The People of Paper

I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals.

One day I will forgive you; until then there are scabs everywhere that you have touched me.

Missing you is worse than Pittsburgh.

But there are forces that don't let you turn back and undo things, because to do so would be to deny what is already in motion, to unwrite and erase passages, to shorten the arc of a story you don't own.

And although Margarita lived in a world that predated Technicolor, she always dreamed of the boy in rich pastels.

There would be no sequel to the sadness

She was made after the time of ribs and mud. By papal decree there were to be no more people born of the ground or from the marrow of bones. All would be created from the propulsions and mounts performed underneath bedsheets- rare exception granted for immaculate conceptions. The mixing pits were sledged and the cutting tables, where ribs were extracted from pigs and goats, were sawed in half. Although the monks were devout and obedient to the thunder of Rome, the wool of their robes was soaked not only by the salt of sweat but also by that of tears. The monks rolled down their heavy sleeves, hid their slaughter knives in the burlap of their scrips, and wiped the hoes clean. They closed the factory down, chained the doors with Vatican-crested locks, and marched off in holy formation. Three lines, their faces staring down in humility, closing their eyes when walking over puddles, avoiding their unshaven reflections.

Like all stories of creators who bring life from the dead, his story began with a struggling butcher, who chased a gray cat, caught it, took off its studded collar, and slit its throat.

And if we had learned anything from this story it was to be cautious of paper--to be mindful of its fragile construction and sharp edges, but mostly to be cautious of what is written on it.

But there are forces that don't let you turn back and undo things, because to do so would be to deny what is already in motion, to unwrite and erase passages, to shorten the arc of a story you don't own. If I could walk into the house and say, "Froggy, I'm sorry I left." If I could hug him and unbutton his shirt and pick the petals from his hair. If I could do that, there would be no reason for me to fight this war.

I am gone tomorrow. And there and gone again by the time you read this.

Don’t say his name. I don’t want him in here. I will cut him out.

I don’t deserve this. I have forgiven myself. What I did to you was not so bad. It happens.

He promised all those things men promise when they are far away and can feel the phone lines stretching too tight, the wires and cables rapidly unraveling from their braids, snapping, recoiling, collapsing the poles along the way.

You cannot kill or steal from a man while he is asleep and heartbroken. While it is said that everything is fair in love an war, the dictum is nullified when both love and war occur simultaneously...

You weren't supposed to spill out of the dedication page. But then you fucked everything.

From pulp you are and to pulp you shall return.

You cannot kill or steal from a man while he is asleep and heartbroken. While it is said that everything is fair in love an war, the dictum is nullified when both love and war occur simultaneously; then, the rules of battle become more stringent. The politics that lead to war can always be argued, but there is an undeniable sympathy that must be extended when a woman leaves a man.

Liberated from Saturn, from the order that for years had kept us in line, our narrative organized and mindful of the conventions of story. Now the order had been upset, lost in a melee of voices that for years wanted their freedom.

The completion of this book was supported in part by a grant from the Ralph and Elisa Landin Foundation. They are not responsible for the views expressed herein.