Friday, April 25, 2014

Tied, worn, or slung

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The disadvantage of posting pictures too far from the time they were taken is forgetting what I was thinking or feeling at that time. 


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Like I recall these images were taken Monday afternoon and that I wore white jeans because it was warm and I brought a cardigan because I was going to be out till the evening. But I don’t remember what inspired me to wear black and white.


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The advantage, on the other hand, is gaining greater perspective after the lapsing of time, especially when one can look at an event against the context of a succession of days, weeks, months. Heavens, even years!


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That’s what happens to the books I buy, which I sign and date. Afterwards, I find myself glancing at the stroke of my name like old scars. Trying to remember which pen I used, why it bled or ran out of ink. Why some signatures had to be repeated over faint marks.


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Same goes for the notes that I scribble and set aside, convinced they would be useful for future poems. Or self-reference.


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Sometimes I intentionally write them to air them out – I want to see if they would still be valid after the sting or slather has subsided or dried up.


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Hence it would make sense to rename this post “Tried, wrung, or unsung”.


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Of course, it goes without saying that the posts on these very pages serve the same purpose. 


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From journal entries to markers for my poetry. 


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Though they may sound detached and aloof, they are a definite way to plot my personal history. 


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Once I have the breathing space to write thoroughly, I will return to these entries like a general inspecting sentries.


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Oh how I yearn to think and speak with military cadence!


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T-shirt, A.P.C.
Jeans, thrifted
Braided belt, Nautica
Sneakers, Generic Surplus
Cardigan, Muji


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But in the meantime, I have to settle with explaining why wearing mommy jean-ish denim makes sense – as compared to my white Margielas. (It takes me forever to button and then hook the crotch of jeans and pants purchased from the house that the Belgian abandoned.)


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Need I point out that combining a tee with a relaxed fit and a cardigan tied around the waist (just in case) is my way of biding my time?


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It still surprises me that these ill-fitting jeans don’t look that bad in these pictures. 


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And that against the light my hair actually looks brown (like my mom's).


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Returning to the topic of time difference, there is an advantage to having a boyfriend who works nights. 


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I can have my silence when he is asleep. Hence I have the time to write this post. (Not that he could already afford to work at the moment.)


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I imagine writers with children feel the same way. But what I am actually amazed (but not at all surprised) at, is that after months of being together, we have learned to visit each other in our dreams: I in his sleep, and he on the walking and wide-awake white page.

I hope you forgive any incoherence. I blame the coffee and occasional jets breaking my concentration (and the sound barrier!).


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