Trashy life, rosy mythologies

Written August 2018

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
(again, 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.

Rosy mythologies, indeed. 

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