Darling, would you forgive me if I walk beside you as though the world is a big couch for slumbering? I now measure my days like they’re dispatches, as trash postcards I’m collecting. I don’t sleep, I switch beds, and night after night hope is gathered in sacks of the unknown. Here in New York people call to me in my dreams, asking for friendship, and I respond in the affirmative, because good fortune is a verb.
I knew about the forgotten bridges, darling, but couldn’t warn you. Now you hurl the past into view. I am calm and patient, but strangely disillusioned.
This beauty strikes us all—everything passes within it. I want to point to moments of reprieve. Neither the end nor the beginning will bring any comfort. It’ll have to be the middle passage, the trigger of a smile, loud cackles of a baby’s innocence.
We are waiting for a rupture: the world’s ever-widening anger is circumscribed on our tongues. When we speak out of despair, or even happiness, it is evidence of a transition from one thing to another, from a promised future to an inevitable one.
What I’m doing is suggest that this world can exist—it’s never going to be a perfect world, but it must suggest a rupture, and how that rupture works—and then repair, hope, justice, happiness, love, devotion—because acts of resistance are forms of justice.
You are making me sad, shifting the balance of things: I do not want to be angry; anger is a form of response that always invalidates itself. And in the context in which it works, nothing will be authenticated. What’s left is the ego, sitting on a fence, and yet we hurl stones at it.
I will like to tell the story of a bald woman who wears a wig, and how embarrassed I feel when I see her take it off. It feels like a dubious revelation; all this while she’s been in a half-disguise, not what I’ve seen her to be and yet an equivalent of what I thought she was, a bit of what she really is.
[I don’t know what…] It’s like being a prostitute: you must learn how to touch in the right places.