with glue

Rooftops and angels.

The first 36 hours were to be expected. This is how travel works. Time shifts but I do not. Airports as limbo, zones of arbitrary absolutes. I’ll walk, breathe, wait in line, purchase two books for a friend’s birthday, check the local news in a language I don’t understand, wonder about food, drink coffee, listen to the same song on repeat, wrap myself in a sweatshirt I’ve dug out of a backpack, take a piss, miss smoking. I’ll wait until a certain set of depersonalized numbers match the ones on my ticket and queue and board and sit and think and read and dissociate.

In the new place, I’m interested in the way the light folds into trees, slides off buildings, melts on my face through the taxi window. The driver tells me the time, military always, and I accept it as truth. I’ll bend this way, think about food and happy hours and the music I play to mark sunset or when the lights from the castles illuminate the square and foreign voices angle off buildings older than my memories of other’s memories.

The drugs didn’t work. They never do. I watch the sun come up and light change as the needle scratches on pick-up. The album starts over.

The next few nights I’ll act as if I’m not lost. I’ll wash my face and brush my teeth. Get naked, alone, in unfamiliar sheets. I’ll lose three or four hours, but the rest I’ll remember as ceiling, window, tree, shadow.

On the morning of Day 7, I’ll wake up screaming. Shaking. Covered in slick sweat. I will remember dying and a woman with long hair asking me questions I can’t answer. I’ll remember someone from home telling me about a date they went on, a phone call, sending a contract. Did I live each one? Did my body bleed, did I laugh, did we share a secret, was I alive for you?

Another two planes, three cities, and I’m trying to untangle time. 

These 48 hours are unexpected. I can’t tell what are dreams and what is otherwise, and as the shower wall melts when I lean into it, I think about being on the 11th floor and what my body will look like, naked and wet, falling among the morning haze of this city. Will they find me pristine and angelic and curled and sleeping, finally? 

I can’t tell the time anymore, but the bliss of every failure - lived or imagined - is on equal footing. I am a carousel, I think, each animal a trope, or is it the canned music, heavy on xylophone, that is my signature? It doesn’t matter, I guess. I am metal lion, teeth bared, and I am sleek zebra, heavy lids, and I am the sweet, sickly smell of cotton candy and the ticket girl’s perfume. I am this entire swirling entity, nomenclature and form, a world rotating again and again. The needle scratches and picks itself up and the album replays.

And then I am home, and my mind is not the same, it never is. Loved ones try to untangle the truths from the half truths, and I nod with wide, glassy eyes. Why do they never tell you that our realities are not fixed, they never were?

We are equally in this world and the one we project, and I know now, maybe always did, that the thin, dirty film that sits between the two is readily broken.

clutching onto the car door as it’s
ripped from its drybolt hinges
left you breathless, left me weightless
but god, your eyes still shine through
the ether will remember what yesterday forgot
our tree-leaf skins and chakras will emancipate our thoughts
a glimpse of dust, a shred of wisdom
this has been a tireless march
we succumb to tears of glory as the winter days turn to rot
summer sun and summer-weather bring about a change of days
our smaller haze and bedside wonder
cannot stand the UV rays
we hide in the snow, in fortresses we built ourselves
we hide in the knowledge, that everything renews itself
you melted in your seat, the front passenger seat
we did things only our hands can talk about
we spoke in silence, we used our tongues
counted teeth and messed with lungs
first the screen was black, then the screen turned colors
then the ending brought some whiteout, but we’re left with odors
whitman lines and whitman truth, embodiment of liberty
we sang in accents of our times, a youth-encrusted litany
—  car crash and glue

Shoma Uno ft. Yuzuru Hanyu, “What are you interested in these days?” || 2017 World Championships (x)


Colgate University mistakes black student carrying a glue gun for an active shooter

  • On Monday, Colgate University ordered a lockdown after reports of an “active shooter” on campus, the Root reported. The “active shooter,” however, was a black student using a glue gun for a class project.
  • The lockdown began when a student at the upstate New York college called campus safety to report seeing a black man holding what looked like a gun. Soon after, students at the Coop — a student center — were told to leave the building due to a “dangerous situation.”
  • After about a four-hour lockdown, university officials released a statement to the Colgate community that campus safety confirmed the “active shooter” suspect was, in fact, a student using a glue gun.
  • On Tuesday, Colgate University President Brian W. Casey issued another statement calling the incident on Monday night a “profound error” that had an “implicit racial bias.” Black students only make up about 5.2% of the undergraduate population. Read more (5/3/17)

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