’ll just go.

She says, I forgive you.

She says, Are you satisfied now? Is that better? Are you happy? He’s happy now, she says.

But I’m still there, knees to the floor.

She says, Did you hear what I said? You have to go now. Hey, stupid. Honey, I said I forgive you. And I even reminded you about the knife thing. I can’t think what else I can do now. You got it made in the shade, baby. Come on now, you have to get out of here. Get up. That’s right. You’re still a big guy, aren’t you. Here’s your hat, don’t forget your hat. You never used to wear a hat. I never in my life saw you in a hat before.

She says, Listen to me now. Look at me. Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you.

She moves closer. She’s about three inches from my face. We haven’t been this close in a long

time. I take these little breaths that she can’t hear, and I wait. I think my heart slows way down, I think.

She says, You just tell it like you have to, I guess, and forget the rest. Like always. You been doing that for so long now anyway it shouldn’t be hard for you.

She says, There, I’ve done it. You’re free, aren’t you? At least you think you are anyway. Free at last. That’s a joke, but don’t laugh. Anyway, you feel better, don’t you?

She walks with me down the hall.

She says, I can’t imagine how I’d explain this if my husband was to walk in this very minute. But who really cares anymore, right? In the final analysis, nobody gives a damn anymore, Besides which, I think everything that can happen that way has already happened. His name is Fred, by the way. He’s a decent guy and works hard for his living. He cares for me.

So she walks me to the front door, which has been standing open all this while. The door that was letting in light and fresh air this morning, and sounds off the street, all of which we had ignored. I look outside and, Jesus, there’s this white moon hanging in the morning sky. I can’ think when I’ve ever seen anything so remarkable. But I’m afraid to comment on it. I am. I don’t know what might happen. I might break into tears even. I might not understand a word I’d say.

She says, Maybe you’ll be back sometime, and maybe you won’t. This’ll wear off, you know, pretty soon you’ll start feeling bad again. Maybe it’ll make a good story she says. But I don’t want to know about it if it does.

I say good-bye. She doesn’t say anything more. She looks at her hands, and then she puts them

into the pockets of her dress. She shakes her head. She goes back inside, and this time she closes the door.

I move off down the sidewalk. Some kids are tossing a football at the end of the street. But they aren’t my kids, and they aren’t her kids either. There are these leaves everywhere, even in the gutters. Piles of leaves wherever I look. They’re falling off the limbs as I walk. I can’t take a step without putting my shoe into leaves. Somebody ought to make an effort here. Somebody ought to get a rake and take care of this.

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Wed, 01 May 2013 17:13:00 +0800

The Adulterous Sins of Our Father Figures

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:34:18 +0800

The Adulterous Sins of Our Father Figures

This is how you lose her. You lose her when you forget to...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:23:30 +0800

This is how you lose her.

You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.

You must remember when she forgets.

You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.

She remembers when you forget.

You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable. She wants to feel cherished. When you make her feel that you are fleeting. She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate. She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.

You must learn her.

You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.

You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.

And, this is how you keep her.

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Wed, 24 Apr 2013 14:33:37 +0800

Let it go - the smashed word broken open vow or the oath cracked length wise - let it go it was...

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 11:06:00 +0800

Let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it
was sworn to
go

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
dear

so comes love.

— E.E Cummings, Let It Go

We are so both and oneful night cannot be so sky sky cannot be so sunful i am through you so i. —...

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 11:04:20 +0800

We are so both and oneful
night cannot be so sky
sky cannot be so sunful
i am through you so i.

— E.E Cummings, Complete Poems

Jimmy Marble

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 00:04:29 +0800

Jimmy Marble