Keeping a journal really saved my beef. I never thought of myself as a person with, like, thoughts until it was time to write them all down. I thought, after a month, I'll have found the end of it, and I'll have written myself empty. But it turns out that I'm not as vacant as I think, and now I've kept a journal for almost two and a half years. Of course, whether any of it is any good is another matter — most of it is quite bad! But oh the joy of it. And the best part is, it's mine, it all came from me, so I can plunder it all I want and no one is the wiser! So here I am. I've discovered narcissism in myself and it's a lot of fun. I highly recommend it.
In related news, I have an essay out!
March 2, 2021
Winter had to have the last word, so this morning it was so cold I thought I would die waiting for the train. The wind would stick me to the icy rails and then the salt would cure me into leather and I'd just have to stay there until the warm rains came to defrost me.
March 28, 2021
Oh exile of New York, do you still wear that city in your hair? Soot of New York dusting your lungs, crowning you of New York, lingering in your voice New York, lengthening your stride New York, hungry for her: New York, New York.
April 12, 2021
The body holds more of the soul than the brain does. This I believe. But also there must be other bodies out there that will speak for me too, when it comes time to testify. I must have limbs out there that are still manifesting out of the dust. There must be some form of me that looks different than this one.
This cannot be all that there is.
Where are they? I think I dream about them sometimes. I dream of hands that are not my hands. A voice that is not my voice.
[Absolutely nothing to report from May to July. I was very happy and very alive, and that made for only halfhearted writing, since I had so many better things to do.]
August 27, 2021
Crickets chirp outside my window, cicadas scream in the trees, clover mites crawl up my sleeves, mosquitos feed from me, yellow jackets buzz in the air, ladybugs sit in my ear — that's what summer is. Everything is so busy living fully that it can't help but rot. I tried to sear myself out of summer, tried to sweat it away like a fever but all I've done is long for it even before it's done. I have a habit of doing that.
Maybe instead of loving the city, I love its summer. In the winter time I'll put away that love for safekeeping, and hope it's still there when everything thaws. I could write about summer in Boston forever, just like I could write about New York forever, just like I could write about the Santa Ana winds forever. All of these places left marks I cherish, as well as hurts I'd like to outgrow. No place is perfect.
September 17, 2021
Prometheus and the eagle — do you think they ever became friends?
The eagle is his only company. The eagle brings tales of the world and maybe even the smell of woodsmoke, forge fire, coal dust, car exhaust. Prometheus' flames spread, and they never stopped spreading.
And then the eagle eats his liver. This is its sustenance, this is the eagle's diet. The singular delicacies of a god's guts, a meal that's just as good the first day as it is the next and the next, for eternity and on. It is agony every time. The bird's claws know exactly where to go — Prometheus is easy to pierce open and bleed out and he always has been. He is soft-bellied and weak-willed and careless with his godhood and that's what got him into this mess. But he doesn't go to waste. He has such morsels as the lower intestine, the gall bladder, kidneys, lungs, heart, tongue, eyes. And the liver, of course. Saved for last.
No one will ever love Prometheus as much as the eagle loves Prometheus. No one has seen his raw insides, picked apart his flesh, bathed in his gore, sat in his steaming guts, gorged on his offal like the eagle has. This eagle knows Prometheus' most gruesome and intimate secrets.
It starts to feel like a caress after the thousandth year. Prometheus' liver has grown back countless times. By now, the pain is familiar. By now, Prometheus knows he will never die. He lit a fire, after all, and it's still burning.