The alley I walk most mornings was, this morning, puddle blocked, so I assessed, testing different spots with boot, each spot equal in coldness, in depth, so I stood strategizing way longer than it would’ve taken to just walk around the block and avoid all three  miserable, wet, leaps. I vented an indescribable emotion to a friend who, after hearing my description, said, “That’s just longing,” and I said, “Oh yeah, duh.” The Uber driver spoke so soothingly a language through Bluetooth, the hangup cut sharp–I  wanted him to call someone else, it was the only thing today that calmed me, but he didn’t, and I didn’t strike a conversation because what would I say? I haven’t been able to read books for over a year, haven’t been able to watch films for over a month, so, for the first time ever, I’m listening to every album I’ve never heard. In therapy yesterday, we hit an impasse when she asked if there was anything I could tell someone that I wouldn’t write here because that might be a way of achieving the form of intimacy I need, and I said no, because there isn’t. It seems a senseless timewaste to be anything but transparent and fully vulnerable. The American economy is designed to make people pay for their own sadness.At the early morning root canal, the endodontist doodled a diagram explaining what had happened and what would happen in my gums, the frontman of R.E.M. explained losing his religion while I wasn’t asleep and wasn’t awake and was so shot up with numbing agent I pretty much just sat there, learning what it feels like not to think. I don’t think optimism and pessimism exist. If I said, “Things are fucked and will only get  increasingly more fucked for the foreseeable future and there’s maybe a chance of their unfucking somewhere far down the line  but what good is that now,” people would say, “You’re such a downer. Look on the bright side. Shut the fuck up,” but it’s not like that at all–it’s pragmatic. The phrase “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood” is handwritten on the final page of Still Life With Woodpecker and is directly linked to the moment in which–for the first time in my life–I thought, “God is happening.” So imagine my shock when Sarah tweeted the quote wholly unremembering my connection with it; in high school she’d somehow come into possession of a pin that said it and although she didn’t know its source, or what exactly it meant, the quote resonated enough for her to wear it every day. When I asked what the best Beatles album is, Sarah said Rubber Soul, no, wait, wait, Revolver, and the last track of Rubber Soul is a lighthearted  ditty about John Lennon telling a little girl he is going to kill her. I recognize the specific tugging of my gut strings right off–a man stands ill at ease in a forest begging his lover to run so fast and so far he won’t be able to find her because killing her is the very last thing he wants to do. Though déjà vu provided a carbon copy of the indecipherable emotional landscape, I need to hear it again and really really want to listen to the album it appears on but I do  not know its title or artist or melody or a shred of verbatim lyric or even genre, so I’ve spent the past few days combing overabundant listicles with names like “The Six Best Songs About Murdering A Significant Other” and 6.7k+ comment Reddit threads with names like “What’s the single most bone chilling / haunting song you know?” I’m starting to understand the term hyperfixation and why at least three friends now have used it in describing me so why then can’t I find this song, and I understand my memory of it only concerns the visual, narrative, emotional, so it’s very likely not a song at all but rather a movie scene but I know it’s a song, and I’m positive its title, or else a lyric, involves the time, or else the distance, of the headstart the man allots the woman before he comes after her. At some point within the first 15 seconds of the album’s opening track, “Mis-Shapes,” I felt, undoubtedly, Pulp’s Different Class was something I’ve known since middle school, even though I haven’t. Told Therapist if she listened to  Melodrama she’d learn something crucial about me that I need to express but don’t have precise words for; Therapist hits with resistance each time I attempt to communicate something via outside text even Decade, a writing endeavor contingent on affixing language to things I’m still experiencing so haven’t had  space to reflect or process just yet, is considered an outside text, and each time I nudge right back with, “After hours of  deliberation, this sentence is the string of words I’ve decided cut closest to what I don’t understand but need to say,” and as for Lorde’s sophomore album, just listen to it, please. For almost as long as we’ve been friends, I’ve been trying to get Sarah to watch  the 3 minute 2 second long music video for my Elton John song and it’s honestly pretty funny how every time I bring it up she says she hasn’t watched it yet but tonight, I felt a tiny rage about the whole thing. I tried and tried to unpack my disproportionate anger until I figured out how to establish the shape of intimacy I need. ELECTRIC LIGHT ORCHESTRA IS SO FUCKING SICK. Under the glow of the dentist lamp, teeth being scraped with a tiny hook, Peter Gabriel echoing Paul Simon talking about the detonation of a bomb in a baby carriage and I’m birthed a second time Daisy, Daisy, I hurtle fast through colors and colors give me your answer, do! I stand in a luxuriously bland room I’m half crazy my slightly-older-self looks at me All for the love of you! elderly, I work away at an unextravagant dinner plate It won’t be  a stylish marriage a glass shatters I can’t afford from my goldsheeted deathbed a carriage I point to the big black rectangle  but you’ll look sweet I’m a fetus again, suspended in outer space. I asked my mother, was it in the womb, or was I already in infancy, when I’d react so strongly to “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman and she said both. The Japanese government appointed their first  “Minister of Loneliness.’’ I’m too exhausted to unsubscribe from all these companies emailing me with subject lines like: Steven….Did We Do Something Wrong? My mother asked what happened–I had a panic attack–yes, but what happened–a panic attack–I need to know what happened–panic attack. My boots still smell like stale puddle. song from murderer point of view, song where man allows woman to run away before he kills  her, songs that make you sympathize with homicidal man, sorry google i am not psychopath do not contact police or put me on list i’d just really like to listen to this song again, song about homicidal ideation, Song about murder urge, song about guy conflicted about killing lover

 

 

Steven Arcieri lives in Boston. He is writing a sentence about himself every day for a decade. Read em and weep, boys.

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