December 26, 2008

by Cathy Borders

Sex and philosophy have never stopped interchanging their gravity, but sex cares nothing for philosophy.

It is assigned to the body alone.

Supposing there is a real way to read this, a true way, a perfect way, it would be difficult to know if you had already read it that way.

She doesn’t inhale her cigarettes as deeply as he does, smoking as if she doesn’t want to, and yet she lights up more frequently.

“Her eyes stop traffic. They go from green to red, without the cautionary yellow.”

“I wish I could be more like her.”

All he could think of was how she obsessively plucked her eyebrows.

Stormy weather… since my man and I ain’t together… keeps raining all the time… all the time.

Her wedding dressing is covered in blood, “it must have been an arranged marriage,” she says, but he’s busy jumping back and forth between the two Fridas, following the vein connecting them, the lack of certain breasts, those terrifying scissors.

They suffer from nonconsolation.

Philosophy was born with anxiety, with questions, with insomnia, and from the depths of time we have been seeking consolation within the depths of the night.

She clutched his arm like a monkey, wishing she could hold on with her feet as well, as he led her down the alley and into the next bar, this one was much quieter, “easier on his temples” he said.

With her knees on the ground, snow and mud and sleet soaking through her jeans, she searched for her earring, which was nothing more than a simple wooden circle, with the blue light from her cell phone.

“To be free of hypercivilization, to be able to throw out my television, and hear music like I’ve never heard before,” he said to her as she looked for an earring that reminded her of her father.

In the first season of The Muppet Show, Wayne and Wanda tried to sing the song, but as with most of their attempts to perform, the duet ends with slapstick violence.

Cant’ keep my poor legs together…


Two cats crawled into her lap as he spoke to her, and as she warmed her fingers in their fur he got the vague sense that she wasn’t paying him any attention.

They preferred to meet at the only park in town that wasn’t outclassed by plastic, and she would wait on the swings, twirling the metal chains, staring up at the towering rocketship completely devoid of children because it was nearly two in the morning.

“Wagner has nothing to do with me,” he says, but she doesn’t agree.

He brought her a sandwich from the deli (ham, cheese, onion, no mayo) and upon his handing it to her she burst into tears, and this made him feel like an asshole.

“You are like Wagner, heavy with a light touch- he brings out your feminine side,” she says.

On the bed, listening to Wagner, looking at Le Due Frida, thinking about Trotsky, smoking cigarettes. 

2 Responses to “okay.”

  1. Eric Lee Says:

    I discovered your homepage by coincidence.
    Very interesting posts and well written.
    I will put your site on my blogroll.

  2. Cathy Borders Says:

    Response to the text from the author: Originally written on notecards, to be read as an anagram.

    Response to Eric Lee: Thank you!

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