I am thinking of vast blue mountains— & of fucking you. The you who is my ideal lover, whoever is ordained for me by The Most High. I am thinking of writing blue poetry. I am thinking of abstractness & concreteness of words & experiences which source those words. Existentialism creeps in: Why? Why? Why? Shut the fuck up, I tell my Existentialism. Extinction exists. I am trying my hardest! Why bother? I think simultaneously in words & visuals. I consider my own ghostliness. I am full of blue ghosts: so many blue ghosts are trapped inside me, ghosts are bleeding out, in all different shades of blues. I am not interested in things that are a question of money or politics. I am interested in being pretty. I am interested in being smart. I am not interested in being relatable. I am sparkling— made up with golden & burgundy glitter creams & transparent mattifying balms. I am an egg— viscid, gooey, gummy, & golden. I am an especially yellow egg; when you cracked me you were expressly surprised at my overpoweringly bright lemony yellowness. I am my own blue brain chewed up & spat out & stepped on. I am fried—an egg sizzling in a pan who drank too much good whiskey & ate too many psilocybe & smoked too much good indica. I am the eggs required for a frittata recipe from a cookbook on a blue shelf in a suburban American home with a yellow golden retriever watchdog. I am the watchdog. I feel threatened. I bark, shivering. I am the bark. I travel through air on a wave into ears. I am the movement of that travel, like a moving blue ocean wave. I am the stillness caught between two blue ocean waves. I am the vastness of the blue ocean. I am the blueness of the ocean. I am blueness. I am breathing.
The mountains are vast & range in shades of blues, purples, pinks, reds, oranges, & greens. We are fucking, & I am unsure what the color of that fucking is. It is certainly not blue; it might be crimson or burgundy or yellow. In fact, the fucking is certainly burgundy. Burgundy is most probable. I am thinking of burgundy fucking in all sorts of positions: you are behind me, you are on top of me, I am on top of you, & etc. The burgundy fucking is passionate & a more appropriate name for it could be making love, regardless of how intensely true love is or is not actually involved, regardless of how much an objective reality of true love is or is not actually existent anyways. Fingers are in mouths. Wetness exists. What is the source of desire for this fucking? Is it the desire for vastness? Is it the desire for burgundy? Is it the blueness of you? Is it the blueness of me? Is it the burgundy of our togetherness? What is the source of desire? For anything. I am speaking of blue & burgundy & yellow & crimson & all sorts of so-called colors, but not exclusively as colors, or anything specifically definable. Do lust & love have colors? I color-code the world to understand. Color-coding is the best coping mechanism for dealing with my Existentialism. I feel better about things when I know they can be blue, or burgundy, or any color at all. Anything besides only black, white, gray. Does blue retain heat? Blue is very warm. Blue is almost as warm burgundy. At least it feels that way. I don’t know anything. I stare at the vast blue-cyan sky everyday & think about how I know nothing. About how much there is to learn. It is quiet. It is vast. The world is continuing & we are kissing. We are touching
Juliana Tattoli is a student and artist in Oregon.