mopkins

  Today i found a piece of your hair on the pillow  and noticed it was gray.  We are young,  and it made me think,  if lying there would be the same if we were not.  Forgive me for the question, but is it true?  That later i will not be me, and you will not be you?  You must have been  Everything which lifted me,  Everything unseeable, unknowable, untouchable.  That’s where you must be  Otherwise I would know where to find you. 

i do not know my mothers face,  a rhinoplasty took its place.  i looked like you (the one she used to show it's not the one  i'm used to though.)

The subtle feeling that some thing in your life is missing and the scarier feeling that everything still carries on.  It's not the change itself. it's not the new apartment or the new city, the new people who are still trying me out/on. it's how easy it's been. i mean, it's been hard, devastating at times, but it's the ease with which i've found myself slipping into something new, distracting myself, ignoring things, and feeling like if i continue to ignore them long enough, they will just slip away into the suppressible mist of "it was a long time ago."  The why kneels down to the 'it is, now'.   It's the odd relationship where I can ask myself please forget and I answer myself  as you wish  with a menacing smile. Who is the person answering? Not the "me" writing this. Who is the crazy woman inside my head?  That you could continue on the path, "living" as in surviving, and walk right by the big missing thing. We ar...

I hate your back it's curve  for the way it reminds me you turned and followed it away from me.   

It was nighttime, around 9, when the Metropolitan Museum of Art announced it was about to close. I was walking through a bunch of the decorative arts rooms, which never much interested me before. Now, being here alone, they felt special, and eerie, and some of the only real things in the museum, because they hadn't totally been taken out of their context. I am not an art or otherwise historian at all, but these are my thoughts on this room:  Who lived here? Who was she? To herself? If you've ever read Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Jane Austen...essentially every classic female writer writes about the suffocation of being consigned to the gendered world high society, where women's duties are not privileges of wealth but tragedies of it. They write about lavish curtains and darkened rooms, of meaningless parties and conversations, of having only one faculty -- to host, and as such, be a doorway, a doormat, a holding place, until they die. Clarissa Dalloway is haunted by the ...