jessica almereyda – pulsatile nights

I have no nice things to say about her but I won't pretend to be a good person, either. I never wore my one nice sweater in her presence, I would save it for when I was in the kind of company I wanted to impress. If anything, I was trying to put her off to see how much I could test the limits of my disrespect for someone. She never seemed to have a place of her own, always asking to come to mine. She was informed by arcane ideas about depending on men for your livelihood. I’m pretty sure she lived wherever anyone would sleep with her and because her beauty had almost entirely dwindled she was probably spending most nights on the street or in shelters, which were likely worse than the street. It became rarer and rarer that I would agree to her coming over. I was alarmed to find her in the foyer of my apartment building late one evening, and I got so angry at her presumptuousness that I smacked her across the face in my rage, which only temporarily scared her off. After that I would only meet her in dicey motels. I would fuck her there then leave her, returning to my more upmarket hotel room for slumber. I recall inviting her to an airport motel before a crack of dawn flight. I needed a lay before a high stakes board meeting the following day. I asked her if she wanted a q-tip because I noticed she had wax in her ears. She said she’d never used one before and asked what I use them for. She said they don’t look like q-tips, they look more like i-tips. I wouldn’t go to bed with her again if I had the chance, and I always have the chance when it comes to her. The very thought of it disgusts me. A week ago I saw her in the street. She looked more disheveled than ever – and crazed. She was repeatedly thrashing a trash can against a brick wall, smattering all manner of leaky matter across the pavement, shouting and muttering to herself: Ain't that the worst thing you ever heard??!! Ain't that the worst thing you ever heard??!! (And repeat). I had always suspected she was slightly cracked and her breakage was now confirmed. Here she was, a banal monster, for all to bear witness. I was too ashamed to be amused by the spectacle, careful not to make her aware of my presence as I swiftly dodged down the nearest corner. In the evenings when my tinnitus is in full swing, I can hear her mutterings continue to reverberate in my head beneath the fuzz. Degraded and muffled, like an Alvin Lucier score–an aggressive chant absorbed in minced, miked-up soundwaves. This extradiegetic sound coming from within my head runs especially rampant after I've been out drinking. I turn a mechanical fan on to drown her aural tones with its soothing repetition, a whirring blow–back and forth, forth and back in stoical motion, oscillating between admission and omission–where speed and thought become static. 


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