Apology as time-negating. Apology as limit.

LADY BIRD.jpg

Hey all,

I’ve noticed a pattern in my WordPress activity: I disappear from the site for considerable lengths of time, only to re-emerge at random to post poetry and journaling caked with an unrelated but pretty (and – admittedly –  bordering on pretentious) photograph I grabbed straight from Pinterest. And despite the time between my visits, I always expect a small echo back at me from all of you, my followers.

But this has been my longest hiatus yet. Not only have I felt uninspired to write, I also got swept away in an avalanche of college projects and work-related duties.

So with that out of the way, tonight I’m jazzed up on caffeine, and I finally have something to say.

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This past year was the first time I felt like I stuck my hands through someone’s life, the lives of multiple people I love, and created an irrevocable rift. Something resembling the planet Neptune’s storm, with all its roaring yawn and unreachable blue. When my mind plays over the hurt, there’s a surge within me and I feel that if I strain hard enough, at just the right angle, the whole memory will give and come crashing in on itself. And everything will be as it should be. Okay and still.

This past year was also the first time someone broke my heart, and I experienced the halt and quicksand pull of having having me, my whole life, shut off from someone else’s life. And the feeling of trying to trying to reach out to that person, but also the hopeful-me, the one that now spends eternity under the seams of those short months. As if aching could peel back a phone’s dead-end static, plow straight through and you’d call out to me and I’d be the same all over again, new.

But once I’ve eschewed fantasies of making things right, or having things be made right to me, I always come up wanting to be healed with an apology – unasked for, at once direct and sincere. Or to apologize and have the rift painted over in white. As if past actions could be once again linked to the actor at the altar of this stilted limbo and somehow be absolved.

I’ve found, sadly, that it never works that way. When apologizing or being apologized to, after being washed over in a sense of yes, I’m still left feeling as though I’ve lost an arm or some other part of me. I believe that it’s true that no amount of sorry can seal a gap, once made, but it can act as a balm to the memory of a thing. In short, in instances of collateral-damage, I think apologies immediately snap the dislocation of memory and present-day back into place. The action is defined as a thing both parties would reverse, if they could. An apology, however, does little in the way of healing all of the malformed ideas, the subsequent wounds taken on in the mind of the person hurt. All of the doubts and hatreds and the image from the moment you were hurt.

I don’t know how to heal these things, and a shout of sorry across time seems like waiting to hear an echo from the mouth of space.

 

 

 

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music borrows a body

Jazz Blog Post

Songs that have been lighting me up recently (and loosely inspired me to write this small morsel that began as a reminder/gush of admiration for how modern poetry has taught and is continuing to teach me to throw over my old notions of what *proper* writing is. From there, it sort of devolved into a little rumination on how we experience all life through limits – such as our bodies or really anything that exists in the world – and how even art must obey this creed either through noise or material objects):

“Smoking Section” and “Los Ageless” by St. Vincent 

“Francis Forever” and “Crack Baby” by Mitski 

“Lady Day” by Frank Sinatra 

“I’m So Afraid” by Fleetwood Mac

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But the no rules, the no structure no gimmicks no innovation or uniqueness committed in the *right way*. Freedom. Its clean conic inhale and divine snap. Clean, like dust swept invisible. Perhaps I can now see the page as some writhing globulus deity and not fear its judgement. Like heat waves, mud. The uncertainty, infinite and molten silk, prison wide as me, I now want to see every shape natural and manmade as confinement. Even music, noise, is pitched to us in silicone casing, sound’s crosshatch hairs burning up themselves with fuse-like obedience, how they branch, trailing parts fading proofless, fading until they’ve traveled to and reached that finger-tip needle cell tower, punctum where that last rioting grain of them can still be heard. Extending past themselves to absence. Until they’re through with themselves or the shapes.

Here is what I’m trying to say: I’m no different from them, the notes in a song. My body is filled with color to define my casing, where my lines stop and every space without me in the world starts. My skin, my fizzling constellation web, my atlas perfect of every square inch the world can touch me and I would feel them. And the one-thousand miles twisting rope in me I can’t feel. Terrifyingly foreign. I feel tar rivers braiding, sewing through the reptile gaps to an eyeless rhythm, like the slide of muscles in a body sighing, the rhythm like echoes from the womb. These invaders, no more akin to me than the blind meat-inflated carnivores of the deep-sea are akin to fish. But I accept. All of it. Every bone and arrowhead, crystal and feather,  in this museum. My inventory can be numbered, and I know that number is small, feels like a false narrative. I accept. All the unseen monster fish breathing in me and keeping me alive too. I adopt them and give them names. Because what else in this world can I claim as me other than the body I feel in? I can only ever talk about sight in relation to seeing through my eyes. But without? Can I ever receive something unsealed?

 Imagine a bodiless sight, not of this planet or any, something closer to a galaxy’s yawn, dreams, the steeping kaleidoscope brew appearing only when balled fists press gently on lids. Careful not to fall through that color like infinity. Like never was and never again.

And soon. A day I’ll see unbridled, aidless from light. 

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wisdom teeth

Blog Post - wisdom teeth

Think of a party, everyone shivering in swallowed lamplight or, the music. Thin, unpunctured here. Bodies moving like excuses. This is not yet forgetting, this is only a mouthful of blood. Like a startled wait, this yearn wrung through teeth. Like a muscle unlearning itself in whiplash and the slow leaving too. It is simple: only this waiting-room, feathered march of anesthetics, falling through the hollows of a name.

 

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august

 

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Brimming with their secrets, the way everything is the answer, opaque and boundless until you split it open and swim inside it. Take refuge, pitch a tent. Drink in until every inch is uncovered, until every breath bruises. It cannot be without limbs to seal it in.

What I want cannot be contained.

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“life rocked me, ultra-softly”

They should love me.
I mean, maybe they do, but I don't even know what it is.
You spend your whole life thinking you're not getting it, people 
aren't giving it to you.
Then you realize they're trying and you don't even know what it is

Mad Men 

In celebration of Lana’s new album dropping, I’ve decided to make a guest appearance on my own blog — I say this because it’s been ages since I’ve glanced around my corner of the web, but now that I have, I felt the site in need of a pretty drastic update, as I had out-grown the moody and, well, let’s just say it, “emo” look of the past era of “Kateri’s Theories” (for those of you who have stuck around, I hope you like the changes I’ve made to the blog’s appearance!).

Now that I’ve dusted off the cobwebs, I think a brief update on my life and writing is in order:

This past May, I was lucky enough to have one of my poems — and a personal favorite of mine at that — published in The Adroit Journal. You can find the poem here, but I urge you to read the whole issue. They always make real stunners.

From a birds-eye view, however, I haven’t been up to much in my personal life — just running around with friends, desperately trying to drink in my city, my room, who I’ve tried to be these past few years before I ship out to college and grow apart from the Allen, Texas me.   I want no detail lost, and yet I feel I’m missing something, there’s a gap. I need to know what it was we were all chasing, who we were then, what sort of image we were playing at.

There’s something about every space I’ve visited in my city, how it contains a disconnected and jangled mess of the pieces of me from the different eras of my life; I feel like there’s a conclusion about myself I need to grasp before I leave forever, before I grow so far apart from this version of myself, but it’s difficult to realize what “it” is when all my emotions feel glossy and trodden. But I think at the end of any year, I always admire who I was striding into it, when I was free-roaming and less self-aware.

I was jolted recently, however, by a quote from the AMC series Mad Men, pictured at the beginning of this post. I’ve undergone countless exhausting inter-personal and relationship issues this year alone, and through it all, I’ve been left with the impression that I’ll never be loved in the capacity that I want, by the people I love. This quote, in contrast, pushes the issue back on the subject, making me realize that maybe people really are trying to understand, to be a part of my life, and maybe the true problem rests in me relying on others to fill the lack I feel in myself.

In closing, I promise that I’ll have a more organized, substantial post up soon. In the meantime, enjoy the dazzling music of Summer 2017!

 

 

 

 

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evenings from my bathtub

And from the gutted ivory I birthed an immense quiet. In the lateness, the walls and the tiles stretching, sinking into a greater configuration. There were the hollows beneath my tongue, caverns deeper than moons, than the ends of god. Here, there’s always a burial of feeling, the weary moments passing through into the parts of me that span everything, a misty patched space broader than my fingers or the small streams of blood. The body is stunted; most of what I feel and know exists in the air, in the crooks of imaginary space. So many things endlessly tumbling and traveling through one square-inch of skin. All this found through a bullet wound, the opposite side of a name. metro

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publication news / quick reflection

Hello all!!! Long time no post and I apologize for that. My life has been extraordinarily hectic this year – courtesy of that unique comb of schoolwork + college apps – but I just wanted to stop by for a second to update everyone on some publication news and to post a short journal entry I made a few weeks back.

Anyway, two old poems of mine, “Tennis Shoes” and “Froth skies, bloody snow”, are featured in the 6th issue of Elsewhere, which you can read here. Please go check out all of the lovely works in this issue (not to mention that it was released just this afternoon!!!).

I promise that in 2017 I’ll make a greater effort to post on this blog weekly. Much love xx

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