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| Katelyn Eichwald, Untitled, oil on paper, 2011 |
i'm annoyed at brooklyn raw bare wood metalworking leather linen with the top button left open
which reeks of nothing but money and a bon iver fetishization of realness and utility
utility in my world is the sweat-yellow arm of the couch with a shirt draped to hide it
but i have said "fetishization" so many times this week that i'm starting to think i don't know what it means
though i am getting better at pronouncing it
i say it with bitterness like i deserve something better
a rabbit in another woman's arms
i know, some people just like to drink their whiskey like that
i'm no line of flour to the door
i have ideas about cool too and sometimes i can't get up from under them
i can't define myself against something all the time, especially an aesthetic so bloodless
and i understand that our objects have twisted and cruel origins these days and it is attractive to know what you're getting and where it came from
though as usual we want the appearance of honesty, not honesty itself, which grows darker on the edges
j. crew can make that hand-dyed wool cardigan look like my dead grandpa's, but it isn't my dead grandpa's, is it
like pain in a dream
what do i have against wealth?
oh everything
but is that ok or do i need to get over it?
it's the hatred you feel for your lover's ex
self-care, like cleaning your fingernails
nobody owes me anything
except love
from the universe, not even from any person if they don't have it to give
art students walk into work with thick-soled boots and carhartt coats like dockworkers
but if carhartt coats weren't so stiff and uncomfortable i would wear them too
i love my dad's workbench in the back of the garage but i hate the sight of a pretty woman with premature gray hair in a
topknot and a black silk shirt sitting at an identical workbench in a photograph
though god knows i wear enough black these days and the workbench doesn't know anything except what it is
and i bet she knows how to saw shit and that she's good at the things she does
what does she feel when she touches it? maybe she feels like a fighter
or maybe not
our target bookcases tremble
michael put them together himself
he screwed one of them on backwards
but it still holds my books
the couch i sit on crushed my mother's watch into her wrist
i think about it when i lean back on the cushions
the curtains on the window are the ugliest things i have ever laid my eyes on, they look like scars on a dirty body
do objects have integrity?
i'll kick all the things in this room with my bare foot, see what breaks
is my mother's crushed wrist worth less than my own?
the objects in her hand are her bones
