Daily / Daily, Again
Daily was a blog maintained from June 2012 - October 2015. When its web hosting was corrupted, the only thing that remained from the blog was the XML file. The images were lost. The excerpts below are from the fragmented XML file. A printed version is forthcoming.
Daily, Again is an email version of this blog. Instead of publishing daily writing pieces to a blog, I email them to whoever wants to read them. To view the archive and subscribe, click here.
(so this is the new year)
Wed, 30 Apr 2014 20:12:24 +0000
i. it was the first night of the new year and we were cocooned within a blizzard. I had to choose where to spend it, in your bed or in my bed. with you or with my mother. (with before or with after.) I spent the whole day trying not to tell her how the snow made inverse patterns on my legs, how it looked like tiger skin in blue and orange, the word home hurt the most
ii. we met a stranger from Craigslist and there was blood dripping down my leg and I didn't say a word the whole time, you thought you burned me with your cigarette at first, when we sat in the car with the projector that would fail in twelve hours or less you peered through the hole in my jeans and thought you saw bone.
iii. it was just loose skin, I had never seen you look so tender.
iv. "I slept in my lover's bed last night and he did not look at me," I wrote, and that is how I knew before you said anything
v. I have never once lit a bonfire on the beach. until I went to college I was unable to plug things into outlets; I had to turn the power strip off, plug the electronic in, and turn the power strip back on. until March I had never driven drunk until I met you I had never even let it be a possibility, you do not leave a gaping hole in other people's lives
vi. I forget how Roman numerals work, I forget how basic things work. every time we try to put the dog down he springs up a few days later, good as new, the hole in his face patched up, the hole in my stomach growing bigger and bigger and bigger. I say "the dog" but now there are two. the morning of my first job interview, in two thousand and eleven, he was sprawled out at the base of the stairs, refusing to open his eyes, his belly swollen and his face tired, exhausted. I cried in the car on the way to the job interview, left the windows open in one hundred degree heat because the air conditioner in the car didn't work, the skirt I was wearing was blue and looked like the ocean that people from the middle of the country expect the ocean to look like - with the pretty little white caps and neat, even waves. the ocean isn't like that. people who didn't grow up near the ocean confuse me, but there's got to be more people who didn't grow up next to the ocean than people who did.
vii. why couldn't that work for humans? why couldn't it have worked for you?
eight. don't you dare take this away from me
Tue, 20 Jan 2015 00:10:55 +0000
- baby girl your momma got cancer and you got real sad and now, and now, neither one of them want to hear your shit nobody wants to hear your shit! sorry sorry sorry sorry.
you yanked the pen out of my mouth
Thu, 30 Jul 2015 16:35:05 +0000
. and held it between your fingers, "I don't want you to mess up your teeth any more." everybody worries about my teeth. we were the first people there and the beer you were drinking smelled like piss. it was my first time biking to Williamsburg and it was the hottest day of the year thus far. your earliest memory is on the back patio in Port Aransas. mine is sitting up in bed in a pink room lined with rabbits, hearing my parents fight. a scattered memory of the dog across the street. a constructed memory - one I don't remember, but one I have been told - of being bitten by Casey, of offering her my sandwich. I say "you ok?" too often. you made a strange wounded noise when you saw me wiping away tears and I shook my head at you and saved the lemon from my whiskey sour.
if you bum around on google street view you'll find people experiencing things you had in another life. you'll cross the block and be in another month, in another weather, in another person's memory. 15 e hobart ave (77th street), someone else's car parked in front. it's been four years. someone else's towels hanging on the line in the back. someone else spread-eagled on the itchy floral bedspread, someone else using the tiny yellow drawer on the top of the dresser where Dad kept his wallet and pump. someone else winning the mini golf tournament. someone else, someone else, someone else.
last night at Girlpool I started to cry, hot tears that made me shudder. I miss Mar. she is my person, stretching way back to when the world was so small, so insular. it was the two of us and everyone else on the outskirts. the two of us trying to learn how to stop sneezes by staring at the lights on the Christmas tree. when she moved to the restaurant and I got so sad that she would be further away but it was actually a few blocks closer to my house, Aunt Heather said. I miss the tiny circle we sat within. breaking my pinky toe at the pool club, which was supposed to open years ago. I miss Mar because we are stretching farther and farther from that curb where we sat with silly string and plastic see through backpacks, farther and farther but arching back around to touch upon it at funerals.
autumn, it'll be autumn soon enough. it's been a long time since you've been with someone during the summer. it's been a long time. I keep stopping, looking behind me and trying to ask the nearest passerby, "what happened?" what happened? it's been almost a year since the pneumonia. since Cody killed himself. what happened? I can't keep my eyes open anymore so I put the book down on my side of the bed and I sleep while you read Kerouac. in the morning you say, "you twitch in your sleep too. see, it isn't just me" and you turn the alarm off and sleep for another hour.