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  • trashy life, rosy mythologies

    trashy life, rosy mythologies

    Each time I turn to Susan Sontag’s journal,
    I find myself
    on the same entries,
    drawn to the same lines —


    “All my life I’ve been looking for someone intelligent to talk to.”


    “I’m loyal to my feelings. What does that mean?”

    another — a favorite —



    On a Sunday afternoon
    Lauren & I talk shit about boys
    at a French cafe on the corner of Augusta
    over fries & the perfect whiskey smash.

    I worry about my looks
    (what a fucking bore)
    and she looks perfect,
    with her arm stretched out
    on the back of the bench
    that might just be a church pew.

    I want to take her picture,

    but I don’t.


    I’ve been told I’m beautiful
    my whole fucking life

    & still, it doesn’t stick.

    We only hear what we can
    — or is it what we want?

    Unlike Susan, I don’t feel loyal to my feelings.

    They change constantly, after all.

    I order another whiskey smash.

    There are sauteed calf brains on the menu.
    I could never pretend to be that invested.
    You can order them for breakfast, even.


    All my life I’ve been looking for someone
    to make me laugh like I do with my girlfriends.

    “Can I love someone (N[icole]) and still think/fly?”

    I’d say so, Susan, yes.

    But where is the proof?

    She writes of feeling “inauthentic at a party”
    & lately — forever? — I feel inauthentic

    when I have the desire
    to show my authentic
    to a man.

    What does that mean?



    On August 14, 1973, in Paris,

    Susan Sontag was reading — re-reading —
    Kafka’s “Investigations of a Dog”

    And on August 2018, in Chicago,
    I’m reading another woman’s journal
    & just trying
    to get my new cat to love me.