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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

I walked until the canvas tore against the topographical chaos of my ankle and the edges simmered a nondescript red. I’m already late but still I kept reading, reciting in my head, the communion of sweat-inked lyrics I had scribbled on my palm in the morning. Following Eugene O’ Neil’s legacy, I pieced to life a makeshift psalm of sorrow, believed and became them. By the time I reached the bus stop, the lines broke and converged at inappropriate places, and the words a convoluted extension of my present state. When I put my palms beside each other, they form a mock Rorschach inkblot. I’ve always wondered what it’s supposed to mean: a piece of clothing, a bat (as in order Chiroptera not baseball), a dismembered old lady who used to live in Harlem. What if I don’t see anything, (am I supposed to?) Response not found. Stimuli failure. The logic behind Rorschach is as inductive as recreational cloud-reading, fine proof that statistics are a reliable but finite generalization; it shouldn’t bother me that sometimes I don’t see anything, right? I’m patient. I’m a patient.

I (as a Noumenon not objet petit a) was sure of my being quartered at that particular moment, hopelessly lost to a queer mid-day vortex while imploding from the rotten, rotten core on the way to work. It could just be a general (personal) amnesty towards a neurological breakdown, but it’s not very telling. Still, where my feet touches feels like paradise. “Heaven ain’t close in a place like this,” I am conveniently reminded in dual interpretations. And no, this is nothing like The Mark on the the Wall, clearly there are no snails involved.

From where I’m standing, it’s just a great big ball of hot light that I cannot look at, licking the sores of my skin with the least bit of discretion. It’s truly comic also, how there are so many trees, an abomination of afternoon crickets, or the occasional puppy running across the oven-baked grass for maximum Walt-Disney effect like it’s (Nether-)Eden. It could all be staged and no one would notice a single thing. I’ll keep my psalm-of-sorrow-turned-inkblot and you can keep your life, your fucking big television, and everything else in-between.

Not. Virginia. Woolf. Okay.


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