FACE BY ELIZABETH VICTORIA ALDRICH



i want to cut open my face and dig for diamonds.

the ghasty sights, driving through the streets, and so much more and more and less. this was a thanksgiving universe handshake, a verbal contract between the suns and the moons, hallowed light and gravity; a holiday without a host, or sacrament, a penitent, a two-way machine from the above.

we are the first; we were late in line, we got scalped in the endless escalator, upward an empyrean of heaven’s gate–it’s funny how. don’t you see — i was never there — i never had a say: it was for i was kind of so condign, then, along ago. you weren’t there. your stare was your statement, said it all: apodictic, irreconcilable, incontrovertible, unimpeachable, conditionals endless such. we sat in a kind of mute astonishment, for this was not the way, and there were no others; we sat the same wherever we haplessly landed our lack. it was lost in translation, the unseeable the unsayable the unpalatable the impalpable & finally, irrefutable — still. shut yourself! turn off. this is not for you. all that ineffable shit, carnal & otherwise; i was the first and last and always, and so will continue, indefatigable, on my midnight jaunt, soon to come. unsayable. (always the first, always the first, always the last, gargantuan in detail. soon to be. but owe were not there, the whatnot & the herein & the unsayable everlasting. somehow, beyond all regards, we never seem to tire of the unlovable/-noumenal moment.)


IT

  WAS

   NOT

   FOR

YOU.


would you believe we all had lovers? they were our latterday matronly memoirs, inexhaustible in as –> involuntary, & we were long lost

against it, with nothing left

to prove

or even

posit.

….we wended our way into the dark, unfathomable forest: an infinite circle, and regress, we made our rounds as if to prove, we were equally tireless — inexhaustible — HONESTNESS, temporal social values. a forgetting of anomie, as if it were the ultimate–transcendental charge we relieved along our way. (in the dusky heart growing dim there were precious few remonstrances, but we lent our voice to them all the same. we trusted the darkness. we metamorphized, and though less for all of currency. there came a time when the world came true), but we were asleep when it transpired, doubtless so, endless if. i cannot go along any longer, this is my biological fact, this is my endless litany, endless timeless, endless, a suicide note?! nah, a feedback loop. 

i dreamt reality as the arrested stare of one wrong number in a hall of mirrors. an invisible source of soft light illuminated the one figure in a precise rapture of vertigo, distorting the mumble of dead meat into a perplexing mob of infinite recursion; energy into matter, matter into mind, mind unto question, speech onto flesh.

LAUGH all you Like,

it proves nothing;

we continue

[…]

there was a winter of impatience and a desert in the middle of potential. i lost my tongue somewhere belong the way, i had to drop propositions of my longings to listen to saint paul. his epileptic fit was an icebreaker, since then my mind has been leaking, on steadily on.

into the night i fled from more than stars.  i tried to escape the lure of the equator but still i wound between the There and Then. i hastened to compact my antepredicative body, abstracted from all sense data, all indriyas and inputs. i wanted to curl back up into the first skin, mother’s warmth. that was not to be, however. all my wishes were exempt, all my thoughts were of breath and its manifestation. for you see, there is nothing that exists that i have not breathed on once. everything that exists has an impalpable glow, to be amenable to the sight; that is all my doing. to restore silence is the role of objects; i have wished, like a birthday cake, and blown on everything in the room, just to see it.

lend the flame some oxygen. unfortunately now it’s all phlogiston, and the smoke has revelled in my throat, searing my heart, scarring my lungs, blackening my brain.

there really is no alternative to this. this tacit sick adoration of reality. so long as we lean to words we are colluders with god. the word conspiracy means to breathe together, hence the primary conspiracy is the controversy over the existence of the world. we hushed our lungs out: the room arrived. the question is what came first? the accomodation of space or the preverbal birth pangs of flustering brains.

(what i miss most about you is my state of mind)

i am faceless and forgettable, a tight corner in an unfriendly space.

just know that i had everything once, okay? just know that i knew love. i need you to know that i have known the most pure love. i can’t let you not know that. 

i want to do bumps of ketamine off your eyelids and then kiss slowly down your chest.

i am beginning to make a start at forgetting how to breathe. 

uncultivated apnea is a cinch. you just wrap around your throat and keep going, like dressing a present.

nothing has anything to do with anything. time can only divide moments witnessed from the without of consciousness (which never happened to anyone) — but to have a mind & know how to use it is to be everlasting —because atoms can cohere but not interpenetrate discrete objects are an illusion, static identity an impossibility, & an identity possessing itself or another object is an unfortunate delusion, strictly speaking. all events are abstract vignettes & the imposition of a subtext relating events with a no-show meaning is a perfect nonevent — a contrived narrative meaning nothing but to the nothing you take you for. if all of life is an irrational nonevent, why all the overblown theatrics? there are no causes or contingencies to obsess over; no victims or defendants. everything is exactly as it is, second to second, day to day, world to world. perfection and order. don’t pretend you recognize me.



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Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich writes fiction, poetry, and bad HTML in Los Angeles, CA. She obsessively tweets at @eris_rlt

*Image credit: Untitled photograph by Ren Hang