“the devils will drag me down to their place with their hooks when I die. And then I think: hooks?” -Brothers Karamazov
I don’t really need real things anymore. I just want to paint my mother with the watercolors she gave me three days ago and sit at the table with one million tchotchkes that don’t do anything. I want to read again and know what to do at night. Our old kitchen made me think that’s where the word kitschy came from cause it was a marbled dull grey-green color with grecian style grape wallpaper trim. It had cupboards with laborious locks on them and dust in the freezer. Frozen fucking dust. The couch’s ass prints gave you one perfect option for sitting and the sink was the one that cut the meat of my palm when I was six or seven or eight. The one where I bled and cried and cried and cried. Nobody loves people more than I do here.
Today writing is a toil and its days like these where I feel that my brain will never cough up salient anecdotes. When have I ever thought of a story? I forget where I read that in India there are people who hang from hooks during festivals. They do it so much that their skin becomes a vessel for the hooks. Oriented around their placement, the surface of the body stretches and acquires perfect holes for hanging people, seraphim acrobats. The dragging is up. It's a skyward invention that disrupts earthliness and suspends the function of feet. The proteins of hell become denatured, and maybe the hooks are a stand in for that thing we call holy. The hooks cut my hand, punctured the bass’ mouth, and sewed bodies into the sky. What does a short circuit of this perfect world look like?
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