fluf•fing, 12

Have you ever thought about whether you’re trustworthy? I would understand if people don’t trust Me at first; I talk a lot and look like a reptile.

No regrets in the short term feels like a breach of pride.

You would never watch ice melt on the counter, even if you desperately wanted to.

I find that most of my situational analysis looks like an MC Escher painting.

Along the unironed cable

Don’t assume the machine’s ill intent.

In the afternoon

It isn’t the universe assaulting you,

You are what you’re going through

He went with a chukka tonight!

I just realized that a reason your eyes look more their color (e.g. blue) when you’re well / brightly lit is that your pupils contract, revealing more of your iris. 27 years old.

The television looks prettiest when it’s off.

I love when people call me buddy.

and how is anyone ever supposed to know whether to rewatch Passages or Chimp Empire?

mir·​rors

I own a lot of mirrors. Some would say too many, but they make my space feel much larger, so Some can hop off.

In my old apartment I danced with my reflection as a partner in improvisation. I played in the shadows that came through the windows. I marveled at the zig-zags that reverberated through my space, revealing a specific corner of my neighboring building, brown and textured against the muted sky. I smiled--not just in my head, but a full squinty-eyed smile--when the light diffused around my room, bouncing among my mirrors like skipping stones.

I continue to dance in my new studio, smiling as I learn the new diagonals that passing cars cast on my ceilings as I fall asleep. My favorite piece here is a foot-wide mirror, embedded in concentric frames of wood and canvas and hung at chest height among sketches and souvenirs. I love this mirror, because every time I look over at her, I'm shown a tiny new frame of my apartment, made precious by its boundaries. She calls me to focus on something, based on where I am in the room, that I hadn't taken notice of lately. She lets me see my space anew every time I look her way.

Regrettably, and in Some's defense, my mirrors do bring a sort of baggage.

• I'm snacking on peanut butter and lunchmeat because I too can see the bones jutting out

• I'm dancing inside more than anywhere else, because my apartment feels safer than a studio

• I see what I put on my body each day:

  • I don socks that slip down, that make assumptions and host intrusive thoughts

  • I don bright jackets that occupy space, asking for more attention than I give in return

  • I don silver jewelry that traces me, begging people to notice the effort more than the quality

  • I don sneakers, rather than dress shoes, enabling a quick escape without risk of crease lines

Earlier this year I watched a video about Self-Awareness by Andrew Luttrell, Ph.D. It described an experiment performed on Halloween, in which a group of kids were instructed to take a single piece of candy from a bowl on an unsupervised porch. A nearby sign clearly requested the children take only one piece of candy. The variable across the groups was the presence of a mirror behind the bowl. For some, there was no mirror, while for others, reaching into the bowl meant seeing their own reflection as they retrieved the candy. The role of deindividuation was noted, as kids were dressed up as Halloween characters and not as themselves, so they may not see their reflection as their truest self. But the difference among the groups was still substantial: kids (particularly older kids with a more developed self-concept) were much less likely to break the rules (and take multiple pieces) when they were forced to watch their own reflections taking the candy.

Luttrell summarized, "What we've seen is that when we look to ourselves, we become more aware of ourselves; we have to face the implications of our behavior for who we are as people. And it becomes harder to justify bad behavior, because that bad behavior would reflect poorly on who we really are."

Maybe it is a good thing my apartment has so many mirrors. They make us beautiful by their boundaries and hold us accountable by their unwavering honesty.

Right now, I see just a corner of my floral suitcase and know that I'm seeing myself.

cab·​a·​ret

please read this slowly

I write to you from the Shoebox Stage, upper level, where I am currently sipping something brown and bittersweet from a rocks glass sleeved in frost. Accompanying its clinks are the sounds of voices, their movement composing a harmony of language - I sip on their composition as I do my drink. The show is about to begin; I hope you are finding yourself, like I am, leaning in for what's next.

The lights dim, more quickly than the voices of the evening's crowd. Their conversations' after-current is astonishing; it buzzes like a horizontal line--a warm, neon orange--descending to the floor as the audience's gaze is drawn slowly, magnetically to the stage. We are all waiting for what's next.

A spotlight erupts into life, and into it steps one long leg.  It is clad in fishnets and supported by a black heel, tightly hooked as a bobby pin and flurrying in its own existence.  The leg begins to pull and stretch, a hip ebbing into the picture then receding, before a torso floats into frame. 

She is beautiful.  Her eyes are closed as she leans backwards, still finishing her first, excruciating step.  The voices in the room have silenced unanimously, but the buzz remains--shifting colors now, it hums in vibrations of blue, green, purple, gold, and silver, as palpable as a midnight tide. She has just now lifted her foot for a second step.

And now she has put it down.  I didn't notice before, but there is music playing - an andante, grieving bossa nova that rides the same lazy river as the woman, the object of the room's new and impenetrable focus. 

From behind her steps another leg. A piece of my heart breaks to see it, to experience the interruption of her presence, for she was surely experiencing the moment for which she was made. Because of this moment, she had grown and colored her hair just so; she had spent her nights in dance studios instead of discotheques; she had learned the art of patience from her own preoccupied and foregone relations. This is her infinite moment, and in comes a greedy co-producer keen to split the profits of attention.

As the new leg continues its tidal, tenuous movement into the center of the spotlight, it reveals the waistline of a dress pant, cuffed by a simple black belt. My objection softened, then melted, as their chemistry revealed itself. Above the belt was skin - a shirtless torso snaking in, also leaning backwards and carrying a pained face with closed eyes and a stubble I found curious. It was hardly a beard, rather the notable result of a few days' distance from a razorblade, but somehow it's felt as an immutable component of the performance. 

Their movement continued for what must have been thirty minutes - never tentative or abashed, but sumptuous and savored. They danced together as though it was their last night to feel earthly pleasure, to feel each other's weight before they became stars in separate constellations; as though they could stretch the night into millennia if they enjoyed it slowly enough.