half speed

nosebleeds, dead fish, and boléro.

"There is a pain— so utter—
It swallows substance up—
Then covers the Abyss with Trance—
So Memory can step
Around— across— upon it—
As one within a Swoon—
Goes safely— where an open eye—
Would drop Him— Bone by Bone—"

— 599, Emily Dickinson

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I keep getting these nosebleeds. They arrive out of nowhere (annunciation; metaphor) and dry up just as fast. It’s a very brief spurt of blood down my face and then immediate resolution, leaving me sticky and attracting flies. Flies are good; I like flies. Flies take my blood off my hands and sometimes my face. I wonder what happens to my blood after that, where it goes, what animals find themselves with a bit of me. It’s not the only place I’m losing blood, either. When I was younger, I used to punch myself in the stomach so my uterine lining would shed faster and my period would be over sooner. It probably didn’t do anything, in all honesty. I stopped because I was lazy and it was getting hot and also because I had the capacity to recognize that what I was doing was very, very stupid. Stupid like being grateful that I don’t bruise easily. Stupid like pseudoscientific. I could’ve probably just exercised or something, but it was easier to hit myself than it was to go for a run.

That was almost a decade ago, though. Now I do nothing. I lay down in the middle of a dirt road at high noon and pant like a dog. Gravel digs into my skin. There is an insurmountable amount of dust in my hair. It smells nice down here, like somewhere I used to hide out as a kid— I don’t know how it does it— maybe it’s the specific mineral balance of the ground, this much salt and that much calcium— bone matter. Everything is made of fucking bone matter. I suck on a stone. I spit out the stone and watch the waterline shrivel up in the sun. It’s not hard to convince myself that the heat feels good, even though the temperature is bordering on killer. And here comes another nosebleed, right on time; when I stand up, there’ll be a horizontal red streak across my cheek. Classic. Just perfect, really.

There is the fear— a very large, dark cloud looming on my horizon, because all my anxieties manifest as something distant and untouchable— that eventually I will run out of things to say. I already have, actually. I’ve been talking myself in circles this whole time. It’s all repetition. Apparently, Robert Frost said that he tried to make every poem he wrote as different as possible from the previous one; if anything, that’s an admittance to writing the same poem over and over. I think of masters. I think of people regarded as trailblazers in their fields. Ravel’s Boléro. All of it is obsession, expressed obsession, expressed need of the obsession. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Enjoyment comes from needs come from characteristics come from living— obsessions come from characteristics, too— and my life hasn’t changed in any meaningful way in years, maybe a decade. Reality is a fantasy that reveals need. It’s all been said. Now I’m out of words. I’m out of obsessions. My needs are dull and capricious and childish and so am I.

I’m still lying on the ground. It’s a private driveway, so I don’t have to think about getting hit by a car or anything like that; the only consideration is how much dust I’m breathing in and if my nose has stopped bleeding yet. Playing dead is fun. What characteristic does that come from? The crickets in the dirt next to me are like sirens or shakers. The sound goes right to the brain. Hits you like sandpaper. It’s more of a scrape than a noise. And the flies that are beginning to congregate— they always know where I am, I bet they can smell me— are certainly not helping. The bug roar scratches a dark ditch into my face. I want to go back inside. I can’t get off the dirt.

Sometimes, when you’re standing alone in an empty room, there’s a deafening hum that comes from outside you. This has less to do with communicating a new point than it does with reinforcing an old one.

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New tab. Open search bar. “running away from yourself in a dream meaning”. Enter.

A question on Quora from seven years ago. Click. 504; gateway timed out. Back.

Article by the Cut: What Does It Mean If You’re Dreaming About Being Chased? Click. Dr. Leslie Ellis: “The pursuer often takes the form of whatever the dreamer finds particularly threatening.” Back.

Article by Verywell Mind: What Does It Mean To Dream About Being Chased? Click. “Dreams about being chased often reflect underlying fears, anxieties, traumas, emotions, or stressors we’re avoiding in real life.” Back.

Article by iBlogGospel: Dream about RUNNING: the BIBLICAL, SPIRITUAL Meaning of Running in Dreams. Click (for giggles). Proverbs 28:1: “The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion.” Back. Close tab.

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My mother’s friends come over for dinner. They are exactly the kind of women I expect my mother to surround herself with— all-linen outfits, discussions of who has property where, sheepishly patriotic, proudly everything else. One of them, who works in the publishing industry, tells me about a Romanian film she recently saw. The tone she uses makes me wonder if she’s ever actually talked to an Eastern European person before in more than just passing.

My mother’s friends tell me that what I think is interesting in a way that really means you unsettle me but I can’t refute you; they tell me I’m good company in a way that really means at least you’re entertaining. They have stickers on their water bottles and they attend all the protests. They eat organic food imported from the global south. They call themselves socialists but think of Communism as a distant and useless European invention. They source their clothes ‘ethically’, which I know is shorthand for not buying anything that’s blatantly fast fashion but not putting any actual effort into figuring out what makes textile production ‘ethical’ or not, either. At the beginning of the meal, they propose a toast to all women, women everywhere, which leaves me momentarily speechless because I’ve watched my mother cross the street to avoid walking past Black women. Eventually, I just stop talking. I have nothing to say. I think about dead fish lying on ice for the rest of the night— the blood, the smell, the little needling colds, the slipperiness. Blood pink scales. I smile because I’m outnumbered. I smile because I’m a good girl. One big flat eye rolling heavenwards.

One of my mother’s friends tells me I have a face like a poet. Like that’s a compliment. What the fuck is that supposed to mean, I say. What do you mean? Why would you say that? I’m going to fucking kill you. I’m going to walk over to you and be the first genuine threat to your body that you’ve ever encountered. Fuck you and your all-white linen assemblage. Do you think you’re Jesus? Do you think you’re a paragon of kindness? By now I’m yelling. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. I hate what you stand for. I hate your attempts at coolness. I resent every word out of your mouth, I resent your New York Times education, I resent your self-possession and your claims to knowledge and the performativity of your actions. Sure there are worse people in the world but I hate you for being so, so close, with everything at your fingertips, and still not knowing better.

Of course I’m not saying any of this out loud. I said I’m good and I meant it. And you don’t have to worry about me— no violent outbursts of mood swings or anything like that— because I stop being a person whenever there’s another person in the room, which neatly solves any temper issues. She said I look like a poet because I always look a bit miserable and a bit mannish, but just pointy enough to be intellectual instead of ugly; I know that because it’s a comment that I’ve gotten before. And it could be worse. She could’ve called me pretty.

I retire early and no one is surprised. Turn down my scales. Melt my fatty eyes. I hear their chatter through the floor; their voices are hidden under water. Swear to God I saw a fish that must have been two feet long the other day; someone’s going to have fun eating that. Coyote. Raccoon. Hawk. Person. Ice chip pillow fuck face flat down down on stripes. Reflective patches to blend in. This mattress always feels like it’s trying to swallow me. The worst part is that I can’t even swim away.

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Woke up late or too early; split between dreams. Woke up hot. Woke up in the endless house again. Really, the endless house? Again? I walked down a hallway forever trying to call my husband— in the dream I have a husband— to come help me— in the dream there are external forces, things outside of myself, that are capable of helping me— but he wouldn’t come. Some of it was because my mouth was sewn up. Or my jaw was wired shut. Or I never had a mouth in the first place, just smooth skin. The rest was because even though help exists in the dream, I don’t believe in it strongly enough that it manifests as action. Hallway. Hallway. Scooby Doo catacorner doors to be ping pong chased through. Honey come help me. Honey where are you. Maybe he hates me. I wouldn’t be surprised— memory still exists in the dream; I know I’ve been getting called a freak since my peers developed the mental capacity to weaponize words. How’s that for valor. I want to be alone. Burnt skin in my head. I want to be alone.

Stairs finally. Endless stairs in the endless house. I don’t get surprised anymore because I nailed down all the furniture and now nothing will ever move in me again. Poems about crucifixion in my mind. Boléro again. I can hear drum gunfire rattle somewhere else. Stairs are a kind of hallway too so I never really went anywhere. Sixty beats per minute. Walking down sixteenth notes into nowhere. Drag the Y. Honeyyyyy. Language doesn’t have to move linearly here. I need to worry about being a slut or not enough of a slut or if the way I move is wrong somehow. It’s important to consider these things especially in times like these [in places like these] [where?non-out—Boléro,Boléro,Boléro]. Most of the time when I’m dreaming someone else is the barnacle but now it’s me. I’m the fucking barnacle. Honeyyyyy. Honeyyyyy. Pass an unreflecting mirror. I don’t always fill in the gaps for these things. Mostly I just don’t know what I look like. Honeyyyyy.!

Some people say that Minos put the Minotaur in the labyrinth to protect him from a world that would never understand him— his bullheadedness, his big dark-lashed eyes, his thickness of skin. Most people say it was because he was a monster and that’s just what you’re supposed to do with monsters. Most people would take a gun and shoot him with all the bullets they have just for something to do, a way to not be bored, a way to protect themselves from things they haven’t even tried to understand. Minos fed his son human corpses to give him a taste for flesh. Minos ordered him to be beaten so he felt threatened by people. Minos was very good at making a monster and/or a weapon. Here’s a door. Here’s another mirror. Too hot. Too hot. Honey, honey[honeyyyyy]Honey, honey, Honeyyyyy, !Honey!, honey.

Woke up late or too early. 3 a.m. maybe. Bedroom is black as pitch. No moon. Jaw/mouth/skin is still wired shut/sewn up/replacing a mouth. The open window, cockeyed to the left of me, is flung open to bring in thick, wet air. It’s settled heavy on me. There’s a low drone somewhere. Maybe it’s the flies again.

I move my head and something goes loose. Another nosebleed. Kill me. It was bound to happen sooner or later.