lucullan
“You haven’t loved yet. You’ve only been trying to love, beginning to love. Trust alone is not love, desire alone is not love, illusion is not love, dreaming is not love. All these paths leading you out of yourself, it is true, and so you thought they led to another, but you never reached the other. You were only on the way.”
Memory is Recursive
Two white felines followed me this morning. Each was missing an eye. One on the left. The other on the right. I am bloated with cream cheese icing and oat milk. The cats licked my fingers like they were cream.
People only know what you show them.
Today I’m wearing a sheer shirt and writing with an ink-tipped pen the color of Alaskian glaciers. I want to be invisible. I want you to see through me. What lies bound the boundaries of my being is far more interesting than anything I have to say.
The barista bids me a good day each morning and smiles with teeth. It is Sunday, and my place is outside on the patio by the palm trees and concrete. Indoors it’s too crowded. My hair smells like cinnamon and cigarettes.
I am a writer. I want to relinquish my needs to absorb the subconscious desires and intents of all I meet.
How else do you develop an understanding of humanity?
I dated a boy who told me to quit probing. You can’t do that to me, he said. It’s invasive. Do what? I’d asked. You know, don’t play dumb.
We had been sitting on the pier at Granville Island, watching a group of ducks swim in circles. Around and around each other they went.
He smoked peevishly and I stuck my feet in the water.
I’m not your plaything; I’m not a science project.
I don’t understand.
He flicked his smoke in the water and I knew it was over.
I abhor littering.
Photo source.
