Having studied love, having worked in love, and knowing what I do, it has become complicated. Imagine you worked on a train for a living. riding the train would still be your greatest pleasure but there would also be something about it that felt like you knew too much, right?
I can’t stop listening to Mitski's Best American Girl. It’s like, all the futures in love have come to roost in one song.
Some more snippets for you:
—Lakewood Cemetery. A gravestone shaped like a jukebox to commemorate the originator of the term “rock and roll.”
—A pile of laundry on the barcalounger in my room
—Preston Buchtel’s photograph of a woman’s back looking off into the a cinematic uncertain distance as though she knew where she had to go but din’t have the legs to get there.
—you behind me, reaching for the ends of me, the ends of the earth.
—the air conditioner’s rattle
—10mg of something in the cabinet
—slow boiling rage at mankind
—the murals under the bridge, blurred faces in front of crisp city scape by Eric Rippert. What are they looking at? Who’s looking at them?
—Doug Utter's dead cat
—The TV a the convenience store when I go to get milk, your smell still on me, sweat dripping between my collar bones who says, “abortion is murder,” and the smiling face of the shopkeeper who hands me change.
—the acquittal of the Philando Castile’s killer.
—Michelangelo Lovelace’s exposure of the black skeleton of the painting process onto its surface.
—that Angel Olsen song, “unfuck the world"
I want your tears and your rage and everything in between. What is that you want?