An Exact Account of the Banana Night

An essay exploring the following themes of an evening where I was voluntarily the photographer but not expecting the photo shoot to be of positioning a banana and its peel in pinup poses in a miniature handmade bed.

• Artistic collaboration and sexuality
• Free labor
• Direct communication
• Indirect communication
• Christianity

A list of all the times we’ve touched each other besides hugs hello and goodbye

Mosquito brush off your cheek
Your hand on my hand
Your hand on my shoulder
My toe brushed your foot
My hand on your side

This time

I reached out my hand

Across the table

And held your wrist

You weren’t doing ok

We sat together

Now I’m in a state

I want you to hold my wrist

Quick

Swallow
Get dressed
I think he might be fading
A quick hello
He doesn’t bring up trauma anymore
Born during the holocaust, 
Parents seeking dead relatives, etc.
Maybe he’s happier than he’s ever been
We haven’t argued in awhile.

My project manager left today

On the one hand, I failed.
On the other hand,

we’re joking again.

Something about the past

I found out a vindicating fact today

I felt righteous

I brought it up

Cook it up

Ripen the pot

Seasoning

You didn't swing it back though

We did better things

It’s time

Sleepy body

I’m so comfy it tickles

I remember saying that

At my first sleepover

It was my first time 

Being tucked in like that

Cozy paternalism

I owe you two emails
And a text
I’m learning
I can stay away
But I’m still clumsy
At executing this insight
I lost your bathing suit
And thank you for storing my chair
I fucked up a little
Do I owe you my dignity? 
I swear I’ll get back to you soon

Facebook

Stirring a pot of defrosting soup
Thinking about how proud people are
To have made a family
(Usually means a baby)
They talk and post
Like it’s a work of art
(Which it is)
Maybe that’s why I made art long ago
Trying to make a family
The feeling of family 
Maybe that’s why I stopped for awhile
Didn’t want to accidentally 
Make art instead of a baby 
I kind of did anyway 

Counting icicles

12345   6 spikes
Tomb in my stomach
Tomb? 
What’s the metaphor for that
Snow like stacks of paper
38 colors 
77 shades
White on white
Green on green
Drip
Teeth clenched
When love feels far
It’s a moment 
To hold words gently
Or so they say
"they" is me to myself
Could an icicle kill someone?
7 8 9 10
White glowing sky
Like those thin sheets of packing styrofoam
Creates the dusty mood snow of the roof
Or two shades of lavender 
Now it's dark blue on blue
So rich I want to lick it
And nest in color contrasting

After you died

I needed a name for you
To tell people who died
I had no name for you that felt true to me
That un-languaged gap
Says everything and nothing

The day you died, 

my mother wept first over your unpublished findings.

She finds solace in the words

of mentees you intimidated.

She has always found solace

in being a little bit above. 

You'd have respected me if I belittled you,

but I've cut that habit. 

You didn’t like me

You didn’t really like anyone

That was kind of your thing.

At least, that’s what mom said when I

mentioned that you never, in 25 years,

wished me a happy birthday.

No one speaks bluntly about

how a dead person was mean.

People say "quirky" instead.

I get a quick nod and a sigh, "Oh, yes."

when I say, "Warmth wasn't really his thing."

I visited a lot in your last years

I spent the money

I came to your home, 

I didn’t push

It seemed to annoy you if I talked about

Things that were meaningful to me

I ate your food, I was your guest.

I didn’t speak up when you belittled us.

The love she felt for you was real

I see her grieving so.

In her imagination, you are kind.

In her imagination, but to no one else,

You were a golden retriever.

You were her beloved elite neuroscientist.

You were her beloved judger of other scientist's methods. 

Her gourmand golden retriever window into a dream class.

I'm looking for the words for why science is so central here.

It's not new or interesting, but it's central. 

The culture of science, the religion of science. 

Feelings aren’t her thing either.

Of course, feelings have to go somewhere.

So I've had them for both of you.

I've been a foil,

Not a daughter 

(Not to mention, mostly very young)

I'm still paying the price 

for having once been a child

I try to tread lightly

and fail

I'm so damn full of feelings

In contrast to you,

I am such a relentless bother. 

I made the escape to you more sweet

And peaceful 

You took it gladly

You took so much of her 

No one ever confused this for a family

Family wasn't really your thing

And I never blamed you

You’re fucking welcome

Chaotic

The day still felt sunny

You had put on eyeliner

The day didn’t necessarily call for eyeliner

I had put on mascara

The day didn’t necessarily call for mascara

Side by side we looked at a tree

While you told me about a 

A terrible time alone

With an artist 

In his last gasp of fame

I brushed a mosquito from your face

Touched your cheek gently

This was three years ago 

What was really happening

I will tolerate your addictions
Come back 
After you relapse
Steadfast 
Setting no bullshit boundaries
Tough love

I'm not an A+ friend

My sister

You knew us then

You saw her clearly

If you’re ok enough

To tell me what you saw

It helps

I needed you

Los Angeles

A fine day of networking

Of being on and being charming

Decompressing at the Airbnb

Scrolling through stories of destruction and fire and deep love

Requests to be kind

The place I was born

Where my mother felt free

This fleshy body

Feeling things

When certain phenomena move the flesh

Water comes out of the eyes

What a wonder and a gift

What isn’t he allowing?

We watch ourselves being polite
And are both enraged

I’ve always had all the words for both of us
You kept me simple
Loving my love
I can’t find the words, I’ve been trying
I’ve been angry, I’ve been clever
I’ve been trying

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

We were there

It was real

I want today, I want some

Unknown complex new

Thing 

Understood 

It’s really not that complicated, 

now that I’ve written a whole poem about it. 

We need a queer friendship

And it seems he won't allow it

And I don't know if I'm allowed to say that

I could write a poem about the

censorship that sneaks up around his insecurity

but I've really never felt like 

thinking about him that much

and I still don't want to 

Space

I love how you don’t find me relentless 
Your hand on my hand
Your hand on my shoulder

Tonight I watched my foot 

hang in the space between yours

Everyone touches hands and shoulders 

Only lovers touch toes  

Next time maybe I’ll come on strong

Bravely touch my toe to your toe on purpose

Playing it

“Laura, you’re writing to him like you're totally in love.” 
She'd come up from behind me in my dorm room.

I can still feel the shame twenty years later.

Isn't love good?

I didn’t think I was in love; 

I wasn’t thinking, 

I thought I was doing something casual,  

I felt ashamed of not knowing I was in love, 

if I was in love. 

I was trying to be normal. 

Playing it cool, I’m over it

So 2006

A few weeks ago I had a dream and I almost told you about it 

but I wasn't sure if it would sound like I was in love with you. 

I might be, I don't know.

My love is everywhere and senseless as it should be 

We hugged, 

You put your head in my lap.
It felt amazing.

That was the dream. 

Thank you for that.