He wanted the other one, but he didn’t say anything. He knew she would expect him to say something and there was no way he was going to let her have the satisfaction. So he ate it: taking huge bites to get it over with but gagging halfway through. Subtle, though–disguising the noise, the jerk of his head, as a cough.
Sometimes you’re the other, and sometimes you’re the otherer, the fish who doesn’t even realize she’s in water, the mother of all bother, an otter whose whole world is the crack crack cracking of a hard shell against a stone. Other other other otter and why bother, why dither?
It isn’t me – but it also is me. I am the other, the differnt and outside. Yet all things are other to me – different, other, outside. Thus is the impenetrable separateness of persons: all things are other, even that which is not.
What is the opposite of ‘other’? Me? Self? I? That-which-is-not-other.
There is no other one
who I’d want to have bunches of fun.
No other guy
I’d rather have making me feel like I can fly.
No one I’d rather love
like two turtle doves.
Nothing I’d rather do
Than be right here with you.
Other people are difficult. But maybe you’re difficult too. Maybe you’re the other person people think about, look up too. People are difficult. Difficult. Other = difficult. This world is too complicated
“C’mon.” He held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
She looked up at him, nose still runny with snot. “Can’t. Other people will see.”
“So? Who cares about other people? Screw them. Screw everyone.”
Without another word, he grabbed her hand with his and began to run. Their footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway, bouncing off the cheap wallpaper and the dingy light fixtures.
The boy whooped loudly, pumping his free fist into the air. “See? We’re rebels, you and me.”
For the first time in a few days, a smile spread across her face.
She is the other big person in my life. I hate her. I catch myself thinking of the deep loathing that fills the pit of my stomach and I think of the good times. Were there ever any good times? OR were they all simply bad ones masked in swallowed feelings and guilt trips. Truly she has become a living nightmare. She has become the other that I wish I could make never.
I didn’t know if I should send her a letter, or fire out an e-mail, or try to communicate with her in any other fashion. All I knew was that I was madly in love with her, and the art of confession was not an easy one to master.
I wound up saying nothing, stewing over my feelings, if only to make sure she was happy. She was married, anyway, and my stepping in and spilling my guts would have been more harmful than beneficial. I said nothing for six years. And after those six years, after her divorce, she asked me out for a drink.
If you were capable of having another woman, and I doubt you are, would you look my way? Can I be “other” to you, or am I too much a part of your mind already, too much part of your workday, for you to see me as anything other than (at most) a piece missing from you that you never knew?
He wanted the other one, but he didn’t say anything. He knew she would expect him to say something and there was no way he was going to let her have the satisfaction. So he ate it: taking huge bites to get it over with but gagging halfway through. Subtle, though–disguising the noise, the jerk of his head, as a cough.
“Beau, you okay? You need some water, buddy?”
Sometimes you’re the other, and sometimes you’re the otherer, the fish who doesn’t even realize she’s in water, the mother of all bother, an otter whose whole world is the crack crack cracking of a hard shell against a stone. Other other other otter and why bother, why dither?
She looked over her shoulder.
“No, you’re other left.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Do you see it?”
“No.”
It isn’t me – but it also is me. I am the other, the differnt and outside. Yet all things are other to me – different, other, outside. Thus is the impenetrable separateness of persons: all things are other, even that which is not.
What is the opposite of ‘other’? Me? Self? I? That-which-is-not-other.
Your other form your other evil twin your other side your other family your other life your other reality. your other self your other person.
There is no other one
who I’d want to have bunches of fun.
No other guy
I’d rather have making me feel like I can fly.
No one I’d rather love
like two turtle doves.
Nothing I’d rather do
Than be right here with you.
Other as in, others? Other people? Other what?
Other people are difficult. But maybe you’re difficult too. Maybe you’re the other person people think about, look up too. People are difficult. Difficult. Other = difficult. This world is too complicated
The other night, I had a dream where you were in a tuxedo, and I was in a voluminous white minidress. The two of us up on stage.
i know this word. sometimes we are thinking ourself but sametime we must thinking the others. Others important.
“C’mon.” He held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
She looked up at him, nose still runny with snot. “Can’t. Other people will see.”
“So? Who cares about other people? Screw them. Screw everyone.”
Without another word, he grabbed her hand with his and began to run. Their footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway, bouncing off the cheap wallpaper and the dingy light fixtures.
The boy whooped loudly, pumping his free fist into the air. “See? We’re rebels, you and me.”
For the first time in a few days, a smile spread across her face.
She is the other big person in my life. I hate her. I catch myself thinking of the deep loathing that fills the pit of my stomach and I think of the good times. Were there ever any good times? OR were they all simply bad ones masked in swallowed feelings and guilt trips. Truly she has become a living nightmare. She has become the other that I wish I could make never.
I didn’t know if I should send her a letter, or fire out an e-mail, or try to communicate with her in any other fashion. All I knew was that I was madly in love with her, and the art of confession was not an easy one to master.
I wound up saying nothing, stewing over my feelings, if only to make sure she was happy. She was married, anyway, and my stepping in and spilling my guts would have been more harmful than beneficial. I said nothing for six years. And after those six years, after her divorce, she asked me out for a drink.
If you were capable of having another woman, and I doubt you are, would you look my way? Can I be “other” to you, or am I too much a part of your mind already, too much part of your workday, for you to see me as anything other than (at most) a piece missing from you that you never knew?
Who really becomes “the other”
when a new relationship begins
and the old ends
but neither is official yet
The Husband or the Boyfriend?
The Wife or the Mistress?
Does the answer lie in the eye of the beholder?
These are the thoughts I think
when I am alone
pondering on the words that I have become
and what life has made of me.
crown like Saturn,
rings laying claim
to something
I can only
wish upon,
a comet visiting
every seven years.
I still climb mountains
to see you.