11/22/2023 0 Comments Black book waking dreamsI wish I could look down past the burning chandelier inside of me. On the plane, I dip in and out of consciousness, reading and rereading the first poem from Brother, over and over, as if for the first time, until my eyes settle on one particular phrase and I put my hand against the page, touching the words to make sure they’re real: My dream house: books on the shelves, mangoes ripening on the counter, bunches of lavender drying above the dresser. The image of the apartment remains fixed. Liza’s care and attention clings to every surface. On the way out the door, I turn around for one last look at the apartment. It feels like the kind of thing a person would take on a trip that they might never come back from. It’s filled with ticket stubs and Polaroids-souvenirs. I grab a book from the shelf: Brother by the twin poets Matthew and Michael Dickman, about the suicide of their older brother. This silence is a trash compactor, pressing me down into myself. But that kind of silence is expansive, an infinite canvas to paint our dreams on. Usually, silence this pure only comes to the city in a blizzard. No one else is home but the silence in this place is so concentrated, it has a physical presence. I don’t think I could stand to see myself right now. One of Liza’s scarves has fallen from its hook to cover the mirror, extinguishing the last reflective surface in the apartment. In the apartment, all the blinds are closed, all the curtains left shut. I pull a Thursday tour laminate from the stack in my closet and loop it around my key chain. When she turns the corner, I run in to grab my passport and fill a small backpack with a sweatshirt, some underwear, and three pairs of clean socks. Taking stock of myself-a man hiding behind an old Toyota Corolla with a garbage bag in his hands-I know it isn’t true. I tell myself, Sometimes appearances are all we have. When she finally steps out, she looks incredible-armored in a lightweight, thigh-length, chain mail dress, shoulders draped in a chic, black trench coat, makeup sophisticated and smoky. I’ve kept track of them in my calendar so I know which nights I’ll be able to use openly in the comfort of my own home. Huddling behind a parked car across the street from our apartment, I watch our front door, waiting for Liza to leave. To purchase Someone Who Isn’t Me, visit the Rose Books website. Based on Geoff’s real-life experiences with heroin addiction and an ibogaine clinic in Mexico, the book is a feverish journey through the psyche of someone who no longer recognizes himself. On Tuesday, Geoff Rickly of the bands Thursday, No Devotion, and United Nations releases his debut novel, Someone Who Isn’t Me, on Rose Books.
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