Quite a Quote

     And so they would come, each of them the same, but all of them different. They would wake me before they got to the door, the presence and strong telepathic head would do it, like Dirty John, or when they put the key in the lock, subtle and self-assertive, like Ivan, or when they walked possessive and heavy about the kitchen, like Antoine, or when they came to bed and kissed me hello, and I would kiss back, saying “Who?”—or kissing would recognize touch or texture: the smell of Pete’s musty clothes, or Don’s expensive cologne, or half-sense an aura in the dark.
     And they would clamber half-clothed, hastily, into bed, or sit on the blankets and talk me awake, or they would have brought up some grass or some wine, and I would watch, tousled and sleepy, while they made a fire. There would be the B-Minor Mass to fuck to, or Bessie Smith, and we would have a moon, and open window breezes off the river, or dank, chilly greyness and rain beating down, and it was all good, the core and heart of that time. I thought it as fucking my comrades, and a year slipped by.

di Prima, Diane. Memoirs of a Beatnik. New York: Penguin Books, 1998.

Quite a Quote

Repetition is a way to manage time, to parcel time. I divided my time rigorously into manageable increments which grew smaller and smaller over time: the nocturnal wanderings, the swimming at night in the blue-nocturne, chocolate-covered Pim’s with raspberry filling while watching French television [anesthetized and lonely, a star-occluding white], wine.

This aether seeps into whatever soul, or vacuum, exists within you. I suspect depression is an evolutionary adaptation. When suffering becomes overwhelming, the anesthetized subject is immobilized, and thus prevented from destroying itself.

Reilly, Rebecca. Repetition. New York: Four Way Books, 2015.


For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink