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13 February 2016 @ 04:08 pm
slipping through my open mouth  
[11.23.2010, journal 10]

i want to be newly falling asleep. easily falling asleep. pleasantly slipping from awareness, sliding down those smoothing surfaces, wrapping myself in the soothing darkness of: sleep. pull the blanket up to my chin, up over my ears, slip down between the cool sheets and make them freshly warm. i do not think another decongestant will improve my mood. at least i'll be able to breath. break it down break it up break it out, refrain refrain, that refrain means both to halt and to repeat. to halt through repetition. to stop again again, to stop again stop. i'd really like to be falling back asleep, i said. outside strangers are shouting.

i'm putting on the crown. you know what that means. do you know what that means? ten years ago, just short of that friend's most recent post-break up pregnancy scare. not realizing my sister was pregnant, unsure if i even had an inkling, though my post-production team will observe that i certainly wrote some uncanny things on the matter, like i do. my oldest friend, arguably my closest friend, she kept going to my ex's parties. i can't complain about it. i never asked her not to go. maybe if i had, she wouldn't have gone, but something in me doubts this. i hadn't told her everything. i'd told her enough, but i wasn't ready to explain everything. around that, i was still intractable and obfuscating. intractable, obfuscating, intolerably intense. all the i and o and oh not now i'd become to her. you see, his parties were something to do. all her friends went to them. all her friends were his friends, too. it's foolish to think she would've chosen me. why do i think that thinking that is foolish? why did i break myself, trying to repair a friendship with anyone who i believed, deep down, wouldn't chose me over my ex-boyfriend's goddamn house parties?

i'm putting on the crown.

don't try to stop me.

all this time, i just wanted to be chosen. refrain: i wanted to matter. i wanted to be a desired presence on my own terms, not another piece of social clutter she couldn't use and couldn't release. i was a good friend on my own terms, taken for myself, not as another compulsive accessory in an already overpopulated entourage. she seemed to have more friends than she could deal with. she certainly had more friends than i could deal with:

and that's the hitch. it was blameless. it should have been blameless. it could've been blameless. she needed something else. something i couldn't understand. i was the obvious excess, the most easily excised. it was in her best interests to be rid of me. refrain from the destructive language: it was in my best interests to be free of her assumptions, of the obligations she insisted. of the endless bowing out of myself. of the shame for who i'd become. of her necessary friends that were his, too. of the possibility that he might become one of her necessary friends: of her insistent lack of understanding. of her emotional clutter piled up on her social clutter piled up on her material clutter up past the skyline up level with the tinfoil moon. pile it up: she didn't honor me. she couldn't see me as a gift. i can't blame her for it, i don't blame her for it, but then and again, why? why? why did this turn into that? refrain: i don't want to be writing this. refrain: i don't want to be thinking about this. refrain: yet here it is again.

in her party dress. her wings that don't lift or bear. unconcerned how my malingering connection to her might, in her superfluous and coincidental connection to him, might drag me back into his life, might trap me under his rock again, might punch my lungs, drag me under, that this time i might not come back. refrain! it didn't matter to her. i didn't matter to her. not like her actual friends. i'd become a concept, a principle, an object. i'd become another thing she didn't want to lose. refrain: i don't want to be writing this. refrain: i don't want to need to write this. refrain: i don't need to write this. i need to be chosen. i need to matter. refrain. stop. refrain. repeat:

i'm putting on the crown.

i don't know what it means or where it might go. what i know is i'm sick of being a queen without a crown. without the straight back, without the towering confidence. i'm sick of being invisible, left between the lines, left of center, left out. i have a crown. it's time for me to wear it. in the back room of the craft store, on highway eighty-three. alone in the grocery store parking lot tears dripping from my fluorescent strained eyes, howling into my dark locked car: i'm putting on the fucking crown and don't you even try to stop me. you don't know anything about it. you've never seen a crown much less saved one in the closets and crawlspaces of your life, you don't know what it's like to have this thing, this certainty, this strength stuffed at the back of the linens that you know some day you'll have to claim but still but wait but now is not the right now i've got to now instead there's something else. or maybe you do, probably some of you do, possibly you're reading this and thinking: yes, that's me, that's true, that's been me all along, but listen: this is about me. this time. this once. so. refrain: shut it. it's time. i'm putting on the crown.

you don't even know.
you won't even know.
you can't even know.

2016 eta: and what about me? because there's always something. that i don't know. that i won't know. that i can't know.

and yet.

mood: burn it
music: chelsea wolfe - we hit a wall
selva oscura: [magritte] mentoranonymousblack on February 15th, 2016 09:00 pm (UTC)
i was queen of the villanelle in my early twenties! i've tried writing them more recently and it hasn't gone real great. same deal with sestinas. anything where i can get a good refrain going, clamor up the cliff shore with a howl.

ben's said that part of why he returns to my work is the way i build a perception of traditional structure - so you have the subconscious comfort of form and repetition - that breaks down when you try to examine it, but breaks down in a way that puts you back into this undefinable structure in a different way. so basically he's saying i write labyrinths. which i'm fine with. just maybe not for travel magazine pieces. maybe.

also, do not shut up. the anonymousblack foundation deeply appreciates your support!
(Anonymous) on February 16th, 2016 12:57 am (UTC)
Ben has got it spot on though he better not drag Derrida into this discussion as I am not fully licensed for French lit crit.
I'm not sure I would rule out travel writing labyrinth style. I read lots of David Foster Wallace travel writing and pedestrian it ain't. In fact there has been a lot of boundary pushing in that field as of late. Good thing. I'm about stuffed with old white guys in Tuscany.
selva oscuraanonymousblack on February 16th, 2016 07:53 pm (UTC)
ha! we are all three derrida-impared, don't worry. ben knows all this academic stuff about fine art, with the critiquing and the visual vocabulary and such. we can go to the walters and he'll tell me all kinds of pre-raphaelite fun facts. but that's what he did in school. crimson_vita might be the most derrida-adjacent of us, she gave me this book once upon a time.

between the blizzard and my deadline for a piece on local cuisine landing in restaurant week, i don't... yeah. it's gonna be weird. probably not good weird. today i'm continuing in my desperate attempts to shake out print-worthy photos from one of the regions and, um... wow. i did not think it would be this difficult.