Source: SoundCloud / Fanfarlo
“Basically, I realized I was living in that awful stage of life between twenty-six and thirty-seven known as stupidity. It’s when you don’t know anything, not even as much as you did when you were younger, and you don’t even have a philosophy about all the things you don’t know, the way you did when you were twenty or would again when you were thirty-eight.”
― Lorrie Moore, Anagrams
working from the assumption that all critical terms are best represented by animal gifs
Still trying to figure out what to call this. Not really poetry. Flash nonfiction? I guess I should just follow the lead of writers like Lydia Davis and call it whatever the fuck I want. Anyway, it is now officially PUBLISHED - at Keep This Bag Away From Children.
There’s actually no such thing as an adult. That word is a placeholder. We never grow up. We’re not supposed to. We’re born and that’s it. We get bigger. We live through great storms. We get soaked to the bone. We realize we’re waterproof. We strive for calm.
"Enlightened," by Lydia Davis
I don’t know if I can remain friends with her. I’ve thought and thought about it—she’ll never know how much. I gave it one last try. I called her, after a year. But I didn’t like the way the conversation went. The problem is that she is not very enlightened. OR I should say, she is not enlightened enough for me. She is nearly fifty years old and no more enlightened, as far as I can see, than when I first knew her twenty years ago, when we talked mainly about men. I did not mind how unenlightened she was then, maybe because I was not so enlightened myself. I believe I am more enlightened now, and certainly more enlightened than she is, although I know it’s not very enlightened to say that. But I want to say it, so I am willing to postpone being more enlightened myself so that I can still say a thing like that about a friend.
One in a Series of Repeatedly Failed Experiments
11 PM. Subject is asleep at foot of bed. Appears contented. I climb in bed and turn off light.
4 AM. Subject decides to go for walk about the bed. Discovers numerous imaginary bed creatures that must be pounced upon. Decides he would like to look out window above my head into darkness of backyard. Thinks nothing of stepping on my head to do so.
I get up and toss subject into living room, closing door. Resolve not to allow subject in bedroom at night. Lie awake for an hour or more, ceaselessly ruminating on all things wrong with my life and unsuccessfully trying to focus on breath.
Next night, 11 PM. Subject is asleep at foot of bed. I consider relocating subject to living room. Subject appears so contented. I climb in bed and turn off light.