I’ll never be tough enough for you LA. I don’t wear blinders, I fall in love, and I still don’t know how to lie. I’m the weakest type of person here. Here, where everyone is trying to win and I’m just being romantic.
I have this memory of being five or six at a cabin on a lake somewhere close to Northport. Now that I’ve done drugs, I realize that everyone was on drugs. I don’t know whether my dad convinced my mom to give us to him for the weekend, or if it was the other way around. His friend Matthew owned this cabin. Matthew’s wife wouldn’t let their kids stay the night at the cabin. It was just me, my brother, and these men. There was a family of fox that lived under the shed and my dad let me feed them milk. I remember my brother crying because no one made him go to bed. I remember having to drive into town to buy more milk and beer, and my dad drove into and back out of a ditch. I remember the yard being full of daddy long legs. It was before I was scared of spiders so I let them crawl all over me while I waited for the baby foxes to come out from under the shed. We listened to Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band the whole time.
Needing a top bed sheet, light wind, cloudlessness: No one remembers spring at a time like this when it’s bodies for bodies, the beginning of the freezing, and we just watch the sky eat itself whole into the wildest of grays, startling for such wind and a warm front. But rime has never been a type of frost. It’s ice. It needs those high winds, that heavy air, and to be spoken to very quietly in the morning. It has nothing to do with fragility and everything to do with the way I cried when I couldn’t make the coffee and you didn’t make the bed.
I wanted to wake up in a snowstorm. Wanted to wake up with it all barreling down in that stark raging grey way. I’ve been talking about this fortress feeling— like being made of unbearably hard stone. I’m either very right or very wrong about this. Every few months I receive these messages from men in Nigeria whom I have never met. They make me cry in the same way that hearing a car accident from my bedroom does. It’s like they break me from the inside, because neither of them make any sense.
Eating and drinking alone for days until you drove me to see all the broken trees. A lake full of what gets caught — it’s a bowl of carcass, all frozen and sensitive in the earliest part of winter — I can’t tell if you’re blushing. There are these veins streaming down the ridge: the history of the avalanches, and I wished for one minute that skin said more so we didn’t have to tell our stories and know we did it — covered in snow, broke every one of these trees, but that’s what people like us like to do to people like us.
It’s beyond funny because some writers will do anything not to write. It’s like we’re so goddamn sure of ourselves that if we sit down and hammer it all out, something riveting will emerge and our poor to mediocre lives will forever be fucked, because once it’s written, there won’t be any more to say and you’ll sadly careen toward middle-aged content.
This is total bullshit, but anyone who’s older than twenty-five remembers what it was like when facebook was awkward and that sound your phone made when you flipped it shut satisfied all rage. You and I will forever blame the internet for our lack of productivity. We can’t help it because it is also the coolest invention ever and we want to be smarter than our hypothetical children for at least a decade. Miranda July made an entire movie and book about this, so we can all get real and admit that the internet ate our early/mid/late twenties. It’s a bummer, but get the fuck over it because I want to read your book.
—heart of an avalanche (demo)
—Sin City (Parsons & Hillman)
—Seabird (Alessi Brothers)
We talk of things coming out of nowhere. Like it was paradise and then it wasn’t. I look up and two men with motorized parasails are flying straight toward my sliding glass door. They don’t seem to have much control and there’s a thin layer of ice on the lake. It’s Thanksgiving weekend and the tourists are depressed by the melted snow. This didn’t come out of nowhere: you and me and the end. They’ve been getting drunk in the bars and running over my neighbor’s mailbox. This is like that movie about the geese and the planes, except it isn’t that sad, the water-foul sound like they’re being eaten, and I wish you would just admit you don’t like me.