COSMICOMICS

6:58 a.m. Awoke to a friend nudging me that ‘The Bedroom From 2001: A Space Odyssey Is Now At An L.A. Warehouse’. Oh-my-fucking-god, teleport me already. The morning starts with a smile.

7:47 a.m. Cream spills into black. Is it a good idea to drink coffee? It always makes my heart race against itself—pounding pulse pavement—anxiety takes the lead.

7:51 a.m. Fuck it, I am drinking it hot & steady. I think of him. Its always the same: Vår ‘In Your Arms (Final Fantasy)’. I think of yesterday’s words in response to where one would choose to live/great quality of life: ‘They say Denmark is like that.’

7:55 a.m. Finger-hunt searches go to Age Coin, Dubrovnik, Frederiksen, Hand of Dust, Lower, Sexdrome, Girlseeker, Onda Tidender, Martin Dupont, a Northern channel. I think of saying ‘I love you’ in Spanish—Te Amo. I think of how bad my French tongue is. Kinésithérapeute. The sound stumbles and gets stuck.

8:17 a.m. I know I have emotions that need to clothe themselves in words. I know I need to pen to him. A poem. It should be a poem. I look up at the shelf and Italo Calvino The Complete Cosmicomics stares back at me. An ode to an old fish who shared the magic of an I CHING. Why not? I pick a page but it doesn’t speak to me.

8:32 a.m. The flicker of a blank page on a computer screen. The hypochondriac in me thinks of the light of the monitor and its impact on melatonin levels. Never the mind. Instead I think of the sun. I think of darkness. I think on his love of collage. All I know is I wish to dive into him. To go there. To explore from the inside. I think of breath. I think of mouths releasing espiritu. respire. inspire. Yes, even in the dark, he inspires. I think of breathing in, out—on a loop.

9:04 a.m Truce is still playing: ‘Veil of Tears,’ ‘Soliloquy of a Silkworm,’ until finally, ‘It is Impossible for Her to Know Whom She Will Discover When I Hold Her’ wins out and ends up on repeat.

9:13 a.m. A poem is taking shape. Some words: taste of nobody’s tropic. I think of Miller. I think of Nin. I think of the heat he gives to no one. Yes. DIVE. The poem is called DIVE. It is about the sun. 

10:09 a.m. I share this poem with him.

11:01 a.m. I think that though I want him to read it, I know that if I were there, I would read it to him, his face. Closer than close. While listening to Dunkerely ‘Outro (Lovers of Tomorrow),’ I record a reading. The sounds mingled with the spoken word feel like a marriage.

11:10 a.m. I send the recorded poem.

11:11 a.m. I make a wish.

Approx. 12 p.m. A friend shares a song: Hieroglyphic Being ‘A Genre Sonique’–it fucking blows my mind. Sounds primal. It incites familiarity. I think I can I CHING now. Calvino is in the hands again. I begin to read aloud from page 141, The Spiral. Here’s the part where everything all comes full-circle and makes the utmost fucking sense….’Now habits have changed, and it already seems inconceivable to you that one could love a female like that, without having spent any time with her. And yet, through that unmistakable part of her still in solution in the sea water, which the waves placed at my disposal, I received a quantity of information about her, more than you can imagine: not the superficial, generic information you get now, seeing and smelling and touching and hearing a voice, but essential information, which I could then develop at length in my imagination.’ The story is about life as a mollusk and the nature of love and writing. It coincides with real life. It parallels the waxing poetic.

12:51 p.m. Overwhelmed with magic. The kind that is brimming over. The kind that makes you feel like yr rocking back & forth, facing tidals, facing peaks. A sort of creative nausea that makes you want to vomit. Vomit that you would strewn onto walls. But walls that hold preferential treatment. The outside world is cold. You’d rather yr churning haven here. 

1:09 p.m. Yr friend fills you in on Hieroglyphic Being, Jamal Moss, and his work with Sun Ra’s Arkestra. You look forward to seeing him, hopefully, at the Neo-Classical Ballet. Futurisme à Pied. You wonder how Francisco Moreno will re-envision Picasso’s cubist costumes. You wonder how yr son will enjoy his first ballet.

00:00 p.m./a.m  This, this you read and rolled yr eyes to.