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marie mundaca

marie mundaca | new york city

selected writings ...

Erratica #6 | Simulacra

She is unaware of the symbolism in her life. Semiotics, hermeneutics, coincidence, synchronicities—all escape her notice. Her friend often points outs her trajectories and common subsets, the intersecting lines, the geometry of her life. Her answer is usually the same: I'm the character. I'm not supposed to see. Please. You be the reader. Tell me your reader response. Once her friend queried, "you're not the author?"

There was this one period of her life where, for about a year, she became a compulsive masturbator.

Erratica #7 | Chained

for Tracey

You, size-4 wearer, writer of lovely stories... you're like ripe strawberries piled high atop sweet buttery shortcake, whipped cream dolloped and dripping down your sides. You're like Nastasha Kinski's berry-stained lips, from that scene in Tess. Do you know how much I envy you, seeing you living the life I wanted. I see right through you, almost; you are as translucent as the clear red plastic that wraps the tray of chocolate chip cookies. Inside you're filled with luscious sweets.

We are bound, chained by a piece of ephemera like the silver cord that kept me attached to myself when I had the little accident, strong as a spider's web. While you travel, I'll stay here, holding the string so you don't get too far. Wizard of Oz. I am the little dog. You are the ruby slippers. Click. Click. Click.