Currently reading : From Synesthesia
It is a leaf, falling, more red than remembered and shaped by these stories of celebrities and failed politicians, spiraling slowly this turning, an axis tilted and gravity pulls these bodies into elliptical paths, at least we used to think so, back when science still claimed to be progress. now we are forced to reconsider as, how are bodies in motion aware of one another and why does light redshift or bend, this gravitational pull of celestial bodies can now be measured by circulation numbers and box-office draw. he brought his own red carpet with him, miles and miles of it, and precise measurements were taken for the dressmaker, what we used to think of as glamour has been replaced by fame and both have become cheap and tawdry. not that any of this is a new idea, he says, waving his cigarette around for effect and dropping ash on the floor, we drink a blush wine, a sweet rosé and he tells us about the man he met in Cancún, don’t tell your grandmother she has no idea. I’m left trying to piece together a unifying theory of the universe from satin scraps and red lipstick, unable to explain how the flow of energy and momentum can affect the curvature of spacetime.
This is true and the opposite is also true, a moment frozen, a hero also frozen, and the screen splits, jaggedness and a ragged edge, a jade girl now jaded. the only solution is to leave it behind, unwilling to believe the lesson that while it is possible love will prevail, it may require brain damage, but if it is true that the fractured body has no agency, is it also true that a body with no agency is fractured? a breakthrough of sorts, through the rain and a break in the rain, no pain, he says pornography is two people in a romantic relationship on film, thinking pink, waiting for red.
[this interlude is for having sex]
I am not the fan of complicated words that other writers are, fire and water, bricks, an ocean view, as I dreamed strange dreams of my sister, time travel, an aqueduct, a mansion out of time. she says it’s because Mercury is in retrograde, these feelings of inferiority too complex to sort, water hitting the window pane, wind breaking through the treetops, I don’t know how this process works, or if the process works, or even if working is the point. still it rains.
Image by Maxime Ballesteros
Text by Loretta Clodfelter