APRIL 2026

I LIKE TO TAKE A VERY HOT BATH. WHEN I FEEL SATISFIED ENOUGH IN MY BATH TO DRAIN IT, I RELEASE THE PLUG AND SIT UNTIL THE WATER SUBSIDES. ABOUT HALFWAY DOWN I TURN MY SELF OVER INTO CHILD’S POSE. HEAD DOWN OR, IF THE WATER IS STILL HIGH, HELD IN MY HANDS ON PROPPED ELBOWS.

CROUCHING. I STRETCH THE OTHER HALF OF MY BODY, NOT THE SIDE THAT FACES UP IN THE BATH BUT THE SIDE THAT TOUCHES THE PORCELAIN. WHAT A DELICATE WORD. A DELICATE MATERIAL, SO CREAMY AND WHITE, I, DECEIVED, AFTER I LAY MY BACK AGAINST ITS BOWL; ALAS. NOW I MUST STRETCH.

EMERGING FROM CHILD TO UPRIGHT ON KNEES. OR, ON FEET, RATHER, HANDS ON LAP OR LIMP AT MY SIDE. AS IF POSTURING TO TALK TO A CHILD, THE CHILD I WAS JUST BEFORE I ROSE. THE NECK NEEDS TO STRETCH, RELEASE, BECAUSE OF ITS PREVIOUS CONTACT WITH THE HARD SOFT PORCELAIN. ARCH FORWARD, ARCH DOWN. PALMS FACE UP ON TOPS OF THIGHS WHILE NECK LOWERS, BOWS, UNTIL I AM ASKING FOR FORGIVENESS

WITH MY HEAD IN HANDS. AH, I SEE MY HANDS. THE BATH WILL SOON EMPTY, NO I DO NOT WANT HARD KNEES ON HARD PORCELAIN THAT DECEIVES ME WITH ITS SOFTNESS OF WORD, SOFTNESS OF LANGUAGE, SOFTER WHEN THE WATER EXISTS BETWEEN US, MY SELF AND ANYTHING ELSE.

THE PALMS MEET THE GROUND AS SOFT PORCELAIN MEETS THE HANDS AND BODY IS RISEN. BODY IS SOFT IS COVERED IN SOFT WATER AS IT RISES

AND THE BODY HAS RISEN. THE BODY KEEPS RISING, FOLDING UP AND ONTO ITSELF, UNTIL IT IS UPRIGHT, UNTIL COVERED BY SOFT WATER, MORE AND MORE WATER COVERS ITS SOFTNESS UNTIL AGAIN, IT IS SUBMERGED. A BODY OF WATER. A BODY EMERGES: DRY, WET, COLD. I EMERGE. I HAVE RISEN; FREE FROM WATER, FROM PORCELAIN, FROM MY OWN EMBRACE.

I SIT DOWN ON THE RIM AND ITS SUDDEN COLDNESS AWAKENS ME. AH YES, THIS IS WHY I LIKE TO EXIST IN EXTREMES.

LIKE SEX. LIKE DANCING. LIKE HOLDING MY BREATH A LITTLE LONGER. LIKE RUNNING, LIKE SWIMMING. GOODBYE, OXYGEN. GOODNIGHT, SELF. I WRITE IN CANDLELIGHT NOW.

THERE ARE NO BLOCKS TO MY DAYS, NO DEFINITION TO MYSELF. FROM THE DIM CUP, I TASTE FOR THE FIRST TIME. I TASTE WHAT LIFE COULD BE. I TASTE A NEW LIFE. I LEFT MY SELF IN THE BATH. NOW YOU ARE TALKING TO ME AND I AM TALKING TO NO ONE. THERE ARE NO RULES HERE. I COULD WRITE AND WRITE AND NEVER STOP WRITING. IT WOULD BE A BOOK, OR IT WOULDN’T.

I AM SITTING IN A ROOM AT A DESK, WHICH IS AT THE FAR END OF THE ROOM. NO, IT’S IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM, PEOPLE CAN SEE ME AT ALL ANGLES, AND AT ALL DEGREES I HAVE THOUGHTS REFLECTING BACK ON ME. I AM SITTING IN THIS ROOM AND WRITING, I REFUSE TO STOP FOR 24 HOURS. I REFUSE TO PUT MY PEN DOWN OR LET THE WORDS STOP FLOWING. WHAT AM I WRITING AT HOUR THREE? HOUR EIGHTEEN?

LET’S SAY, IN ONE HOUR, I CAN AVERAGE SOMEWHERE FROM FIVE TO SEVEN PAGES. WHAT IS 24 TIMES FIVE? OK, IN 24 HOURS I WILL HAVE WRITTEN ABOUT ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TO ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY PAGES, DEPENDING ON THE DENSITY OF MY HANDWRITING AND OF THOUGHTS. I WOULD FILL AN ENTIRE ONE OF THESE NOTEBOOKS. I WOULD NEVER REPEAT A THOUGHT ALREADY WRITTEN, JUST AS I HAVE BARELY REPEATED A THOUGHT IN THIS VERY NOTEBOOK. I’VE NEVER WRITTEN THIS THOUGHT IN THIS NOTEBOOK OR ANYWHERE ELSE BECAUSE I’VE NEVER THOUGHT THIS THOUGHT. HOW FUN IT IS TO HAVE NEW THOUGHTS, HAVE A NEW THOUGHT THEN RECOGNIZE IT AS NEW.

I DO WORRY MY BACK WOULD HURT. MY BACK WILL NOT MAKE IT 24 HOURS SITTING. I CAN BARELY WRITE FOR FORTY FIVE MINUTES WITHOUT NEEDING TO GET UP AND STRETCH. THAT IS A CONSTRAINT.

MY HAND AND WRIST WOULD PROBABLY HURT, TOO. AFTER HOUR ONE. HOW WOULD I WRITE WITHOUT MY HAND? HOW MANY PENS WOULD I FINISH? WHAT WOULD I WRITE ABOUT, AND WHAT WILL I DO WITH THE NOTEBOOK AFTER?

I GOT TO THIS THOUGHT BECAUSE THE POINT OF THE BATH STORY WAS THAT I LIKE TO PUT MY BODY IN EXTREMES. IT WAS NOT A STORY ABOUT A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE IN THE BATH BUT ABOUT BROWNING OUT AFTER THE HEAT AND BLOOD RUSH TO MY HEAD AFTER A HOT BATH AND THAT FEELING LIKE A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE BECAUSE I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT MYSELF.

I RETURN, AND I HAVE NO WORDS FOR MYSELF. I HAVE NO LANGUAGE. MAYBE LANGUAGE IS WHY I’M SO ATTACHED TO MYSELF. MAYBE WORDS TIE ME TO MYSELF, MY “I AM” AND “I AM NOT.”

WELL, LISTEN. I LIKE TO HAVE FUN AND I’M LETTING MYSELF RIGHT NOW SO PLEASE LET ME BE.

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LONG SPONTANEOUS WALK TODAY. IT’S SUNNY. I THOUGHT I WAS TIRED. ONLY STOPPED TO SEE THE TWO NOGUCHI SITES AROUND HOUR TWO. OTHERWISE, NO AGENDA. LISTENED TO THE AUDIOBOOK OF CATCHING THE BIG FISH, READ BY LYNCH HIMSELF. FOLLOWED THE WATER BUT NEVER ACTUALLY APPROACHED IT. 

IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE, FROM MEMORY:
[I WAS PRETTY CLOSE]

SUBMERGE, EMERGE

COS OR SIN GRAPH VIEWED AS IN ELEVATION

WHAT IS REVEALED? CONCEALED? HIDDEN?

WHAT ARE WE SHOWING AND WHAT IS FORBIDDEN?

WHAT CHANGES OVER TIME? AND HOW DO WE KNOW?

MARKS LEFT TO BE DISCOVERED
REVEALED TO US BY ANOTHER

BE SUBTLE, BARELY VISIBLE
A POOL HOLDING WATER
A REFLECTION OF ANOTHER
UNTOUCHABLE, UNREACHABLE
[I LIKE YOU BETTER FROM AFAR]
EMERGE THE UNSPEAKABLE

I WANT MY WORDS TO BE MINE
I WANT TO SAY THE UNSPEAKABLE

ON THE SURFACE
IN THE DEPTHS
THROUGH THE CRACKS
YOU LINGER

FROM ABOVE
YOU SEE ME
WITH EACH GLANCE GETTING STEEPER

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NATALIE TISCHLER [IS A W] WHAT ARE THE FACTS OF MY LIFE?


NATALIE TISCHLER WAS BORN IN RHINEBECK, NEW YORK, AND RAISED IN WEST HURLEY, NEW YORK.

NATALIE TISCHLER WAS BORN AND RAISED IN WOODSTOCK, NY.

[I’M CRAFTING MY LIFE, THINKING OF HOW THE WORDS WILL BE RECEIVED AND WHAT THEY WILL MEAN TO ANOTHER PERSON READING THEM]


NATALIE TISCHLER WRITES EVERY DAY IN NEW YORK, NY. SHE SWIMS TO OCCUPY HER BODY WHILE SHE THINKS AND TO REGULATE HER BREATHING UNTIL SHE STOPS THINKING. SHE DANCES TO FORGET HOW TO THINK AND TO LET HER BODY BE A BODY. SHE WALKS TO DAYDREAM IN THE SURROUNDINGS; TO NOTICE PATTERNS, TO SEEK NOTHING, TO TAKE ANYTHING IN. SHE LIKES TO DRIVE AND TO SING IN THE CAR. SHE WANTS THE FREEDOM TO BE HUMAN AND TO NOT BE HERSELF, TO NOT BE ANYBODY. SHE WRITES TO MAKE SENSE OF LIVING, KNOWING SHE WILL NEVER COME TO A CONCLUSION, THAT ONE CONCLUSION IS NO MORE CO


NATALIE TISCHLER IS SITTING IN THE SUN IN LOS ANGELES, CA. SHE DOES NOT WANT TO BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT SHE IS BEING RIGHT NOW.


NATALIE TISCHLER IS NOW WRITING. BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS, SHE WILL NOT BE WRITING. OR SHE MAY BE WRITING, BUT NOT THESE SAME WORDS.


NATALIE TISCHLER WILL NOW TAKE A SIP OF COFFEE.


NATALIE TISCHLER WOULD LIKE TO MAKE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BECAUSE ALL SHE DOES IS OBSERVE HERSELF AND ALL THE THINGS SHE WRITES AND SEES ARE AN ACCUMULATION OF HERSELF.

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THERE’S A LITTLE BIT OF SUN DAPPLING THROUGH THE TREES ONTO MY EYES. INTO MY EYES, ACROSS THE PAGE, SO THAT I SEE THE SHADOW OF MY HAND WHILE IT WRITES.

OH, TO BE BACK IN TOUCH WITH THE MUNDANE. TO FEEL THE SIMPLE PLEASURE OF THE SUN ON MY SKIN, LIGHT LEAKING ACROSS THE PAGE—THOSE ARE NOT MY WORDS. I WOULD NOT SAY LIGHT “LEAKS” UNLESS IT WAS SOCIALIZED AS A PHRASE UNTO ME. I WOULD PERHAPS SAY SPILLS, LIGHT SPILLS. OR WHISPERS. LIGHT WHISPERS.

LIGHT WHISPERS OF THE SUN AS IT COMES IN AND OUT OF THE SPACE: A WHITE METAL TABLE ATOP TRIMMED GRASS, FAKE GRASS I NOW LOOK DOWN AND CONFIRM, HOLDING A WHITE METAL TABLE I, BEFORE SITTING, WIPED CLEAN OF DAYS, WEEKS OF DUST AND DIRT, NOW CLEAN, NOW HOLDING THIS VERY BOOK IN WHICH I WRITE THESE VERY MUNDANE OBSERVATIONS AND GET SATISFACTION, WHILE THE LIGHT LEAKS IN AND CASTS SHADOWS ON THE TABLE TO REMIND ME THAT YES, THE BOOK IS IN FACT SITTING ATOP THE TABLE UNDERNEATH MY HANDS HOLDING THIS PEN THAT WRITES SUCH MUNDANE THOUGHTS. HOW I GET SUCH JOY FROM SUCH MUNDANITY. I HEAR THE VOICE OF MY FATHER SEEP THROUGH THE DINING ROOM WINDOW—AS IF WE ARE A FAMILY AGAIN, AS IF WE’VE WOKEN UP TO A NEW LIFE WHERE NOTHING FEELS NEW BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS FAMILIAR. WE’VE WOKEN UP AND RETURNED TO FRESH EYES ON OUR PREVIOUS LIVES.

THE BIRDS SING, MELODY WITH ONE ANOTHER. MY FATHER’S VOICE JUST ANOTHER SONG AGAINST THE CONTINUOUS PASSING OF TRAFFIC. A WHITE NOISE, A FOG OVER THE DETAILS, ASIDE FROM THE FEW WORDS WE HEAR WHEN WE DECIDE TO TUNE IN, OR DURING THE INFREQUENT LULL OF CARS PASSING, FILLED BY DISCREET SONGS AND CONCRETE WORDS—WE WISH THE TRAFFIC WOULD COME BACK NOW.

WHO IS “WE”? WHO AM I ABSTRACTING MYSELF INTO?

I YELL TO MY FATHER TO CLOSE THE WINDOW OVER, I NEED TO HEAR MY VOICE AMONG THE BIRD SONG AND TRAFFIC. I, AS ONE, NEED TO MELT INTO THE ONGOING TRAFFIC AND CACOPHONY. I NEED MY WORDS TO BLEND IN. I WANT THE WORDS I WRITE TO COME FROM THE VOID—STRAIGHT FROM THE THROATS OF THE BIRDS AND THE UNDETECTED SPEED OF CARS ON THE FREEWAY. I WANT TO HEAR MY VOICE IN THE DRIPPINGS OF YESTERDAY’S RAIN FROM THE GUTTER, IN THE SOUNDS OF AN AIRCRAFT THAT CAN ONLY BE HEARD AND NEVER SEEN. I WANT TO FIND MYSELF IN THE SEARCH, AND NEVER FIND MYSELF. I WANT TO ACCEPT MYSELF AS THE PERPETUAL SEARCH.

SO I SCATTER MYSELF AMONG THE FLEETING SHADOWS, DISPERSE THE WORDS ACROSS THE PAGE. I DISSOLVE INTO DIRECT SUNLIGHT THAT PLACES ORBS OF INVISIBLE LIGHT ON EACH EYELASH WHEN I SQUINT JUST ENOUGH. HOW DO I KNOW THIS? THAT IS THE BEAUTY OF WRITING; OF NOT KNOWING, AND BEING COMFORTABLE ENOUGH IN A FEELING THAT IT TRANSLATES ITSELF INTO WORDS.

A MOMENT OF QUIET—JUST A MOMENT. MORE TIME LAPSES BETWEEN EACH WORD. THE WORLD OFFERS MORE STILLNESS. AND I, PRESENT TO RECEIVE IT. I, STILL, STILL ENOUGH TO OBSERVE THE LIGHT LEAKING THROUGH THE PICKET FENCE (YES, LEAKING, AS IT SEEPS THROUGH THE SPACES IN BETWEEN MATTER AND CREATES ITS OWN MATTER ELSEWHERE), PLACING LINES OF LIGHT ONTO THE ARTIFICIAL GRASS, ONE NEXT TO A MOUND OF DOG POOP FROM THE SAME DOG WHO WENT ON THE STAIRS AND MY FATHER STEPPED IN.

I REMEMBER LYING IN BED AND ASKING MY FATHER TO TELL ME STORIES ABOUT BINGO, THE BLACK TERRIER HE HAD AS A CHILD. I THINK IT WAS JUST ONE STORY, THE SAME STORY I NO LONGER REMEMBER AND WILL HAVE TO ASK HIM WHEN I RETURN INSIDE. THIS MORNING I HANDED HIM A TOWEL AFTER HE TOLD ME HE STEPPED IN POOP. HE IS ABOUT TO HAVE A MEETING WITH A NEW PSYCHIATRIST AND I OVERHEAR AS MUCH OF THEIR CONVERSATION AS I TUNE INTO FROM THE KITCHEN.

HOW INTERESTING IT IS TO CONSTRUCT ONE’S LIFE. TO CHOOSE WORDS THAT TELL A STORY, NOTICING WHICH WORDS YOU CHOOSE BUT NEVER WONDERING WHY. BECAUSE THE WORDS ARE PART OF LIFE—HOW YOU TELL A STORY IS YOUR STORY AND LIFE IS ONE LONG STORY. A BEGINNING, AN ENDING, BOTH EVASIVE AND MYSTERIOUS, WITHOUT MEMORY. WITHOUT THE ABILITY TO PUT WORDS TO THE EXPERIENCE AND YET—LIFE STILL HAPPENS. AND THEN YOU REALIZE LIFE IS HAPPENING. YOU PUT WORDS TO WHAT IS HAPPENING. AND WHAT HAPPENS, HAPPENS, WHETHER OR NOT ONE PUTS WORDS TO IT.

LIFE DOES NOT NEED WORDS OR UNDERSTANDING TO HAPPEN.

YET HERE I AM PUTTING WORDS TO THE SUN’S SHINE, HOW IT HITS THE MUG OF COFFEE AND AHA! THERE IS AN IMITATION OF THE MUG SPLAYED ONTO THE TABLE. THESE WORDS TRACE ITS OUTLINE, DISTINGUISH IT FROM THE MUG, FROM THE TABLE, FROM THE SUN AND ITS LIGHT. DISTINGUISH THE SUN FROM ITS LIGHT, SEPARATE MY SELF FROM THE SUN AS I SAY “IT DOES THIS TO ME,” MAKING ME MYSELF AND IT ANOTHER. OH HOW WORDS DIVIDE… EACH THING INTO A THING UPON ITSELF.

AND EACH I SEPARATE FROM THE THING I OBSERVE. I NOTICE THIS, YET I WANT EVERY THING TO BE WHOLE. I WANT THE LIGHT AND SUN A PART OF MY SKIN. I WANT MY FATHER SEEING THE PSYCHIATRIST TO BE MY FATHER TELLING THE STORY OF BINGO. I WANT NOW TO BE THEN AND THE FUTURE TO REMEMBER THIS FEELING. AND THE LEAKING OF THE GUTTER TO STOP DRIPPING AND FORGET IT EVER DRIPPED. I WANT THIS ALL TO MAKE SENSE IN WORDS BUT I KNOW I WILL NEVER MAKE SENSE OF THIS ALL, OR ANYTHING AT ALL. I WRITE TO PASS THE TIME AND FEEL THIS. IN WORDS, I TELL MYSELF I CAN CAPTURE THIS MOMENT, I CAN BE IN TIME WITHOUT FEELING IT PASS. IN WRITING, I FEEL MY SELF IN ETERNITY. IN THE MUNDANITY OF LIGHT THAT HAS ALWAYS LEAKED AND WILL ALWAYS LEAK, I REMEMBER I AM HUMAN AND FORGET MY SELF EXISTING. BECAUSE IN ETERNITY, THERE IS NO LIGHT THAT LEAKS OR GUTTERS THAT DRIP OR STORIES THAT ARE TOLD. THERE ARE NO WORLDS TO DESCRIBE THE FEELING; EVERYTHING IS.

OH I DON’T WANT TO END THIS WAY. THERE IS PRESSURE FOR AN ENDING TO BE GRANDEOUS, TO LEAVE YOU WITH SOMETHING, TO MAKE THE STORY WORTH READING, TO MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING. I MUST GO INSIDE NOW—THE LIGHT HITTING THE ARTIFICIAL GRASS HAS MADE THE SMELL OF DOG SHIT TOO STRONG. ANOTHER SIGN: A DROP OF SHIT-COLORED LIQUID COMES FROM ABOVE AND SITS ON THIS VERY PAGE.

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