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“We Are What We Eat” says the book on the coffee table.

The bells, at 9:59 in a Catholic mind’s Sunday, therefore a Catholic Sunday. But I’m not… Catholic Catholic–culturally Catholic–yes, no. Also not just that. There’s more. Stuff that composes my religious identity. Let’s talk about it another day.

It’s a neighborhood full of Catholic churches

NOT therefore a Catholic neighborhood


What is this? Who wrote that? It sounds like an obsessive rabbit running to his thing he’s late to. But the being that wrote that doesn’t even have the dignity of letting me paint it in the cute colors of an old timey Disney cartoon or the cultural complexity of a classic work of literature that escaped the historical reign of the author function and took on a meaning of intense mockery of our knowing, embroiled in an intense longing for knowing. It’s just a… the figure in my head reminds me of the creatures in the Harry Potter universe that handle the money in the banks. That bank creature stuff on Harry Potter always weirded me out. Like her  reformation compatriot in that story that takes place in Verona, Jk Rowling leaves me scratching my head about who she saw in her mind as she created the creatures. THe one character that worked in the bank actually turned out to be a greedy filthy creature, didn’t it? But yeah, the creature that wrote that paragraph feels like that. Slimy green in the soggy weeds of a smelly swamp, hurriedly assorting the contents of its mind according to categories that it’s been gnawing on for years. Its resolve to sort sharpened by the compulsion.


And all I wanted was to say that the book on the coffee table, that doesn’t belong to me, had spoken to me earlier. It spoke to me from where it sits. Its cover shut. Occupying its place as the 4th book down in a pile of other library hardcovers. We are two doctoral students in this human dwelling. It had asked me, materially, visually, out there, in the world, outside of my flesh, breaking my soliloquy (but is it really breaking my soliloquy? Yes). Asking me what I wanted to read. I am what I eat. I am what I read. I am what I hear. What I speak is what comes in, from the world. From out there. The out there that is right here, and enters my body, cochlear, paladar, palatoso, empalagoso, no gogó, tactile, Senhor Gato smells something, but I don’t.


Mary. The annunciation. I want to read that.

Or at least, I want to read something that feels… Inspired. Maybe the archetype of the moment of inspired creating is what I crave. I crave to hear and feel that. To see the writing of someone who felt that. Who felt like they were announcing the arrival of the arrivals to the place that is here and now and forever.


The longing for a sound, a hearing of such annunciation… Is it one of the things one is eligible to feel in that place of hearing speaking? Not speaking. Vibrating. Where all that exists is breath, vibration, flesh, sound, repetition. Then. Only then. Looking for relief all over and finding it there, a place I went to for I feared my life of listening was making me frozen as a mute. That’s not an abelist attitude. I was shutting down parts of my flesh that are active, alive, ready for action, connected to the rest. And I was starving it. That’s as violent as the celibacy that comes from fear of feeling, from believing yourself better than others. Understandable. But ultimately fatal.


I have been this silent before. I’ve thought of this before. It brings to mind Ze Ramalho’s lyrics in Avohai, a typical Ramalho track, with its playful paranormality of the daily. This one specifically is an ode to his “grather,” his “grandfather father,” or “avohai,” “avo and pai” in Portuguese. Telling off a pestering unidentified interlocutor he tells it “Se eu calei foi de tristeza voce cala por calar. E calado vai ficando so fala quando eu mandar.” The distinction, the knowing, the wise silence of his is related to mine. The other kind of silence… I think… I don’t know. But I’ve been silent like this. I who my own avohai used to say had taken my shots with a turntable needle. I went violently quiet as I encountered something in myself. In my being, for the first time back then. I was diagnosed with a throat tumor shortly after. I have the scar for it. It turned out to be benign after months of mystery and after ruining my adolescent puppy jock jester health overnight like it was poison after all. Now here. In a journey where I set out to look for those scary beasts in me as a profession now. I froze, I thawed, I stretched, I am healing. And now, my words are returning.


So how will this writing to consume come? How will my mind outside of the moment of ecstasy, of prayer to oneself as a being oriented in space, in that moment, orienting simply to the urge of staying in balance. THe balance of the rhythm, of the breath, of the vibration of the flesh in my throat, of the buzzing on my lips, of the relief in my jaw as it is stretched, roundly, elastically, elliptical, for sound.

7/7/16 on my way to Detroit

I have to write,

lay it down,

gather and disperse how it feels,

invoke the power of words.

The driver, a black man, was on the phone.

He was speaking slowly,

mourning with words.
I was reading a tread: people beginning to understand.

They said her baby was comforting her.

They killed her boyfriend.
I thought I shouldn’t cry, but I made this mistake once.

I put my phone in my pocket.

I’m riding to Detroit. We need to look back,

estripar this history.

I’ve been given the yellow M access card, the money, the ride.

I pray that I can help.

The filing cabinet

To write you have to forget. Stop everything and let the drawers overflow. Let the rainbow of papers and the ejaculate vortex of files and binders be rapt in the air and cascade as confetti. It’s an Arcade Fire song. Forbid doing. Cleanse your throat of speaking and turn it into song. Slide up and down your neck and let the warm gust come from your belly and flood your chest with burning iron ore and wet towels. A smoke engine.

The ache in your back from holding up your shoulders, the painful squeezing together of the clavicles concealing your jugular is so we can write the money and the rent and the credit card. Here the pain becomes part of the cold room and the warm sunlight. The air and the woodpecker and the two tv sets face down by the fence are all part of my toes. The enchantment. Leading keys through the synesthetic orgasm in my soul. I pump the magic through my body and save it for later.

Brrr… Mkay

I looked at the city from another side today. I cracked the window in the bathroom and I could actually look by myself. The steam was going out through the opening.

I thought of what it’d be like to be in the middle of the river. They’d probably have to rescue me. A person can’t swim naked in the Hudson like that. Downstream where it’s everyone’s view. But the shock of water temperature would be a bigger deal. The water was really hot in the shower. It would probably hurt so bad that I would shut down my capacity to respond to my own body. I’d have to start thinking of my soul, I said. I thought it was funky to imagine a switch like that: now you’re no longer body, now you’re soul. I wonder. I don’t know.

I was thinking that cooking set me free from daughter of mother, the bathroom bliss set me free from the masculine energy that I had internalized. Then the next challenge was to get rid of the wish to be at the same wavelength, of speaking the same language, of setting my vibration speed to a rate or readability to his apparatus.

I asked myself what next for me. To discover. Now that I’m with, I can discover together. We can go looking.

I want a tattoo

New Jerky. The bored

I like “Negative Creep” by Nirvana. The massive, chunky, crispy, raspy pulse of the main guitar riff. That riff tastes sweet. It’s granulated like sugar cane candy, or how I imagine it. It’s not walking forward. It’s standing and swiping. Kurt Cobain’s voice goes right over it. Sailing, standing. Clearing a path through the muck that’s been in the way. You just clear it out because you’re standing there. Holding the sway of sweet crunch.

I’m ridiculously bored. I’m in a rectangle staring out the winding at what is that. I like the river, but the city seems intimidating like a performance of might. It’s walking forward just to make you watch it do it.

I can leave but I can’t. I’m going to stand on the sweet wave of sweet crunch.

I’m behaving

good god with the empire of self- assertion by child

A coil heats up red hot in my gut and fills my chest and throat with acrid fumes that someone can just get up and walk into a private bubble while I make a point to endure. You don’t get to pick how much of this you inhale. You belong to it. You can’t crop dust your presence. I’m okay with having to sit here and push. It’s work. I get work. I would not close that door behind me.

I can do it. But it’s maddening that I can’t flex the flesh that I made so superb. I would slay with a fully articulated thought. I choke  on one liners. This is a kingdom of someone else’s method. Its knowledge is not bullshit, but here it gets handled with little care. It’s treated casually but with fervor. It fills in the gaps of unexamined voids. Voids are to be jumped into.

Why do I have to lift alone?  Saying that makes me feel like I’m whining. I’m naked.

Inezita Morreu

O que me move mesmo é desentender, sabia (o teclado em português… cade o ponto de interrogação) Entender é muito bom, mas desfazer as coisas que eu construo pelo pensamento com as coisa que eu sinto daquele outro jeito diferente… É assim que eu prefiro.

Artista com mania de sabichona.

Mas pera ai que voce está falando comigo.

The Room of No Reason

It’s not the kind of room where you go to hide. It’s also not the kind of room where you go to plan a rebellion. It’s a room that hums. Your skin is as sensitive as the walls. Having a body feels like no other feeling of having a body. That’s because your body is not limited to itself. It can taste and touch things without waiting for them to be still and without owning or holding them.

The vibration can start on your womb, or on your chest, or on your arms. It goes everywhere in seconds.

Words to those Airborne

Terra Firme bullshit
words to those airborne
for those who swim
I bring my treasure on a wavelength.

We both have tasted time as land that gallops on a wave
For the time we seek
We touch a memory that vibrates.

Home on a wavelength is always
a prophecy.
I listen as I talk to the meter, it said
Come rest on my shoulder
Come in the best sigh

Feeling like things I do again while things that have never happened happen to me beyond my control… The waiting with my weird

To take a break from thinking about it, I want to write this. I was listening to a really interesting song about presenting art to your mother. Zeca Baleiro and Ze Ramalho. It reminded me of a story that happened in Madrid at the museum. I as at the Reina Sofia. I knew I went in to see Guernica, but I didn’t want to bypass all the other art just to beeline for it. I wanted to savor the workup to seeing it. Bear in mind this is me a couple of days before presenting a conference paper on art and war. I was beyond hyped for it. The foreplay was essential, though.

The museum is large, but it’s not enormous. I realized I could see every single room. I had a good 5 hours or more. I started going into every single one of them. I was staring intently, seeing, absorbing, opening myself up to every single one of the works. Full of shit or not, I was feeling it. I was making love to the space. Kissing its toes.

It became a rhythm. Stepping one step to the side. Adjusting my squint according to the size of the next piece and leaning in more or less depending on the distance the piece called for. Then it happened: this one…. step, look, think,ponder, step, this one… hmmmm…. this one……

It took me a good 5 seconds to realize I was starting at the message hanging over the fire alarm.

Do I need to explain anything here? I mean… Laugh. C’mon. Laugh with me. Laugh at the critic. I chuckle every single time I remember it.

The dangers and the delights of thinking too hard and opening yourself up for whatever.

I’m glad to stare at messages over fire alarms and feel things.

I love things, things. It’s okay if you are fire alarm messages sometimes. Take advantage of my liking things, things. Because sometimes I don’t.  And nope. Not a cryptic message here. Just a shoutout to things when I notice them.

Before I get my running and pushing on, I have to amend the ending of the previous post. Not edit  it, because I want the confusion to ring out. But I also want to register what I think it means, even if it’s artificial and maybe wrong, otherwise it’s not a real exercise in finding out what I’m thinking.

I think there is a part of me that is being horrible and saying fuck you, I want you. Being an ape. Uga Buga Me Want. A Terrible Seamstress. Here’s a woman trying to untangle and here I am have more thread. Pumping into her wheel. Adding thread to her daemon. I won’t do that anymore.

Where will my thread have a chance not to be evil. Cuz seamstressing is not an evil thing. My thread is not evil. When…

when her dragon is untangled into heaps of assorted thread. And mine won’t be in the pile. Maybe some poisonous phantom of mine. Because mine I’ll have kept. It will not be in the dragon. I’ll give her then. Only then.