New moon transmission, September 14 2023
Ten ways to run
When your supervisor asks you on a date, you say yes, even though you’re 19 and he’s 29. You sense that you will end up as a bug on his windshield, smashed clean while he swears under his breath and reaches for his windshield wipers to clear the sight of you.
You continue to say yes even though the sound of his creased trousers ambling through the office makes you sick. After work, you go to his apartment and say nothing of his bookshelf that only holds MBA study guides. When he pulls into a roadside liquor store and buys bottles of whiskey to impress you, you stay in the car. You remember the feeling of waiting in the backseat while your mom went into the grocery store, and the sense of calm you felt, knowing she’d be back.
Edward Weston, “Attic” At night, you lie in his bed and listen to the sounds of his neighbors above. You imagine a soft song playing in their apartment, and them pressing close together to coat each other in whispers. You imagine yourself as a cobweb in the corner of their room, growing thicker and more secure until one day you’re wiped away.
If you had friends to call, perhaps you would ask one of them to pick you up. You would tell them, ha ha, you fucked up, could they come get you? Ha, ha, they’d say, I understand, I’ve fucked up too, and you’d ride into the dark together, laughing as you would pass the crumpled corner his apartment sits on, like it was a joke the two of you had made up.
In the morning, he motions to his closest and asks you to pick an outfit for him. You have to crawl over his bed to get to the sea of pastel polos. He is asking you to play a role, and you oblige without quite knowing what it is.
Let’s go to brunch, he says, wearing the white polo you picked out. You are surprised he is not embarrassed to be seen in public with you, but he doesn’t seem to care. He takes you to a veranda where a fiddler is playing in the corner, and couples wipe the hangovers from their eyes. When he goes to the bathroom, you expect the waitress to whisper and ask you if you’re ok. You expect her to call you honey and pet your hair. Instead, he fishes for his wallet when the check comes, and asks you what you want to do next. He says you can do anything you want.
At the brewery, the host nods at the pairing of his bald head and your baby fat, and tells you to sit anywhere you’d like. He brings two pints to the plastic adirondack chair you’re sitting in beside a manmade pond filled with koi fish. You are playing the part of being mature for your age. You are playing the part of being able to tend to a seething fire. When your mom calls you, you pretend your phone is too far in your bag to touch. You stare at the orange fish, flitting around the small pond, with their scales shimmering in the afternoon light. He tells you he’s going to get his MBA, but that he can already see himself at 50 years old, working all the time while his wife stays at home taking care of the kids. He says he can already sense his future wife’s resentment growing because he is always gone, and that he will only be able to come back for long enough to kiss her before he has to leave again. He says he already feels like he can’t win. You tell him it doesn’t have to be that way, and he scowls at you. "What do you know?, he spits. You’re young, and you’re naive.
Josef Sudden (1896-1976) Years later, in a Biology lab, you’ll reach for your phone and see an email from him. How are you?, he’ll ask. Just thinking about you, he’ll say. I miss you, he’ll think, then shrug, press send, and text you, even though none of his voicemails have gone through for months and your name no longer shows up on his Facebook.
When you tell him it’s done between you, you do not expect him to be surprised. You thought you both knew your script would run out, and that you would need to return to playing your regular roles. You say the words nonchalantly while staring at the unnatural vibrant green of the Petco stadium lawn. His face will be as soft as a child’s then, and you will almost take the words back. It’s for the best, you’ll say, while watching the sprinklers shoot out drought water to keep the green field bright.
Josef Sudek, “Memories of an Evening Walk (1954-59)” No, he says, you cannot have the day off for your birthday. You can spend it in the office with your co-workers, with him. Everyone is going to decorate your cubicle for you. They’ll take you out to lunch. You are almost twenty years old, but your body is too soft to count as much of an adult’s. When you tell him you don’t want to be there, he’ll call you a bitch, then turn around in his swivel chair to face the wall. Anger will spark in you, and it won’t disappear for years. You’ll turn the gray walls of your cubicle into a place to peel back your shaking fists. How dare you, how dare you, how dare you, you’ll whisper, feeling the walls close around you.
You are old enough to know that you need to take back your sense of empowerment. You pad down to the boss’ office and tell him you need to quit. You need to go visit your grandma for the summer. You are 19 years old, and the youngest person in the office by far. Go, have fun, he says, smiling. We’ll be here when you get back–you don’t need to quit.
But you’re insistent, you aren’t coming back. You don’t tell him about the supervisor. You don’t say anything about his hands on you in his car in the company parking lot, or the yellow light wafting through his studio apartment, or the way the thought of him snoring beside you kept you up for days after you left his place. You imagine you will be in trouble if anyone finds out.
You say, Thank you. Thank you for this opportunity. I’ll be thinking of it for some time to come.
Sometimes writing happens and it feels like a big exhale. The body says, I need to say this, and you act less as a guide of the words, as much as a way for them to come through.
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My book of poems, The Snakes Came Back, comes out next week. Preorder here.
I am doing these shows to promote the book. Fliers on my Instagram.
4. I’ve been making art to prep for a show I am having with Cecilia Mignon in March at MRKT Gallery.
Adam Gnade has a new book coming out.
Burn All Books has a new space, where SCANNERS, a diy zine and ephemera archive, is also situated. Check them out if you’re in San Diego.
The new moon is here. May you release what your body is holding onto, especially the anger that has been buried inside you for years. May you tend to what needs to be gotten rid of, and let it be composted into something that will sustain you. Nothing disappears, but things change shape. May the shapes we shift into continue to provide deeper clarity, and a sense of relief. May you exhale.
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Well written, thought and done. Thanks