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218 pages, Paperback
First published August 8, 2023
I resented the implication that I should grow out of pessimism. I took it to mean I should grow out of truth.Ekphrasis as narratorial survival mode. A singular defining event recapitulates as persistent identity. An(n’s) early decision made precipitates future decision avoidance. Canvases stacked in corners of the infinite rooms comprising the mind as house. So many rooms in this house. You wander through and pick up the paintings, reflect on how art ‘consumes its own vomit only in order to be sick again’. A fitting metaphor for your own experience. Mind as house pictured next to actual house. Seems identical from outside, but within the walls the details bleed through the faded wallpaper. The blood in your mouth. The secret in the wardrobe. The knife in your bag. Missing eyes and missing dick. Memories do dissemble. But suppose you did make real the unspeakable, and it scraped you out fully. Now you are a cut-out, a shadow. A vessel to be filled by anyone given the chance. They think you are there. But you are not there. You are nowhere. So you consider the possibility of repeating a prelude to becoming. Crouching in a kind of perch on the precipice of being. Maybe this is penance for what you took from her. Maybe it is enough for some semblance of an existence.
I’ll live like nobody has ever been able to live: as the outside of something with no inside, the skin of a ghost, the bright green lustre of an endlessly repainted apple.