gggggggg

Privileging sexually or emotionally consummated relationships demotes infinite sensations to a grand messianic finale. Crushing, its insistent form toward the unrequited, does not necessarily permit a long-lasting, stable relation. Crushes are transient, unpredictable, often unnamed and unacknowledged, provisional, and random. To say “I have a crush” is to feel forced upon, a reminder of dispossession, yes, but also a small glimpse of possibility, that alchemical feeling of vitality so foolishly powerful that I live for it. In other words, crushing season refuses to end as I refuse to die. I’ve had an on-off crush for six or so years. She lives in another city. I ask our mutual friends how she’s doing more than I ask her herself. I’ve written garbage poems about her, and I’ve even told her, “I’m very into you.” We’ve made out once or twice. It’s not that it’s unreciprocated; it’s that it feels almost impossible. Almost. I’ve spent some time with her but I hardly know her at all. She is a dream; I hope I never know her. And it is this longing to know her deeply—my untamed dreams and “wasted” energy spent thinking about her—that keeps me here, crushing and being crushed.

The first room was bare, was empty. The room was bright, was full of light. The room was clean, not dirty. The second room was cluttered, was covered with things. And yet the room was not untidy. The room was cozy, was comfortable. The third room was neither bare nor cluttered. The floor was clean. The room was clean, not dirty. The fourth room was small and smooth. The room was clean, not dirty. These were all the rooms. Dora Sloane didn’t know what to clean.

I am alone, I write nothing,                                         I thank the gods for this great breadth                                of empty light. At times, over the hills a jet leaves a white trail a lofty wind                  slowly unravels.

Or all those men whose names are on lists write outraged self-defenses in the pages of magazines seem to be ones that never learned the lessons of unhappiness long enough to distrust happiness, too. I, on the other hand, will never forget to distrust happiness, having been a student of misery's long and thorough instruction. That’s a common education.

Well, a great many things have been said in the oven of hours. We have not been shaken out of the magnolias. Today was another hard day. And tomorrow will be harder. Well, that sounds like our gong. But we’ll have the boy’s birthday and we will have music and cake. Well, I will think only good thoughts and go up and talk to the rock.

I have to tell you, there are times when the sun strikes me like a gong, and I remember everything, even your ears.

And that we are not allowed romance but only it’s distance