» open doors lead to absent handy men
My favourite excerpts from my most recent blog post, which is about the inauthencity of some conversations I’ve been having in my life, and how I muddle through them, my brain half split as I talk and make things up to say.
Is it a writer’s curse to invent words to string together as you speak, your lips like the nibs of pens, the lead tips of pencils and your tongue and breath the ink? Never have I understood air better than when I am pretending to know what I am talking about. Here is heartbreak, here is denied self-worth, here is desperation and a need to understand. Here is another person. Two people, in love and out.
And the script says.
—
You’re a book I learned to read, a well-thumbed magazine in a doctor’s waiting room. Repeat visits.
—
I imagine us as broken phonographs in this kitchen, bleating our glitchy tunes at each other. “It’ll be fine.” “I know.” “It’s tricky.” “I mean…” I do not know what I am saying to you. I turn and inch my way to the kitchen door and leave. A half-turn, a half-smile, an exit. It seemed better than anything else I could have conjured up, cheap tricks.
