rumbling story

It’s time to build her character. She likes sleeping alone best but always wishes for people to lie in bed with her when the heat is on. She thinks people stave off the cold so she holds them close when she really wishes there were no people at all. She makes love to all her contradictions, and they manifest in dyslexic fumblings of words and ideologies, changing and opposing each other with the randomness of an instant. She idealizes her city because she knows how to get lost there—how to force a day to slip away with interchangeable showrooms, spit wads, cigarettes, and that great blue whale at the natural history museum. She smiles at that memory because she cried under that whale. She’s too embarrassed to say what about but a man and his daughter watched her lay down and cry and he winked at her and told his daughter “this is the only place in New York where you can lay down”. He meant it to be profound but all our girl could think was how untrue it was. You can lay down anywhere you want to, you can defame your body anywhere you’d like. It's just about hearing that compulsion to lay like some intangible force and following it when it embraces you. She’s not a hedonist and you shouldn’t call her that. She knows true presence is the cultivation of that intangible force and she’s trying to figure out what that means. She’s trying to think up new thoughts even though all the thoughts seem to have been thought up already. 

I think she wants to make her dreams mean something and she lies to other people that they are inherent and resonant. I think she’s a long-time-liar-in-recovery. And yes, there’s an “I” and a “she”, and maybe they’re the same person looking each other in the eye and laughing because they know exactly what the other is going to say before they say it. In unison now—I am most interested in my mirror image, most interested in looking at myself through a new pair of glasses and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing.