I'm sitting with one leg pulled up against my chest and the other hanging loose off the table tapping the hardwood. Everything in his place is low to the ground, his bed, his table, his stacked books and vinyl. They are complicated names and each of the syllables spell out the cosmology of epileptic existence.
I court grand mals as though they were a vacuum, pure of tortured sound, that I am supposed to retreat into.
He is wearing a black wool baseball hat with a flat brim that has the sticker still on it gangsta style and a worn Joy Division shirt.
They are decorated with colorful elephants and pictures of recommended yoga positions to maximize the success of the treatment. Orange prescription bottles are pasted with intake instructions and the sterile formality of my full name line together in haphazard rows. This is what people do to make themselves feel superior, surround themselves with the weak.
I am a hole in his head that he bandages in fiction so that I am worthy to love.a€?a€?Shame is not classified as an autoimmune disorder but is also arthritic.
But when he visits me in the hospital he is only kindness, only gentle, only brings me closer to him than before. But it is weightless suspended on the sunlight coming through the blinds breaking up the continuity of the bedspread. The Unknown Pleasures one, with the mountains, that make me think of Ian Curtis' bones disintegrating. Not the soft-faced gurgling childhood but the slim limbed childhood that knows the difference between right and wrong and hides in the attic.


In theory the disorder is manageable but I am careless, forgetting the pills and the herbs.
I am a hole in his head that he bandages in fiction so that I am worthy to love.Shame is not classified as an autoimmune disorder but is also arthritic. Even when I was a kid I liked the hallucinations, the hysteria, the lack of control of the epilepsy. A mythic place I can never return to.a€?a€?The doctors call this phase the aura, a most standard deviation. It's not the nakedness or the sound of his extraordinarily long cock swinging between his thighs and slapping his stomach but it's his face. A mythic place I can never return to.The doctors call this phase the aura, a most standard deviation.
Ita€™s this phase where it feels like my eyes are taken out and put on a plate for the ravens.
Just before the seizure, the colors and the sounds converge in these breaking nebulas of space and time where physics has no laws.
But it's where I reach the fourth dimension, commune with the saints and spirits of the dead. I move onto occult self-help radio programs from New Orleans and think of lighting candles to Yemaya and spraying the doorways down with lemon oil, salt water and white rum. Amen.a€?a€?In theory it's manageable but people have died, right in the middle of a convulsion.
I feel thinner than normal and look at myself in the mirror trying to imagine the skull beneath my skin. I've got my grandfather's face, that is neither feminine nor masculine, Occidental or Oriental, but somewhere in between like where the ocean meets the sky at night or Indochina itself.


Kindness, love, gentleness are all perceived as an enemy approach.a€?a€?The mirrored medicine cabinet is an artillery chest, fully outfitted with holistic and pharmacologic ammunition against the convulsions.
I feel a little comforted in the beauty of this, his face in mine, in the continuation of things after we die.a€?a€?But mostly, I sleep and sleep. Kindness, love, gentleness are all perceived as an enemy approach.The mirrored medicine cabinet is an artillery chest, fully outfitted with holistic and pharmacologic ammunition against the convulsions.
I feel a little comforted in the beauty of this, his face in mine, in the continuation of things after we die.But mostly, I sleep and sleep. The vials and bottles are the records of seasons and seasons passed in the margins of sickness.
On the borderlands people come and go all the time and no one gets heartsick about it.a€?a€?When I answer the door, I see him standing there, I think, stupidly.
On the borderlands people come and go all the time and no one gets heartsick about it.When I answer the door, I see him standing there, I think, stupidly. He looks stupid standing there on the doorstep of someonea€™s house, someone whoa€™s forgotten him as though he never happened. Maybe I shoulda€™ve thrown on some jeans before answering but I stand on my side of the doorway, wearing pajamas and one sock.a€?a€?a€?Hi there. Maybe I shoulda€™ve thrown on some jeans before answering but I stand on my side of the doorway, wearing pajamas and one sock.a€?Hi there.



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