Audio Recording #3
It isn't true what they say about me. I want things, just like everyone
I want, for instance, tremendous changes to have taken place during the
night or nothing to have changed at all. I want someone to say to me,
"You're overscheduled." Or, "I would never ask this of you." I want to
be the person I was before all this happened and the person I will be
when all this is over.
Everywhere you look, people are living their lives out in the open,
without shame. Girls with blue lips ride the train standing between the
aisles. A man falls asleep on his oversized baggage. Elsewhere, a
mother pulls her crying daughter off her bicycle and the helmet falls
over the child's face.
Doesn't anyone have anything to hide? I hold my life in my lap and
wait. This is nowhere and no one is watching.
When I open up my notebook, I find relics of old, half-finished
thoughts. "Erotic despair (Hopper)." "Infatuation is revenge against
At night, I turn on this tape recorder and listen to conversations from
last winter I don't remember having. We're talking about your house
keys. I sound so eager. You sound so far away. Was I trying to get you
to say something? Why did you misunderstand me? I was listening.
Debora Kuan's poems and short fiction
have appeared in Boston Review, Fence, Iowa Review, New American Writing
and others. She also writes art criticism for Artforum and Art in America.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200812ar3.htm
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