the ghost in the sprinter

17 june 24

justice, and a poem by Rachel B. Glaser:

RESPECT

I respected my brother when
growing up, he ordered oil & vinegar for his salad
and they brought him a metal contraption
that held two beakers for Einstein
like the scales of justice
yellow oil
and an insane purple

the aleatory

I think, let me take the wheel. I think, let me be good at everything. I think, what if I was the most amazing pitcher anyone had ever seen, in spite of forty years of nonathletic life, what if one day it was discovered (by someone else, obviously) that though I looked like another woman pushing books through the return slot at the library, I was actually capable of impossible precision and threw a scorcher that dropped right into the strike zone, utterly unhittable. (I don’t know how anyone would discover this. Presumably as I threw an apple core toward the trash can, or something.)

Fine, this is probably impossible. But I do believe that a monk could throw a no-hitter.

High-performance athletes fascinate me because past a certain point of skill and development, past a certain point of optimization and best practices and extra sleek gear, the winner is decided by some burst of energy that comes from nowhere. I’m sorry, but it is mystical. I’m sorry! One spriter dashes ahead of the others on the Champs-Elysses, as if pulled by an invisible string. You want me to believe it’s because one merely had a better breakfast than the others? Please.

Justice is for the visible. But it is limited, the visible. The scales will only allow you to balance two objects. It doesn’t account for the burst of energy that comes from nowhere. That’s why, as all the parents say, life isn’t fair.*

the assigment

Find an opportunity this week to balance yellow oil and an insane purple.

writing prompt

Write the side of the argument that doesn’t make any sense.

a chune

“Only a Shadow” by the Cleaners from Venus

Believe me when I say it took all my strength to choose NOT a Charli XCX song this week, again. I believe that one should have some self-control around fandom, and craze dynamics in general. (Maybe this is why I find it so shameful to watch my peers talk like the internet—like picking someone else’s chewing gum off the roller rink bench. Disgusts me.) When people lose their minds over limited-release records and relics touched by the one true pop star, it turns my stomach. And the same thing with books, honestly. Sorry, I’m your nightmare friend who dog-ears and leaves paperbacks splayed open on the back of the couch. Caring too much about the relic is a mistake. I like the art that transubstantiates. You listen, and find yourself with more than you had previously, even though you still have nothing. You have a notebook and a feeling and you want to remember the early-morning blue you’re looking at.

Sometimes I pick these songs on nothing but a hunch. Sometimes they’re songs even I don’t know very well, or have much to say about. Which is strange because, this being my newsletter, I obviously feel the need to have things to say. Ha.

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credits:
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
Hairdo by Rachel B. Glaser
“Only a Shadow” by the Cleaners from Venus

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Dear diary, something is coming together. I haven’t talked much/at all about it because it feels so … fucking humiliating, lol … to always be like, “my book! My book! I think I figured it out!” Like Sisyphus at the claw machine trying to win a big plush dinosaur. But some internal weather is lining up. It feels really exciting. XS

* it’s better