I had one of those nights last night where accidental late-in-the-day caffeine ingestion renders my body incapable of sleep no matter how relaxed my mind is. In this particular state, there is a weird, otherworldly kind of creative half-magic that can set in – ideas arise in a whirlpool, midnight cauldron, youtube video watching spree.
So at 2:45 am, after I had gotten up to make some pasta (trying to offset the caffeine with a good old fashioned carb nap) and eaten it, in this strange ethereal half-body half-dream state that I used to utilize during all-nighters on floor 9 of the Sciences Library with a 3-foot-square drawing board and charcoal all over my face because yes the sciences library is a reasonable place to do visual art assignments at midnight…anyway, in this mode, I started recording voice-to-text memos. Half-poems. Dreams of performances melding dance and spoken word, about my body, about the bridges it can’t, right now, yet cross. Reckonings and musings and messes and dalliances with absurd verb tense.
And then, I started reading all the memos that were already in the notes app. Two years+ of memos- grocery lists, notes to myself, pre-poems, texts I drafted because I was too worried to send them without an edit, or copies of texts I sent, so I wouldn’t forget.
There’s something so tender and tickling to me, something surprising, vulnerable, and unabashedly sharp, about this kind of accidental collection. A map that wasn’t meant to be a map. When I was painting I used to keep all the bright dried strips of paint that had scraped off my glass palette with a razor blade, and gesso them on to all the narrow strips of canvas I had ripped off to one side when building stretchers- not to be “artsy,” not to ever even show them to anyone, but because I couldn’t bear to let go of their raw beauty and failed edge. I like seeing the back end process, how the sausage gets made and what’s left over, the discarded, the negative space that shaped the things making its own shape in its own right. The cut outs. The weeds. The pottery shards. I like riding trains and seeing the backs of the yards, factories, houses, creek beds, landfills, ponds.
Here is a bit of what has collected in the lint trap of the notes app on my phone in the last year, a curation of the actuality of days, and other days, and other days (and all the days never noted). Not to be finished or exposed or special, but rather just to be a lens in, from the rattling tracks, a curiosity about the breadth and surprises and the odd dailiness of, well, days.
[CW] Brief non-graphic discussion of rape culture
MEMO POEMS (In chronological order beginning October 2015, which is when I finally got my first smartphone)
I. What We Build
utilities spreadsheet update
Car reg. Phone. Call E. Free held tix.
Futurity connected to longing. Not longing
FOR but longing as entity act practice state
What we build belies
what we believe is beautiful. R.E.
cars freeways walls separation etc
Hippos star are star real threeeeee
“Because we can, therefore we
should,” or “therefore we get to”- the
underlying story about limits that
underlies rape culture
AND ecological exploitation via
exponential growth including
II. Lists for Listing
-all the hay
Peanut but Sugar Oil Tea Cheddar Spices
Bbq pork buns
Shanghai soup dumplings pork
-perm design descrip price photo
-spreadsheet for poems
-art pieces plus packaging and values
III. How Are We Going to Get Through / How We Are Getting Through
Coaching with C_for birthday
Humbly hearted / we won’t be divided [lyrics continue]
Truth is that I have almost completely laid down
my school work and projects/vocations
over the last month because what’s happening with
my body has demanded such primacy at almost
every moment. It would be a lie to say that
that’s not getting to me-
sometimes I feel like a ghost haunting
my own life but
not able really to contact it.
[Memo redacted except for the phrases:] It’s hard to look forward to anything right now. I miss dancing –
[four paragraphs reflecting on
life with unpredictable daily chronic pain]
I miss myself
[I am so tired of this]
2:30 tues PT
1:30 thurs PT
X, the soup crew
Michaels craft store is the 9th circle of hell
Tension between proactivity and surrender.
*I have NO idea what is going on here. If anyone who’s reading this has a memory or hint as to what these two lines are for, please weigh in. Or just a wild guess.
Cross posted at http://www.racheleconomy.com and patreon.com/racheleconomy