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a zine about moving on


i dedicate this publication to all of those who gave me a lift along the way -- this journey is just as much yours as it is mine. ily

“I wake to sleep, I feel my fate in I learn by going


and take my waking slow. what I cannot fear. where I have to go.” theodore roethke, “the waking”


80 miles to get to you felt like lifetimes 80 miles to leave, minutes

happy new year, 3.11.16


AN HOUR NO LONGER FEELS LIKE A CENTURY WE HAVEN’T BEEN ON THE SAME ROAD FOR A LONG TIME BUT AT LEAST NOW WE CAN...STOP FOOLING OURSELVES we were best at being a couple when someone was looking now the days stretch on infinite, but in the right direction


the hours after you are gone are so leaden they will always start dragging too soon the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want bringing up the bones the old loves sockets filled once with eyes like yours all always is it better too soon than never the black want splashing their faces saying again nine days never floated the loved nor nine months nor nine lives samuel beckett, “cascando�


“it was real for me, yup, real for me now i’ll fake it every single day til i don’t need fantasy, til i feel you leave but i still remember everything, how we’d drift buying groceries how you’d dance for me i’ll start letting go of little things til i’m so far away from you, far away from you” lorde, “hard feelings/loveless”


a study in changed plans, no. 2, 3.3.16


a bed of flowers, stacks of wood, and a note a farewell letter from a hundred years ago please remember to feed the cat

please remember that i’m never coming back florist, “1914”


6 5 4 like a countdown

a ticking time bomb


it should not have felt like two different worlds it should have been easier though i trained myself to stop saying should

“i don’t need anything from you and you will feel better with time”

you were right, though i sometimes wish it hadn’t taken me one more try to understand this.


“AN IDYLL LIKE THAT WASN’T MADE TO LAST. FOR A WHILE IT WAS FOREVER, AND THEN THINGS STARTED TO FALL APART. THERE ISN’T A STORY TO TELL, BECAUSE A RELATIONSHIP IS A STORY YOU CONSTRUCT TOGETHER AND TAKE UP RESIDENCE IN, A STORY AS SHELTERING AS A HOUSE. YOU INVENT THIS STORY OF HOW YOUR DESTINIES WERE MADE TO ENTWINE LIKE PORCH VINES, YOU ADJUST TO A BIG VIEW IN THIS DIRECTION AND NO VIEW IN THAT, THE DOORWAY THAT YOU HAVE TO DUCK THROUGH AND THE WINDOW THAT IS JAMMED, HOW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE BECOMES A FACTOR OF WHO YOU THINK HE IS AND WHO HE THINKS YOU ARE, A CASTLE IN THE CLOUDS MADE OUT OF THE MOIST AIR EXHALED BY DREAMERS. IT’S A SHOCK TO FIND YOURSELF OUTDOORS AND ALONE AGAIN, HARD TO IMAGINE THAT YOU COULD EVER LIVE IN ANOTHER HOUSE, BIG WHERE THIS ONE WAS SMALL, SMALL WHERE IT WAS BIG, HARD WHEN YOUR BODY HAS LEARNED ALL THE TWISTS AND TURNS OF THE STAIRCASE SO THAT YOU COULD WALK IT IN YOUR SLEEP, HARD WHEN YOU BUILT IT FROM SCRATCH AND CALLED IT HOME, HARD TO IMAGINE BUILDING AGAIN. BUT YOU LIT THE FIRE THAT BURNED IT DOWN YOURSELF. A HAPPY LOVE IS A SINGLE STORY, A DISINTEGRATING ONE IS TWO OR MORE COMPETING, CONFLICTING VERSIONS, AND A DISINTEGRATED ONE LIES AT YOUR FEET LIKE A SHATTERED MIRROR, EACH SHARD REFLECTING A DIFFERENT STORY, THAT IT WAS WONDERFUL, THAT IT WAS TERRIBLE, IF ONLY THIS HAD, IF ONLY THAT HADN’T. THE STORIES DON’T FIT BACK TOGETHER, AND IT’S THE END OF STORIES, THOSE DEVICES WE CARRY LIKE SHELLS AND SHIELDS AND BLINKERS AND OCCASIONALLY MAPS AND COMPASSES. THE PEOPLE CLOSE TO YOU BECOME MIRRORS AND JOURNALS IN WHICH YOU RECORD YOUR HISTORY, THE INSTRUMENTS THAT HELP YOU KNOW YOURSELF AND REMEMBER YOURSELF, AND YOU DO THE SAME FOR THEM. WHEN THEY VANISH SO DOES THE USE, THE APPRECIATION, THE UNDERSTANDING OF THOSE SMALL ANECDOTES, CATCHPHRASES, JOKES. THEY BECOME A BOOK SLAMMED SHUT OR BURNT.... THE STORIES SHATTER. OR YOU WEAR THEM OUT OR LEAVE THEM BEHIND. OVER TIME THE STORY OR THE MEMORY LOSES ITS POWER. OVER TIME YOU BECOME SOMEONE ELSE.”

rebecca solnit, “a field guide to getting lost”


It will be I? It will be the silence, where I am? I don’t know, I’ll never know; in the silence you don’t know. You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on. samuel beckett, “the unnamable”


isabelle martin | june 2017

AT A SNAIL'S PACE: a zine about moving on  
AT A SNAIL'S PACE: a zine about moving on  
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