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who else has fantasized about the Nutrient Brick

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1980, Black Silk & Sequin, “Firework” Gown, ASU FIDM Museum
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misamaru

I appreciate the sentiment but I don't get all those "we made it to the longest night of the year! the light will start returning soon! it's all uphill from here & we're halfway there!" posts because like. Oct-Dec is the easier half of Winter. Jan-Apr is way harder. there's no big holidays or decorations, everyone is kind of over the whole Cozy Hygge Sweaters & Cocoa vibe so they're just tired & restless instead, and the whole thing is so drawn out & uneventful that it feels like it lasts 10x longer

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Ilo Hiller, The White-Tailed Deer, 1996

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I used the phrase "waiting on tenterhooks" and then thought "what the hell is a tenterhook".

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It's these things! So when you're waiting on tenterhooks, you're stretched tight like a piece of cloth. Very evocative, now that I know what it means.

You have not died yet. Instead,
you are walking down Thirteenth Avenue
drinking your coffee,
thinking about death, all the different ways,
all the opportunities glimmering
ahead of you, thinking about the woman
who poured your coffee. The woman
at the café who asked if you needed
a receipt, rang you up
and took your credit card,
is a love you will never have
though somewhere in your brain
her long hair is living out
a dream of wheat, her dress,
how it must feel
around her, snug and slippery, is falling
behind you, almost forgotten,
so now you can get back to it, death,
your little love, your hot nipple-action
of fear, a train
in the dark before it breaks, rising up as you
cross the food carts on Alder
and head for the park. There’s a garbage can
near the west entrance where you throw away
your empty cup. Maybe,
because you are wearing your new shoes,
you are not heading east
ALT

You have not died yet. Instead, you are walking down Thirteenth Avenue drinking your coffee, thinking about death, all the different ways, all the opportunities glimmering ahead of you, thinking about the woman who poured your coffee. The woman at the café who asked if you needed a receipt, rang you up and took your credit card, is a love you will never have though somewhere in your brain her long hair is living out a dream of wheat, her dress, how it must feel around her, snug and slippery, is falling behind you, almost forgotten, so now you can get back to it, death, your little love, your hot nipple-action of fear, a train in the dark before it breaks, rising up as you cross the food carts on Alder and head for the park. There’s a garbage can near the west entrance where you throw away your empty cup. Maybe, because you are wearing your new shoes, you are not heading east

toward a ceiling fan and pills,
toward a six-pack and medicated patches.
I lost you to a bar
and an all-night record store. Lost you
to an old Beastie Boys T-shirt and shredding
punk rock guitar. I found you in a tin can
of cigarette butts
beside the door to the AA meeting
where our sister is standing up and walking
to the back of the room
for more coffee. I found you in my kitchen,
in the handle of a knife, I found you
sitting on my bed, right in the middle, a shadow
made of air and dust. The galaxy’s
lifting me across the street. You
should come back from this deep-sea dive, rise
up in your turn-of-the-century scuba gear
while I stand on the prow
of the ship, making sure the oxygen is flowing
down the black rubber tube into the black
of where you are. You should come back
from the fields with your pockets
full of grain, your feet covered in hardened clay, back
from the planet
you discovered but never had time
to name, you should land
in my backyard at night, an earth landing, a triumph
of science and engineering, the rockets
cooling as the door of your spaceship
ALT

toward a ceiling fan and pills, toward a six-pack and medicated patches. I lost you to a bar and an all-night record store. Lost you to an old Beastie Boys T-shirt and shredding punk rock guitar. I found you in a tin can of cigarette butts beside the door to the AA meeting where our sister is standing up and walking to the back of the room for more coffee. I found you in my kitchen, in the handle of a knife, I found you sitting on my bed, right in the middle, a shadow made of air and dust. The galaxy’s lifting me across the street. You should come back from this deep-sea dive, rise up in your turn-of-the-century scuba gear while I stand on the prow of the ship, making sure the oxygen is flowing down the black rubber tube into the black of where you are. You should come back from the fields with your pockets full of grain, your feet covered in hardened clay, back from the planet you discovered but never had time to name, you should land in my backyard at night, an earth landing, a triumph of science and engineering, the rockets cooling as the door of your spaceship

makes a great sucking sound
and begins to lower, the lights
from inside the vessel
lighting up the back porch and fence and you
walking out in your silver uniform
or in the green and gray body, the silky wet skin
of an alien. I will take you back
anyway you want, I will look into your diamond-
shaped face, into your glowing
egg-large eyes and still recognize you, still
open a beer and sit close
in the yard while you pick at the grass,
staring up at the sky, and cry and scream for missing it.
ALT

makes a great sucking sound and begins to lower, the lights from inside the vessel lighting up the back porch and fence and you walking out in your silver uniform or in the green and gray body, the silky wet skin of an alien. I will take you back anyway you want, I will look into your diamond- shaped face, into your glowing egg-large eyes and still recognize you, still open a beer and sit close in the yard while you pick at the grass, staring up at the sky, and cry and scream for missing it.

I feel like the galaxy by Matthew Dickman