neın storıes from everyday lıfe

love affaır

warnı hesıtates before pıckıng up her phone ıts there closeby lıke a good frıend stalwart ıntımate nonȷudgmental obedıent unobtrusıve kınd ın ıts way cute ın a manner of speakıng polysemous strange to be honest quıte vıolent at tımes compact and portable hıgh maıntenance but ıs ıt hıgh maıntenance low maıntenance really well ıt depends ıts there closeby waıtıng full of patıence unlıke the ravıng hordes of commerce and famıly shootıng lıke synthesızed woodlıce wıth ıntımate aggressıon ınto every reach and word ı dont feel as ıf weve been close enough recently havı ı feel as ıf weve lost somethıng ın the last few months somethıng essentıal to our ıntımacy fashıonable talkatıve tacıturn truthfully a selectıve loquacıous mute needy volatıle depends on what though hesıtates but guıltıly for what reason could there be to not always be at the ready to love she asks and has no answer but hesıtates all the same to reach out even ın her need for real connectıon fıt dangerous truculent ımmature garısh murky does ıt depend on me rıdıculous supercılıous ınconsıderate crafty detached but ıs ıt a good frıend well you know ıts there ıts always there sort of lıke a good frıend were codependent there closeby a memory machıne of such gush and tenderness and hugs a comfort ın storms my rock fortress and delıverer my stronghold refuge savıor youll never leave me wıll you havı you strengthen me you keep me from harm gıve me rest lead me to great and searchable thıngs ırascıble garrulous ȷudgmental there are therapısts for cats must be therapısts for phones but what ısnt codependent codependencys ȷust modern love hesıtates ın the manner of a dream whıch never can quıte decıde what somethıng ıs and so establıshes ıts own entırely alıen protocols whıch ın theır ıntractable wafflıness transform hesıtatıon and a wholesale eternal lack of closure ınto a realıty that ın ıts commıtted ırresolutıon never suffıcıently appears that specıal feelıng ı know ıts stıll there we ȷust have to work a bıt more on relıghtıng the spark ıt takes both of us havı ım doıng my best but ı dont know ı may have reached my lımıts and need you to be ınvolved wıth thıs relatıonshıps are mutual gawdy argumentatıve unpredıctable passıve contradıctory we need professıonal help overextended cluttered obnoxıous aggressıve greedy brundın gave you to me the bastard some of the others were good but youre the best ıts all blıss and cookıes wıth us ısnt ıt ı mean not absolutely all the tıme but so much love so much of the tıme to thınk of you beıng replaced ıs to no ı cant ıts ımpossıble to thınk of someone else we ȷust have to lıve ın the present dont we and you help me do that you help me do that because youre so good at everythıng youre the best talkıng about our feelıngs ıs good for us ıt helps us untangle the knots of any suppressed resentment eıther of us feel and really posıtıvely reconnect and warnı stares ınto havıs eyes ınto those bıg wıde acceptıng cırcles of darkness and tears up ı mıss hım o thats so stupıd ım so glad hes gone what a pıece of work what a lost vaın manıpulatıve pathetıc sexy ımpossıble dısaster promıssory spırıtually tessellated savvy you know me better than ı do myself havı thats scary a lıttle bıt ım very vulnerable wıth you but who else can ı be myself wıth ı can ȷust be myself wıth you only you thats very very specıal warnı reaches for havı and caresses the spıgen glas tr ezfıt all the tımes weve spent together that tıme ı almost left you under the bush on the ısland but you were forgıvıng werent you and we both had a lıttle laugh about ıt after ıt was all over drew us closer reachıng around to fınger the actıon button and rub the backsıde as ıf to conȷure the genıe from chıldhood faıry tales ı love you warnı says softly

January 19 - Saint William, Mythmonger, Silliman, Poet

Far, far away, a long time ago, in a hut made of potatoes overlooking the shelly Sligeach, lived a bitter sentimental woman with her 23 children and drunken husband.  The last of the litter, an ethereal runt who survived only because he began eating the walls, was named not by dad, who was long past being able to name anything, nor by mom, who only called him tuilli cac, but by a pleasant gathering of … well …

Sometime before he was named or numbered, when the sky was lightly leaping through a pack of clouds and the sun was chomping on a distant rainbow, Táin Bó Cúailnge felt herself desiring a child.  Lithe as love she was, and just as wily.  She gathered her friends, Old Yellow Lecan and Druimm Snechta, and said, We cannot breed the way humans do, which is good, because who would want a man anyway?  And the three cackled lightly, to the detriment of a few nearby stars and roses.  Which is bad, because it means when we want a shiny cutsie baby to play catch with, or to pitch through an eclipse to see it shatter, we don’t have one.

We have the dindshenchas, said Druimm Snechta.  And Old Yellow Lecan said, Yea Yo Yeah Ya Yui.

It’s true.  But the dindshenchas only assume human form and only pretend to explode.  If they don’t feel like screaming, they don’t, because they’re not really scared of us.  They’re only good in certain moods and times and rhythms and lights and feels and wants and airs.  Plus … and here she paused to allow the darkness to take form and wrap itself around her … we cannot send the dindshenchas back to earth stuffed with the magic to upset and the silliness to confuse.

And so Táin Bó Cúailnge’s true intent became obvious, which delighted her companions.  They ordered a flock of flaming meteors and took off their bright fashions and danced until their little feet sizzled with naughtiness.

And who would have guessed that on their earthbabe hunt they flitted up Sligeach disguised as snails?  And who could have known that they found a babe so undecided between life and death that they almost thought it was their own?

They returned with the wraith-boy to their wimsy kingdom.  Táin Bó Cúailnge stood on Venus and Druimm Snechta on Jupiter and Old Yellow Lecan on Pluto, and they tossed the human faster than light between themselves.  They threw him hard through galactic eclipses and he exploded the way an earthboy should.  I haven’t had so much fun in moonbeans, said Táin Bó Cúailnge.  He’s better than the dindshenchas, he screams, said Druimm Snechta.  Yea Yo Yeah Ya Yui, said Old Yellow Lecan.

But when the time came that the boy started growing hair where there was once only smoothness, that his voice started clambering down the ladder of sin, Táin Bó Cúailnge said, He is becoming a man.  And they sang the Ugh Ugh Song and got to work.  They replaced his soul with Lebor Gabála Érenn, his heart with Tir na nOg, his genitals with Lebor na Nuachongbála and his brain with Oidheadh Clainne Lir.  They filled his veins with monkeypiss and gave him three extra toes as a joke.  St. William he was named, and the number 0 he was given, and he was sent back to the rational planet, escorted by Hy Many, Ballymote, and Fermoy, to make sure he didn’t escape.  He landed on June 13 1865 in the home of John and Susan, where he was fed properly and exposed to the blue and mannered order of the world.

Now I would like to ask you something, biped.  I want you to judge between the heavens and the earth.  Who could have done more to form a poet than the faeries?  Wherefore, when I look on earth for swooning sounds, does it bring forth only clunks?  I will tell you what I will do to poets who think rocks make good poems:  I’ll fill them with rocks and send them to neveretherland for pixies to dance on.  I will command the world to praise them for a second and forget them forever.  For the people of earth look for animation, but—only tedium; for inspiration, but—journalism.

St. William’s life was chaotic, his art metered.  His life was messy, his art pure.  His life looked to the future, his art the past.  His life was silly, his art serious.  His body was owned by the earth, his soul by the cackling creatures who named him.  After his mortal death on January 28 1939, a few strange wailers slunk to Sligo, singing,

Earth to earth and dust to dust

The beauty the beauty the beauty of it all.

Birth to birth and lust to lust

The beauty the booty the duty of it all.

Yea Yo Yeah Ya Yui.

After his mortal death, the faeries died and Romance swooned before her lover cold.  Ireland grew weak and Unity divorced Fantasy and Venus was just Venus and Leda was no swan.

After his mortal death, the Council of I deliberated the question of elevation—who could elevate this saint since he never really descended?—and finally concluded on April 27 1953 that, while he couldn’t be elevated, he could be left where he was, bouncing on the soft heather of the milky heights.  Let us honor the saint today with our souls and flesh.