nathan > Recent Status Updates

terror - terroir

"It means the specific characteristics of a place - the geography, geology, and climate that, in concert with the vine's own genetic propensities, can create a startling, deep, original vintage."

For several hours my thoughts turned inward toward explanations for what I had seen: parasites and other hitchhikers of a neurological nature. I was searching for entirely rational biological theories. Then, after a time, the boar faded into the backdrop like all else that we had passed on our way from the border, and I was staring into the future again.

We were just leaves that knew how to breathe and we were just animals that had teeth we could use. And, having teeth did not imply that we were destined to be hunters or that we were born to roar. But these who dined before me may have been roaring or they may have been dancing bears, waiting to tame their dreams.

Sometimes sharing throbbing walls with another was just merely that: throbbing walls. But people put too much meaning or significance into things and space and intent and pure chance. This overkill of overthinking of overanalyzing of over-connecting could violate the existence of self and others and one’s sense of volition over time.

Most people fuck because they have to fuck—but I think I wanted to fuck you because there was no other way to be. Our desire would have climbed these high stairs. At the top where there would be no more steps—we would fuck as if through fucking we named an intimate evolutional human event like the first time art was carved into the wall of the cave Willendorf.

When I kissed the back of your neck, it would be a place where a heartbeat opens its first provisional door before pulsating into a fit of radium. But more than anything, I wanted to understand your body like I have never understood a body in its short lifetime. I wanted to understand if our caress has brevity. That if you came to open yourself to me would passion have a limit.

That you knew what I wanted before I knew what I wanted. That when you touched me— that touch had already trafficked my skin decades ahead of its human time.

And if my muscles were not the river that pulled your thighs into my river? What then? If we do ever make love and you reciprocate the content of my appetite, I imagine our lovemaking would be gentle and vehemently ardent. I imagine that you would measure how long it would take your kiss to arrive to the doorstep of my body.

What if between us was not a lake? And if our nipples when integrated were not mountains? Then what? If my hips and your hips were not two sedimentary rocks collided by time.

Everywhere, your skin. The tone of my ache. The resilient nature of our hunger. I thought about the atmosphere of your tongue. The density of our lovemaking. The first time my fingers would run through your body. These fugacious, fragrant thoughts as they covered the entire continent of my imagination. Mainly, I wanted to understand the geometry of our intimacy.

She didn’t answer your question. You had asked her the same question last year and she didn’t really answer. She was also deaf or was greatly hearing-impaired.

You asked me, “How will you rest your weary heart?” You also asked Chris Kraus last week why she and all her characters moved all the time in her stories. Why she didn’t describe interiors and it annoyed her. You were not sure why it annoyed her. It was your perception. Like a little needle.

They fought with their bodies and tongues. Throwing themselves around with a loving force.

I am all for wind chimes.

we would begin to accept that earrings would replace the species of human just like we had replaced dinosaurs with us. If earrings were the next pseudo-homosapien, we would see that reproduction wasn’t designed for survival, but for the sake of beauty.

death, that flood, while beneath in the biggest, instantaneous aquarium ever built, the propelling force of water would pull at their earlobes and turn all metal into seahorses with segmented equine armor and while these monogamous seahorses would hydrodynamically spiral in and out of seagrasses..

If I had a choice, instead of escorting pairs of animals to enter the ark, I would defy God by inviting all the animals for a wind party, in which I would pierce the ears of all animals such as an impala or an elephant or an owl and I would put fancy earrings on them. When they walk or sway, the wind would make them chime. I would intend all earthly creatures to become wind chimes and when they would walk into their

There were no reasons for me to love or be loved. God is God and I am woman. And, if God were a woman like me, he wouldn’t design torture to look like an apple tree.

But is it possible that God validates his own existence by inviting enemies of God to nail holes into his own son, which is himself, which is merely another corporeal dimension of God? Without this drill, we are unmarked. Immortality doesn’t forgive us.

.. because we think this is the only way to have an ontological sway on God, meaning that the only way we feel we validly exist is to turn torture into a physical and psychological drill and use this drill to make an ontological dent on existence.

The truth is simply: we are here to exist and then to torture. Either to inflict torture ourselves because we convince ourselves that we are God’s messengers and we give ourselves the authority to sanction punishment or we torture others and even ourselves..

I tried to fix myself by being myself, allowing me to be me, but there is something very fucked up about this.

I found love so repulsive that I wondered if I would ever recover and be normal like everyone else, sexual creatures of this earth still living sexual and emotional desire. I wondered how long I was going to be this way. The thought of dying alone didn’t seem to make me flinch. What made me flinch was the return of feeling nothing. A little dead inside that seemed a lot.

I have become so pathetic and sad, really. My mind has found emotional and sexual love to be repulsive.

Yesterday Cherimoya went on a date. She had some desire left, but mine went out like a blackout in New York. I gazed at her with sadness. I wish I was as excited to go on a date like her. I tried to imagine anyone I could fantasize. No one wanted to be a part of my fantasy. I could even invite my imaginary lovers to come to my noetic party.

At times, the sudden jerk or realization of the uneven surface wakes me up in the middle of the night. Sleeping like this, I think about my poverty a lot. And, how at thirty-six years old, I was like this, homeless, lover-less, and in a constant state of utter terror of where I was going to sleep or eat next. My unemployment benefit is slowly dwindling.

No human is moved to be kind.

Some chicken plant workers began wearing diapers to prevent accidental urination and defecation. I think of babies in diapers cutting chicken thighs into bite size pieces. I think of the juxtaposition of odor: feces and raw chicken wings. The result? An amputation of the nose and modernity.

If sex has turned into an assembly line, has the human body shifted from being a nurturer to a manufacturer? What kind of sex industrial revolution is this that leaves the human soul barren, alienated, subjected to perpetual impotence?

His dick was long like a long train ride. The kind of train you want to get off— but you can’t because you can’t seem to find its exit point.