Someone recently asked me about myself, a person I don’t know. I sent them this:
As of late, I consume a lot of meals through the lilt of liquid, making my sentiments rather acai-driven or sorbet-slung. I’m a Mid-bestern, a North-a-rare-a-can, & a forehead-smiting socialite. Sometimes I operate through a slaughterhouse of slurs, or an abatement of commercial liability, better known as the front door douser. I translate text instantly & fall in low-percentage love with pathology. The curve of my human experience is often a little left, over in the woods like an amateur’s five-iron drive, which makes it better to find complexity in the thickets, but a little tougher to get a good look at the end. I voluntarily avoid closed windows but can hear the sounds behind them. I believe that if you leave enough books unshelved they will be read & understood inasmuch as they should not be shelved. Recently I’ve felt like the red trunk of Georgia O’Keefe’s Lawrence Tree. I’m an advocate for car conversations that get so intense the car doesn’t move but all the things around it, like scared little swallows, scatter away from intent to form content. A screaming always comes across the sky. A woman’s dressing gown is often self-satisfied to the point of remaining unworn, Steven’s “complacency of the peignoir.” Perhaps even the evening as Eliot’s patient etherized, that’s the grim tenacity, the slim but trimmed vivacity. I don’t wear hats well & thus own three that have been walloped by years of lint and idle attitudes. When the library wants its books back does it ever consider that you might not be done with them? My camera has operated on black & white only for just over a year now.