after fiona apple
i've waited many years— i didn’t know i was waiting— my myself waited til no one was looking, and it ran, and it ran and—
all my selves run from me. when i look up they’re already elsewhere. this is a story i tell myself. the truth is i got here myself, my myself on me like a piggyback, and every print i left upon the track has led me here. here. as much as i recoil, as much as i try to sticky note HOWs to the sides of the wanting. because truth is things feel out of hand only because i forget, i forget that i used to be able to hold them. til nat texts that it’s been a year since i saw them, and i feel momentarily close, closer, to granularity, to— oh yeah. the accumulation of time. the slow pile of incremental fear-wants that i can’t, quite, find, a centre to because my human brain wants so badly to make a song out of hindsight.
squeezing my conviction that i’m good at talking about — about, around, articulation is one way to circumvent movement — i say, i know that time is elastic, and that when i go all my particles disband and disperse, and of course i know none of this will matter in the long run— but. i can’t help but know. a sound is still a sound around no one. i hold it. i hold it. the wing.
here, here. i like it— my selves run— i’m homesick— i want, i want to be, want to be all the way this way so that it’s no longer a direction, but a place. and while i'm in this body — hurling this, brokenness of it — i want what i want and i want— you to love me. desire interrupts desire. i want what i want and— what i want capsizes.
( “ )
i see a pyramid of oranges just cleaned. an orange near the bottom is the desire to be; that one up there, at the top, the desire to be loved. the desire to be— loved. a one-word difference lending the quality of addition, a false semblance of continuity that ignores the tumble of oranges behind it. but i want to be— lieve it, so i generalize my want to just one of certainty. and by that time i hope that / you love me. you love me. i move it to the present. okay. okay. i’ll take that one, then. the neatness. i pluck it.
at 2:48, fiona takes the part of greek chorus and says, whenever you want to begin, begin, we don't have to go back to where we been, i am the woman who wants you to win — and then it’s me again, trying to keep her momentum up, her time, her note, ooh, ooh? next year, it'll be clear, this, this here, was only leading me to that here, like how my hair used to be insurmountable, like maybe things keep usurping till they don’t— keeping, keeping— caving. caving. i’ve been waiting for, waiting for—next year. next year.