The names of orbits, the names of Uncles, the names of plants all memorized or gathered or buried with the seeds. I have never grown weary of reading the labels of spices, ingredients of a potion, desert trees. Never grown tired of counting the seconds between lightning and its boom, the gongs of the big… [Read More]
Marianne Chan
On Eroticism at Thirty
First: the piano. Then, the imagination. Imagine a five-minute drive to the water. Then, a violin, a slice of gala, the chill behind the vents. Not mine, but someone’s someone behind the window. Then, imagine mine. It is all about simultaneity, all about simulacrum, the man clearing the table after dinner is not always engorged… [Read More]