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another age by Rachel Eliza Griffiths

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Recipe for Happiness

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

One grand boulevard with trees with one grand cafe in sun with strong black coffee in very small cups.

One not necessarily very beautiful man or woman who loves you.

One fine day.

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GRB 080319B 

For a month, I was a smudge. 

A mute monk in the bathtub, lukewarm water running as dull colors rolled around my head like fractured, aged marbles. Thoughts lost strength before fruition. I called out of work once a week, faked a cough, a car accident, another funeral. When I did make the drive out to the office, I spent most of the time typing a word, deleting the word, and typing the word again. I stopped taking calls. Mary left me beautiful voice messages. I listened to them while I laid on the couch, sprawled out like an active disease, furious tears streaming down my face. I knew it was stupid. A feeling cannot kill you. But then, I was being diminished. I was receding. 

I know you don’t feel well right now. But listen, I have these neighbors who still have their Christmas lights hanging up. It’s April. I sorta hope they leave them up all year round. 

I stayed frozen for a few weeks. 

Vitamin D and herbal teas, coffee and long novels. But then, I can’t explain it. It was Friday afternoon. Just a Friday afternoon. 

It began when I left the office. A slow bloom rose throughout my entire body. 

I noticed how all the buildings stood scraping against the most gorgeous, thin blue of the dying afternoon, rising evening. The wind felt kind. I didn’t go home. I went to the supermarket and held an orange in my hand, feeling the small indents with my thumbs, smelling the bright zest. It was as though everything was real again. That night, I bought a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked since I was nineteen. But I inhaled and let out a giant laugh at how lightheaded I felt, I walked through the streets like that, laughing and laughing, the laughter like the magician’s scarf being pulled out and out. It was a fantastic feeling. I felt fearless. As though I could scoop the fear and pain and shit out of myself like a pudding. I had capabilities. 

When I got home, I rushed in and had a shot of blueberry vodka and opened the windows and called Mary; she answered within a couple of rings. That gorgeous rodeo clown. I loved her as much as I loved anything. 

I never thought I’d hear your voice again, she said. But this worries me, y’know. How blue was the sky today?

I’m coming to see you, I said. Not tonight. But soon. I’ll stumble on your porch like a speedball. The sky was fantastic. I’m smoking.

Hm, she said. Listen, stay out of trouble. A feeling cannot kill you. I’ll save some tea for you. Come anytime. Come anytime. 

I couldn’t sleep. I played the same image in my mind, again and again. And words fizzed in and out too quickly for me to catch them. A church of nukes. Do you understand what you are signing? Perfume made of whale semen. Dominoes. 

In the morning, I could feel the angels looking over me. I imagined them like teenagers, shooting the shit, smoking and coughing and pointing. I spent the weekend in bars, meeting everyone on earth. A woman with a strong russian accent who told me the world was going down the toilet and we were all there for the ride. A man who asked me for three cigarettes and then told me he had coke if I wanted some. I spread a little on my gums. But it was a fifteen minute headache, it had nothing on the feeling within me, the glow which propelled and drove me around. I fucked the russian woman. 

I called out of work for the week, claimed I’d contracted HIV and needed time to grieve. I felt awful about the lie. It was ridiculous. But anything could happen. And I wasn’t wasting my time at a computer when I could see patterns in the streets. I wore a long, leather coat and wrapped it around my waist. And beneath, a black thong strung across my hips. I felt like a machine, I felt electric as I walked through the advertisement pus of Times Square, a cigarette beneath my teeth. I rode the trains for hours, befriending the other passengers. And for a moment, I forgot my address. It was nine in the morning. It was the middle of the night. I got nervous anytime I saw a police officer; there was a criminal in my heart. What was I doing? 

I went down to the village to visit Mary as promised. I felt breathless, sensitive to light. I was tired. It’d been years since sleep. I felt as though I was dying. A star exploding in reverse. Mary would know what to do. 

I knocked on her door and she answered as quick as she answered the phone. I smelled her vanilla scent. It made me nauseous. But I was so glad to see her; so glad she was there. I dated Mary for eight years. There was nobody on earth who knew me better than she did. 

You don’t look great, she said. Are you eating?

Not really, I told her as i walked into her apartment. I feel like I need a touch up. My engine is black. I’m running out of oil. I think I lost my job. I don’t know what day it is. 

It’s Saturday, she said. Three in the afternoon. It’s May and spring is here. Have a seat. 

I sat on her couch. 

I think I’ve been hexed, I said. A spell has been put on me. A poison. 

You’ve been here before, she said. Remember? That arrest in Ohio? Disturbing the peace? And the outburst in the museum. Banned from the gas station. A wild iris in your eyes. A desire for mountains. The call is coming from inside the house, Adam.

Mary gave me a cherry tart. I ate half of it and began to weep. Mary gave me a sleeping tablet. And when I woke up, I was horrified. 

When I got home, Mary had left me a voicemail. I laid down naked on the floor and listened. 

You’re a wife with cold feet. Shivering in the dressing room. You’re an astronaut grazing the face of the moon, blind to the wars on earth. You’re brave. You’re pathetic. You go to the amusement park to weep. You walk out onto the avenue to dance. You sneak into a club. And you feel nothing when the band plays, the gilded brass and vulgar scatting. 

And maybe you deserve it. 

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“I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I don’t know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness.”

—Anaïs Nin

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The love was there.

(NOT BASED OFF ANY CURRENT EXPERIENCES)

Jeanette Winterson / Ashe Vernon / Clementine von Radics, "In a Dream You Saw a Way to Survive" / P.D, "there is no absolution for the fallen, only dying" / Sky Ferreia, "Sad Dreams" / ? / Lidia Yuknavitch, "The Chronology of Water: a Memoir" / ?

#this is my life now

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variations on a theme by elizabeth bishop, john murillo

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mary oliver, from october // vicente aleixandre, from sound of the war // sarah ruhl, melancholy play // colette, from on tour (tr. by matthew ward) // augusto giacometti, die vertreibung aus dem paradies (1934) // linda gregg,  from slow dance by the ocean // jeff vandermeer, from annihilation // anaïs nin, from journals volume ii // virginia woolf, from orlando

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Vladimir Mayakovsky, 20th Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Steel; from ‘Unfinished Poems’, tr. Bernard Meares

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Love hate relationship with summer :-/

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Have you ever been loved like you're not worth loving?

Tumblr User @falling--icarus//not f'ound//Franz Kafka in "Letters to Milena"//Lovers Rock by TV Girl//Natalie Wee from "Lonely"//I Don't Smoke by mitski//Tomaž Šalamun//J. R. Rogue//Dark Red by Steve Lacy//Mahmoud Darwish

#this year

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should I move to bushwick? buy a record player? get on antidepressants? start discussing the new yorker? make weird art? allude to my "projects" in conversation but never finish them? get into crystals? buy an indoor lemon tree? only date people who use the word "jejune" in casual conversation? write a poetry chapbook that I self-publish & get stocked at the local communist bookshop? live in a converted warehouse? learn to fix bicycles? sell earrings on etsy? work an office job in a high-rise on the waterfront? cry in the doctor's office? learn french solely because it sounds cool? embroider swear words on t-shirts? get sober? get addicted to playing poker at the nearest casino? have a daily yoga practice in a rooftop garden? choose something to start doing just for the sake of choosing? shape my life around an object at random? just to have something to talk about? just to have something to do with my hands?

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summers like. you will feel a loneliness so profound youll fear it has no end but also sometimes God will place their cooling hand on yr forehead & you will feel held for the first time

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Hi, can i request a webweave on infatuation & trust issues?

i swear i'd love you if i could

pinterest / Clementine Von Radics In A Dream You Saw A Way To Survive; The Fear / pinterest / @hamletsmachine unaligned (2016) / @gumuhit old love (2016) / @extrasad

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Marguerite Duras, from The Easy Life

Text ID: We watch the summer that passes before us while we remain in our own winter.

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In the Evening, William Reichard

The night air is filled with the scent of apples, and the moon is nearly full.

In the next room, Jim is reading; a small cat sleeps in the crook of his arm.

The night singers are loud, proclaiming themselves every evening until they run

out of nights and die in the cold, or burrow down into the mud to dream away the winter.

My office is awash in books and photographs, and the sepia/pink sunset stains all its light touches.

I’ve never been a good traveler, but there are days, like this one, when I’d pay anything to be in

another country, or standing on the cold, grey moon, staring back at the disaster we call our world.

We crave change, but turn away from it. We drown in contradictions.

Tonight, I’ll sleep blanketed in moonlight. In my dreams, I’ll have

nothing to say about anything important. I’ll simply live my life, and let the night singers live theirs,

until all of us are gone. I won’t say a word, and let silence speak in my stead.

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i have a postcard mouth.

all it ever says is: i wish you were here

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It’s Winter, I'm Not in Love Yet but I'd Like to Be, Dante Émile