bad obsessions (brainfog vent)








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The season of perfectionism

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So i can say something useful. So i can say something useful.       The words haven’t been here lately. I don’t know where they’ve been. All words are lost in prepositions — where does it belong? When did it come here? When are you going to write that letter? Are you alright? This isn’t self doubt. No, I have moved past the season of self doubt. I think I can write confidently, maybe even fluently. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. There’s nothing worth saying. Repetition is a composite trick of the hand, filling the mould of content with a word count. My brain is cooked. Steamed in dishwater, stinking like unclean dishes. The smell of burnt chemicals dries the nose through. It’s a certain kind of lingering rot that sticks to the interior of my skull. I’ve been washing dishes for three days a week for the last while. The dishwashing machine does the meaningful work. I only clean around the edges,...
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motherhood and peace

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  I seek a peace in the world, watching from my time alone, thinking about the words I’m not writing. I sit, uncertain in myself. When was the last time I felt good in this space? I live for the questions I leave myself. In my otherness, the peace I look for is found in the mothers before me, the mothers I do not talk to, the mothers I reject, and the mothers who reject me. I am a body built of the otherness of a woman who cannot be a mother, an art left for another to transcribe. Before my brother was born, my mother would take me to galleries of her choosing, some she had designed, some she found interesting. There were some I understood, some I found boring, some we took down together. These summers were spent removing art with my mother from cold, white-walled rooms, leaving them with less, but leaving the air fuller. The last summer, there were the pencils. I remember this sculpture in perfect lighting, then recovering pencils about the house from lifeless corners. The pen...
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sunsets under water

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    How did you get in contact with me?                                                                                             We built a radio from parts of the old ship. Nobody pays it much attention, but I like playing with the frequencies. Why are you here? Bored. The mountain is melting, and the sun is setting, but this is all I like doing, really. What else do you do? I cycle from home to here, on somebody’s bike. It gets me up to the hill nicely. Where is your ship? Frankly, I'm not allowed to say. Though, I'm not clos...
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