bennettsilberman

[bennettsilberman]

A Letter To and About Marina (Which was received incredibly poorly)

I saw Marina again on Bumble. I was debating whether or not I should even write this, let alone send it, so I pulled up our old text conversations, to try and refresh my memory, as to certain details pertaining to the nature of our relationship and the unique sort of pattern created by our brief collision, like, a year ago- for one night- sort of like how they analyze wavelength-whatevers left over from the Big Bang in order to sort of try and, figure something out.

And so I pulled up our old text conversations and saw the last message which was left on read was sent on 2/22. I have a soft spot for new age spirituality and angel numbers sort of gimmicks and whew boy did this do the trick.

I think it was Christmas when we met. It was definitely Christmas. I know it was Christmas because it was like trying to reach fucking Mordor trying to find a place in the city still open to sell me a bottle of wine. It could’ve been Christmas Eve blended into Christmas, or Christmas blended into Boxing Day. I don’t know. I can check. I could. I really could. But I cannot immediately recall the exact specific day on which we met.

I was drunk when I met her. I said I wasn’t but I definitely was. I’m sober now. Not like “sober at the time of writing this,” which, granted- I am. But like- sober sober. Like one drink is already too many and never enough type of sober. I’m also in therapy. I’m just writing this for you. I knew you got your whole family in therapy and it like solved everything and you sing high praises to the Lord as to the virtues of therapy, which I think I kind of scoffed at, at the time, but my days of scoffing-at-therapy are over and it’s like, fuck dude, I should have started this years ago.

There’s some woman watching TikToks full volume across from me in this airport. I just struck up a mini conversation with an old hippie, which ended in him expressing his wish to be able to go back in time in order to be able to prevent them from killing themselves, them being the Al-Quaeda terrorists allegedly responsible for the aeroplane-building mishap known colloquially as 9/11- and he sort of did a YMCA-esque gesture as he expressed this, obviously connoting 9/11, and its subsequent involvement in TSA, which, presumably, held him up to the point that he almost missed boarding.

There was a guy trying to chat up this girl on the flight and it kind of reminded me of certain aspects of my one night of courting you. Like how I couldn’t be normal over text and made such a big deal out of us kissing. If that was an anomaly over text messages than I cannot imagine how much of an aberration this must seem to you. To Marina. I’m taking Spanish now so I say it like Ma-rrrrrrr-ina.

I think every writer needs, like, a purpose or some motivation that keeps him-them-she writing. I promise I haven’t thought of you in a while- not, like, that- you’re forgettable or throw-away-able or anything like that. That’s not what I’m getting at. I just saw you on Bumble again recently. It would appear, from certain clues I was able to deduce, that you may have even deleted your Bumble and reinstalled it. Fret not, Ma-rrrrrrr-ina- for I have done the same thing since our brief meeting. Maybe twice, maybe three times- definitely not four though.

Is it possible for you to take this in the spirit of appreciation and not blood-curdling restraining order reminiscent “he’s lost it?” Perhaps. Perhaps not. I kind of forget what you were like. After I dropped you off I drove, drunk, back home and I picked up my gun and I went to Canyon and I, drunk, shot at a road sign a bunch of times. That sounds insane now that I type it. Perhaps this will terrify you. Hm. It’s only a Ruger .22, not like- a killing people gun. It could kill a squirrel. It could kill a person, like, if you were right fucking next to them- but- alas, whatever. That’s not my style.

I think we were both back for Thanksgiving. I don’t even know why you’re on Bumble. Maybe it’s different if you’re looking for guys but atleast, on my end, the girls on Bumble are like, the worst tier of girls out of the holy trinity of dating apps. Not to like, objectify or rank women or anything like that. You were like a diamond in the coal.

But I don’t say this in the spirit of like, oh, this girl I hung out with for a few hours is my soulmate and I still pine after her a year later. I’m not delusional. I say it in the same spirit in which we used to joke about marrying eachother, over text, before we met, and you sized me up, correctly, as kind of drunk and insane. My bad!

I don’t know where I was going with this. I might send you more down the line. I don’t expect anything from you. Out of all the failed flings or whatever I have endured- I do feel, for whatever reason, that you rank pretty low on the “willing to block me over this” scale and relatively high on the “able to appreciate this for what it is” scale- what it is being something akin to writing a message, sealing it in a bottle, and throwing it into the ocean.

I just saw your face again for the first time in a while and it made me think of you, and I had some time, so I wrote something about you, and I think you should see it. I go to school up in Humboldt and I’m studying English and I want to be a writer. I know you go to school down in Northridge. Something tells me you’re studying… journalism? This is a wild shot in the dark. The word count has surpassed 1000. This is definitely erring on insane territory.

Signing off for now.. Ma-rrrrrrr-ina

[bennettsilberman]

An essay about a specific pair of tits

               She wore this dress to class once that I had never seen her wear before and had never seen her wear again. I can see why she had never worn it before, and why she had never worn it again. It wasn’t, on its surface, even that slutty or revealing of a dress. But man did it do something to her tits.

               They (i.e., her tits) were like- accentuated and exaggerated and like- in some sort of symbiotic relationship with that dress. I had never seen anything like it. It was like a Stradivari crafted dress. It’s like the dress had been existing for a millennia, buried in some jungle, just waiting for the perfect tits to stroll by- and boy- whew boy- did they.

               I think she noticed it too. She definitely did. For a while she kept on trying to adjust it (i.e., the dress that did something magical to her tits) and make it less, reminiscent of some Golden Ratio-Goddess type of truth. It wasn’t working. I wasn’t even looking at her directly, this whole spectre existed somewhere off in my peripheral vision. I stole glances, yes. But I knew the way this game worked. The second I lingered for too long, staring at her tits, I knew she would look up at me. It’s always like that.

               This was like two months ago. I can still see them (i.e., her tits) in my mind as clear as the airport lobby I am looking down upon this very moment. Every time she adjusted them (i.e., her tits) it just made it worse. I felt bad for her. I could tell she was really self-conscious about it. I wonder if it looked different when she tried it (i.e., the dress) on in the mirror that morning or if it had looked the same, and she had just underestimated the exponentially exaggerating effect the environment of the classroom would have on their appearance.

               Eventually she gave up on the whole pointless affair, admitted defeat, and donned the coat which she had removed just, like, three minutes prior. If I was a better man, I would be upset. But this whole affair (with her tits and the dress) just instigated, within me, a degree of desire which was uncomfortable and distracting.

               Alas.

[bennettsilberman]

An Essay For School That I Thought Was Pretty Funny

A Reflective Account of an Interaction at the Library Reference Desk (i.e., A Reflection)

It now occurs to me that the Library Reference Desk is not like, a decorative altar of knowledge in the corner. They (i.e., the person sitting behind the Library Reference Desk) are not Sophia manifest in physical existence, donned on both sides and fanned by Brahmin priests. They (i.e., the individual stationed at the post (i.e., the Library Reference Desk) at any given time) always had an aura of unapproachability to them that inspired an attitude of near reverence. I never noticed that they (i.e.,) had a seat next to them to sit upon in order to interface. It would be far too inappropriate to have to look down upon their Highness (i.e., the person sitting behind the Library Reference Desk at any given moment) in the course of our interaction.

               So I ordered a dirty chai latte with a double shot of espresso- my usual order being a quad shot, the physio-psychological effects of that (i.e., a dirty chai latte with four added shots of espresso) being akin to scheduled stimulants mixed with laxatives- and a croissant- the palatal experience of its (i.e., the croissant) consumption being actually at least like one standard deviation above what one might expect it (i.e., the experience of eating a croissant from the library café) to be- and strolled over. I forget whether or not I started the interaction with “excuse me,” “hello,” “howdy,” or some other wild card option.

               The man sitting behind the Library Reference Desk- his name is Aaron- or was- I can’t imagine he is still sitting behind it (i.e., the Library Reference Desk)- but I also can’t imagine he changed his name since our interaction- although he could have- he has every right to, after all- seemed pleasantly surprised to see me. I really don’t think a lot of people make use of it (i.e., the Library Reference Desk).

               I explained to him (i.e., Aaron (i.e., the man sitting behind the Library Reference Desk during the course of our interaction)) a general outline of an English project I was working on- am working on. Essentially, my task- as it relates to this English project- not like- my overarching life mission- is to deconstruct and knead and prod and analyze and deploy and defile Harry Potter to a near autofellatic degree.

               “Ah” he (i.e., Aaron) said. I may be completely making this (i.e., the “ah” – not the session (i.e., talking with Aaron (i.e., the man behind the Library Reference Desk)) itself) up. But he (i.e., Aaron) did seem to understand what I was getting at. I was thus thrice-born into the Initiatory Order of the English Research Guide (i.e., libguides.humboldt.edu/engl/articles). This specific section of the library website (i.e., libguides.humboldt.edu/engl/articles) was actually pretty useless for my research purposes. I find Google Scholar to be more than adequate for these sorts of quests (i.e., the completely legal practice of sifting through public trash cans outside of specific residences (i.e., the completely legal practice of sifting through specific websites inside of specific domains (i.e., surfing the web))).

               But what was enlightening, and new to me, was the fact that the main section of the library website (i.e., library.humboldt.edu) and its attendant search function had the ability to pierce through the veil of institutional access barriers. I would probably be destitute had I ever forgot to cancel one of those free trials to various dragons curled around piles of gold on peaks of mountains (i.e., academic publishers with exorbitant paywall fees). I would send the people profiting off of this artificially enforced scarcity of knowledge to labor camps, if it were up to me. But alas..

               This is basically the extent of the knowledge imparted upon me during the course of our session. There might have been more, but I forget. I took notes during it, (i.e., the session) – these being hastily scrawled upon the pages of a glittering, sparkling notebook- the type of glitter upon sequins I initially and erroneously thought wouldn’t shed and get everywhere- that I stole from an old flame (i.e., Alina (i.e., Алина) a.k.a Alinachka (i.e., Алиначка)) - these notes reading, exactly:

               “- English research guide

               - Case by case

               - Context matters

               - Social justice, Humboldt

               - Difference, issues, religious studies

               - Aaron”

               These almost incomprehensible- even to me (i.e., the artist and author)- sigils contain unbreakable ties to the historical event (i.e., the session with Aaron (i.e., the man sitting behind the reference desk during the course of our session and possibly, although it is unlikely, right now)) which created them. I can see now that somewhere between “English research guide” and “Case by case” I stopped asking questions about my own project (i.e., a complete and exhaustive archeological expedition of the Harry Potter anthology) and began asking questions about his (i.e., sitting stoically yet approachably behind the Library Reference Desk).

               I clumsily conveyed the maxim of “producing better writers, not better writing” (1) to Aaron (i.e., the man sitting behind the Library Reference Desk) from Stephen North’s “The Idea of a Writing Center” (i.e., a citable reading from any module in the course (i.e., ENGL 450 42281))- and asked him what he (i.e., Aaron) thought about it (i.e., the maxim of “producing better writers, not better writing”) and whether or not he (i.e., Aaron) had any personal philosophies or things of that nature guiding his (i.e., Aaron’s) own practice (i.e., sitting stoically yet approachably behind the Library Reference Desk).  

               He countered my maxim (i.e., “producing better writers, not better writing”) with some maxims of his own, these being general notions of the importance of treating each lost soul who he found himself in consultation with, at the Library Reference Desk, on a case-by-case basis, and taking into the account the individual contexts and circumstances around each interaction, at the Library Reference Desk- not that these principles couldn’t and shouldn’t be applied to other sorts of interactions and consultations in the course of day-to-day life, it stands to mention.

               He also recalled the importance of sitting stoically yet approachably behind the Library Reference Desk in a way that was in line with the guiding principles of Humboldt. I asked for clarification as to what these (i.e., the guiding principles of Humboldt) were, exactly.  I feel that I know what they (i.e., the guiding principles of Humboldt) are in my heart, but it’s kind of a tricky question (i.e., “What exactly are the guiding principles of Humboldt?”) and oftentimes one squirms in such a way that the frames of their being align parallel enough to catch glimpses into their soul. He answered it (i.e., the question (i.e., “What exactly are the guiding principles of Humboldt?”)) well. But the Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.

               He (i.e., Aaron) referenced his (i.e., Aaron’s) background in religious studies, and the importance of celebrating difference and not trying to stamp it out. I think we (i.e., Aaron and I (i.e., Bennett)) share an appreciation for interlayered and multicolored tapestries. I made sure to ask for his (i.e., Aaron’s) name at the end of our session, and I’m glad I (i.e., Bennett) did, for this paper wouldn’t be the same without it (i.e., his name (i.e., Aaron)).

               I (i.e., Bennett) didn’t shake his (i.e., Aaron’s) hand at the end. We (i.e., Aaron and Bennett) were kind of at an odd angle and the computer monitors comprising some of his citadel (i.e., the Library Reference Desk) stood as barriers between us- and it just seemed like it would be kind of weird and forced if I were to try and go in for it (i.e., a handshake).

               But it was a good session nonetheless. I’m glad I learned how to use the library website to bypass those paywalls. Some of those free trials are like a six-hundred-dollar charge if you forget to cancel them. It’s (i.e., the exorbitant charges associated with paywalled academic journals) insane.

Works Cited:

North, Stephen M. "The Idea of a Writing Center." College English, vol. 46, no. 5, 1984, pp. 433-446.

[bennettsilberman]

An Essay on "The First Step"

               I saw a quote somewhere along the lines of “reaching the other side requires the courage to consent to a long period of not seeing the shore.” It was written in a bit more of a succinct and flowing style, but nonetheless- I imagine that you see my point.

               That there is a point A, and a point B- and an ocean of uncertainty which lies between the two. That there’s no way between the two without traversing this ocean of ambiguity. We don’t have access to the reptilian underground light rail system, for the purposes of this exercise.

               I thought this was a really funny quote. Because my shore is fucked. This shore sucks. My shore is like the shore of North Sentinel Island. My shore has cannibals with an intent solely focused on my demise. You pan over my shore and see upturned cars and random fires. There are screams in the background. A rodent scurries out from under a nondescript pile of smoking garbage and sniffs around a bit in the rubble before disappearing out-of-frame. You get the idea.

               I don’t know why I spent so much time here. I have a proclivity towards romantic nostalgia, I suppose, bordering on neurotic and self-destructive. My shore didn’t always used to be like this. There used to be friends here, and music, and dancing. I don’t know if these friends sort of transmogrified into cannibals or if the cannibals ate them. Probably the latter. There is no way that my friends of yore are these creatures haunting me today.

               So I see this jackass talking about the courage it takes to leave the shore, and I scoff. Because this didn’t take courage at all. In some way it would almost take more courage to stay here. There’s no reason to. I don’t have to. But it would take some serious huevos to see where this is forecasted to end and, maddeningly, dig in and brace. To leave this godforsaken wasteland is just, like- thermodynamics. It’s osmosis. It’s just the natural progression of things.

               I would leave this shore, arms flailing, diving into the deep ocean with no forward plans before I’d be able to gather the courage to stay. I can’t believe that I managed to build a boat, (or others did, out of the grace of their hearts’, for me), and STILL didn’t leave this place years ago. There is no courage in this act. I’m dead set on leaving this place. The other shore is a nice perk, I suppose. I hope it’s’ there.

               You know what would be funny? If I manage to make it to the other shore and I find out its just more cannibals. I don’t think I’d ever purposefully kill myself on this shore, this shore has made it excruciatingly clear that it’ll take care of that part for me- but man. On the other side? Wait…. I can always just sail back to this place. She ain’t going nowhere…

               And so I bid farewell to this godforsaken place. I hope to never see your treacherous beaches again. I hope to never again curse the maddening shrieks of your pre-dawn bird cries. Dodge your spears. Dig through it all trying to find how this place was ever home. But there is no courage in this act. Like a bug I will set sail. There is no sentiment. I mourn no loss of the queen- this is almost pheromonal. It’s not courage.

Adieu.  

[bennettsilberman]

A poem about an old friend

I was the first person you ever did drugs with

I think a lot of people could say that about me

When you started fucking up real bad

And got sent to boarding school

I would send you drugs in the mail

And when you became a burden

I let you go

Now you’re fucked

Real bad

I made it out relatively okay

But I wonder how it would’ve all went down

If you never met me

I’m sorry

I really didn’t know what we were doing

How deep that box I opened

Really went

I’m sorry

[bennettsilberman]

A poem about family, adulthood, and love

I remember one of the times I was in the emergency room

I pulled the classic

“Rip off all the cords and run away”

It was so cold outside

And I didn’t have shoes

So I sheepishly went back

To lie back down

And ask for food

The nurses were like my mothers

But outside it was cold and I was a man

I wasn’t ready

Sometimes when I tell this story to people I say that the ambulance kidnapped me

I don’t really remember what happened

But I’m pretty sure I asked for it

Because I was scared

And preferred a familiar captivity

To an unknown freedom

One of the nurses said my pupils were so big you couldn’t even see my iris

And that she’d never seen that before

I was so scared when they wheeled me into the room and left me alone and shut the door

I thought I was going to die

I just kept yelling “LSD LSD LSD”

It was like, the secret of it all condensed into three letters

I probably wasn’t the best mascot at the time

I still owe them like four thousand dollars

I don’t think they’re ever going to see that money

Its funny

In the haze of it all, I still remembered my moms’ phone number and had them call it

I thought I had died and went to hell, but still remembered those digits

I don’t look like a child anymore

But in moments of crisis, at my deepest level

It is not God I call out to but Mom

I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t love my mom, and didn’t want her to suffer

I’d be dead

I think my mom has saved my life multiple times, and I don’t even think she knows it.

I don’t think I should tell her.

But its’ true.

My mothers love carries me through my darkest moments

I was tripping on acid alone in my dark garage

And I thought that the entire world had ended

And I was fated to walk this dark and wet earth for eternity, alone

I freaked out, and running out into the rain

I shouted “mom” so loudly it woke my brother and he came out and checked on me

We sometimes have a rocky relationship

But in that moment I saw a halo around his head

And love beaming out of his eyes

And I told him I loved him and I really meant it, and felt it, in a way I hadn’t before.

I am amazed at what my family has put up with from me

I really hope they know

That I can see the boundless love behind their actions

I hope one day I can mirror it back equally

But for now

I’ll settle for it having saved my life

[bennettsilberman]

A poem about moving on

Like, two years ago, I tried to go through my Google Photos and delete every picture of you

I couldn’t do it

There was so many

And it felt more neurotic than just leaving them alone

Sometimes I look at them, trying to extract some new insight, some lesson

I watch as your eyes slowly lose their sparkle, and you get skinnier and skinnier, and smile less

I’ve never masturbated to old pictures of you

I tried to, last night, but I couldn’t even get hard

And

I think you’re still seventeen in a lot of them

[bennettsilberman]

A poem about my dad

I hate you

I hate how you can do everything I’m unable to, almost effortlessly, as if it wasn’t something to do at all

I hate how few things you gave me to hate you for

I hate your fluidity

I wish I could stuff you in a premade father box

So I knew what to hate you for

So I could hate you with others

I wish you had a glaring flaw

Something so fucked up

I could put all my energy

Into negating it

I hate that you were never too wrong

Or never too right or too hard or too soft

I savor the rare moments in which my projections actually land

I hate that I’m stuck playing these neurotic manipulation games with you

While you just love me as a son

I hate that

I’m dashing the high hopes you had for me

And that

You’re too good of a father to ever say that

I wish I could be as proud of myself as you are of me

I wish you could be as disappointed in me as I am

So I could hate you for it

[bennettsilberman]

A poem about my aborted child

Its called Plan B

But it was our

Plan A

September Seventeenth

That day

We conceived a child fated

to never

be born

They don’t tell you

Just how much further

Plan B is

from

Plan C than it is to

Plan

A

A like abortion

A like a chair with stirrups

A like an empty home

A like anniversary

Anniversary as in

The one month anniversary we never had

Before I gave you

The abortion

You’ll have

Don’t be sad

“I just thought that when I got pregnant it would be with someone who loves me”

“Who wants to be with me”

“

I love you

“

And all I can hope for is that

Her Plan B

works better

than ours

did.

[bennettsilberman]

A poem about crack cocaine and falling in love again

Never finding my way back home

I stumble

Grasping, in vain

Left and right but always somehow

Downwards

Derilict

Bankrupt inside, liquidated heart

I can’t look anybody in the eye, spare them the horror

Slipped and never recovered

At only nineteen

With a stem and steel reserve and Brillo

Buried in rock, her light shines through the crack

I look up and see my home again

Its not my home from back then

This one is mine

Its just as fucked up and perfect as me

And loving

And I realize

That I drifted so far from shore

I made it to

The other side