open letter to tiff, no. 2
(Tiff has forgotten what it is really like to have a heartache, so I said)
I am happy to tell you what (little) I know about (real true) heartache.
I am happy to remind you about what (little) I know about (real true heartache), given recent events.
I am pausing for a moment.
we were in the process of figuring out what we want and how to get it. I felt a slip in dimensionality. privy to core, tiff.
we discussed degrees of performativity at length
I felt pronounced and heady. we lied vertically but felt laterally. It wasn’t the mist mist mist of great secrets but the jadedness was there – saccharine, scintillating, ivy.
i too was moved by my inclinations and
this time around
heeding your words, in a multichannel kind of way
i said to him
that I was ready to be a level-headed wader into the pool
checking the temperature at times, not blindly diving the way I used to. but also
not turning away because the initial impact is
he agreed that the alternative mode
perpetual dissatisfaction, constant stream, digital inundation and
“is this as good as it gets?” was a
bleak way to think
| function and dysfunction |
shortly thereafter it was proclaimed dead, except there was no corpse nor a proclamation.
I am not someone who jumps to conclusions to save herself from the process of self-examination.
______ . ________ —— &&•••••• à
And so, knowing I had nothing to lose:
hope this message finds you well
if im understanding correctly this—however we define this—seems to have dissolved, which sits well with me.
I do have a request tho; was wondering if you could elaborate on what actually transpired, what trepidations you may have had. my hope is to gain clarity not via a lens of pattern recognition / trope) but bc I thrive on self examination. I am a malleable creature w interests in conferring meaning.
would greatly prefer in person clarity too, if you can spare some time
thanks for hearing me out
but, in the spirit of being revelatory (always) and transparent (dimensionally. always.) I am sitting here a day after I composed the cranium of this message that is These Words and I feel as if I’ve regained some compassion for myself
not really sure how that happened but
ah so the need to request clarity. Obliterated!
I’ve nothing to lose, still. Tiff, when I say dissolution I mean deliquescence. I am sourcing clarity not from literary patches (never even frameworks) but from those misty misty misty, those hair follicles, the way I stepped on a stone early this evening.
Socrates was right to be unequivocal.
I resisted the urge to assert:
SORRY honey but there are two revolutions at work, here
gonna have to terminate the one
it’s easier this way—-false self preservation
This entire unwieldy process has made me realize that I am ‘Possibly Maybe’ Bjork but, as you know, I am led by my compulses, so I am really truly ‘Triumph of a Heart’ Bjork.
I’m really unabashedly pleased with my turnaround time, this time.
THE DULL FLAME OF DESIRE led me astray
well Tiff, I suppose there was no real heartache, was there.
I splurged on a new vibrator.
There’s a Sandalwood candle burning in my peripheral vision.
I sunk and felt.
There is now an 8 foot by 8 foot erect structure sitting on four clumsy ply limbs.
I am entertaining the idea of spending Wintersession in Berlin.
In very romantic fashion, a boy ran after me the other day. He asked my name.