Surrealist Doodle

Surrealist Doodle
This was used as the cover of Karawane in 2006 and I have included it in on a number of bags and postcards over the years. Someone on the subway asked me if it was a Miro. I was very flattered!

Thursday, July 19, 2012

I felt briefly sad this morning, set aside my anger as I imagined you afraid. Remembered when you called every minute, we couldn’t get enough of each other. It’s sad not to love you anymore.

You said I said you did you said you said you would you didn’t i did not i never you said.

I wish I knew how to leave without pronouncements.

When I think of you I want to go to New York
somewhere large and exotic and far away

You do not listen and you do not speak
I cannot know you nor become known

When I’m lonely I got to public places to call you
(empty house)
To be angry with you is to be mad at the world.

I dreamed of a widow with five beds.
I dreamed of a woman with 5 beds.
I dreamed of a woman with two heads.
I dreamed of a widow with five

In love with the light brown boys

I wait for fate to take me away from him. The though of giving him up hurts too much. I lack
the will

to walk away. I don’t want to walk away. I can’t make it better and I can’t walk away. I will say something that I cannot take back.

It’s not like a gunshot or a disease. Always we try to pinpoint “the thing” that hurts us the most, but unlike physical death, it’s a lot of different causes, indications.

After a fight, the need to connect with someone else, the desperate need to prove that someone can still love you. That you are still worthy., The fear of losing others, of losing everyone. I want to break up with the whole world at once.

She wandered the streets wondering if she had more crying to do.

She went to the movies every day for nine days. Permission to cry without having to know why, without summoning logic and analyzing feelings and understanding and explaining herself.

To lose what sustains you is to lose everything.

She sat alone, seeing a strong man walk by who might be menacing, who might look safe but prove otherwise, lurching toward her. Sometimes she wondered if she would resist the rape. The murder. She could look at a man and feel his thumbs at her voice box, his big fingers straddling her throat and in her wondering, closed her eyes to surrender like a drowning, flailing her arms involuntarily but sinking into the earth accepting her body as a grave being dug a coffin being built, to surrender and be quiet.

We’re all afraid that our detractors are right about us. We want to be worthy of our eulogies but we fear it will be our enemies critics who will have the last word instead.

I need to go where there is no music.

Maybe we need love because we need god. We see the divinity in other people and desire communion, transmission.

All the great mystics were epileptic. Is god a disease? Or are we pre-wired, hotwired with the commission?

Love is radioactive. It dies in half-lives and never fully extinguishes.

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