[Response to “I pressed my face between the bars in order to be closer to the darkness.”]

Cheap pens

Then I looked down and my pen was leaking. It was one of his, the kind that would leak also in his pocket. This is when I knew I had eyes. When I dig in my purse I can tell which pens had been mine. I can tell his were largely better but I don’t feel as though I’ve kept anything for myself. [CP, 1]

It’s an eye for detail, I suppose, like a fox’s for being completely inside of a space. Like a Poe physiognomist, the detective with collecting eyes and an insistence on the privacy of the already-purchased. A Louis-Philippe interior. Or is it that I worked so completely inside of everything that it’s difficult to take a break now: Offenbach, iron girders, submersion, the concentration of the animal, what have you. Nothing ever soluble but like a sore thumb. All I knew was a series of machine-carved sofas and windows draped just so the light barely entered. Like a puncture. Haussman’s streets were made to stay open. It’s the people on the barricades who you can’t hold to anything. [CP, 2]

The bleeding pen is a great tool for keeping hold of things, someone says sarcastically. With it I keep the light in line, as I keep the lecture. In June I couldn’t stand feeling like I was all open and in somebody else’s battle-scene panorama. This is when I knew I would cut off all my hair. [CP, 3]

In the popular images printed at the time their threads were often threadbare but their headdresses were combinations of fair and fowl. Then he wrote an ancient anthropology of consumption. The new space could insure nicer weather and so it was phenomenological. In fact people tended toward loving interiors although the streets were still down for misunderstandings. When they rode the first trains their hair prickled all over their arms and they dropped stockings out of the windows. [CP, 4]

I’m having a minor moment regarding midnight but nothing that won’t resolve through substance. I read prefaces and go from book to book. I worry about a certain meteorological resemblance. I think about a friend who lives very far. I threw the pen out earlier. It had given up on my commentary. [CP, 5]


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