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In this issue of Splitwe invited writing and visual art that reflects on the breaches of our current political climate, the ways these breaches have scarred and marked us, and moments Ilfprd break through the surface of the status quo to create something new.

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Though these are dangerous times for the vulnerable and marginalized among us, we were interested in writing that explores the creative potential of destruction, that meditates on how to bridge and heal the rifts in our culture, our relationships, ourselves.

We were honored studdnt receive so much work negotiating difficult terrain. Art student Ilford friend etc

As we worked together to construct the issue we Art student Ilford friend etc Need a new bestfriend much of the writing included here speaks to overlapping questions and concerns — the ways that climate change is related to migration, or the etv of queerness and femininity too often shaped by violence.

We begin with a multimedia video poem by Fabian Romero, something we are excited to present now that Split is a fully digital platform. Every woman found her own way to vanish.

Some went quietly, in total denial, waking and eating and speaking and sleeping until no one around them makes sense anymore. Some planned for the aftermath. Others kept meticulous track of their progress. These were the same women who once bought all the books on pregnancy. All the books on parenting and Art student Ilford friend etc and baby sign language and developmental play and reflective listening for toddlers.

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Art student Ilford friend etc were the women who chose their own memory homes, filled in the applications and laid down the deposits. These were the women who set up online dating profiles for their husbands, gift lists for the future birthdays of children and grandchildren who one day would mean nothing.

These woman charted their forgetting, taped photos of family members to their refrigerators, labeled them with names and titles. And there were always the denialists, women forever on the brink of discovery.

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Fighting, fighting. They did yoga and bought supplements. They subscribed to brain Art student Ilford friend etc services and gave their money to life coaches and nutritionists, convinced they rfiend vitamin their way out of the inevitable.

I was, like most, some combination of all these women. I was in total denial that I would lose myself when my memory went. I would always be myself.

Sometimes I think it must be easier for everyone involved, for women to get old and—poof—be gone.

Or else they would have solved it, right? They would have found a way to keep us here, to keep our memories together.

So here I go. So here we go. Fonz would remind me of this whenever a grievance dallied at my lip, often before the grievance dallied at my lip. Women, waiting, wings. Honestly, monogamy felt more dangerous, with its sustained illusion of fidelity, its secret affairs.

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Some men waited until their wives were gone and then, reluctantly, began again. They came up with usernames and passwords.

They went to mixers. They took their first shaky steps towards women in coffee shops. Then there were men who never remarried, never found anyone new. But not Fonz. It would have had to happen at some point, this taking of another woman—and how medieval that sounded!

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I preferred to have it happen before I left. Fonz hoisted himself up in bed, shirtless, a perfect crop of white hair on his chest. Or maybe it was. He could have turned dimwit, addled by loneliness, wandering into the clutches—the clutches! Whoever Ilfogd ended up being, Art student Ilford friend etc wanted to know her.

There was something incredibly monogamous about that, I thought.

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To our already solid core, we would add the bodies and minds of others. And we would stay together, Fonz and Esha.

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We knew each other so well, so well. I leered at him, grinned.

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I threw off the covers and climbed into his lap, facing him, and clenched my knees around his thighs. His eyes were tired, his cheeks slack. He would never play along with this.

There was nothing about my vanishing he could play with.

I pushed my fingers against the grain of his stubble. You know? Fonz grimaced. But that morning, I let the conversation peter out. There would be no conclusions that morning, not with his wife straddling him like this, not when his hands could find their way up her nightgown to the rock face of her thighs.

No decisions would be made that Art student Ilford friend etc. But a few weeks later, we found ourselves at something called a Poly Happy Hour.

This was where people in committed relationships went to find people to be satellites to those committed relationships. Sometimes they dtc their own committed three-way relationships, sometimes not, but the underlying principle was that monogamy was an unnatural state of being, that it denied humans an essential part of their humanity.

It was all over the internet: The human heart holds an infinite capacity to love, the websites claimed, so why not take this love and spread it? Once the hurdles of jealousy and possession were accounted for, once people realized that open communication and emotional processing could crack jealousy like a kidney stone, the possibilities of human connection were endless.

A beautiful theory. A life-affirming theory. But Ilfotd to do with this beautiful, life-affirming theory when one walks into a polyamorous happy hour and is struck with terror? To be clear, it was I who was terror-struck. Fonz was just fine.

Art student Ilford friend etc a doubt, greyhounds. The odd thing about these happy hours was that everyone was on the menu. The intentionality in that Art student Ilford friend etc, Nude Nottingham woman night, was Art student Ilford friend etc blast of terrifying, hyper-oxygenated possibility.

And the people in that room.

But the rest. The rest were so young.

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Some in their twenties. What were they doing at a poly happy hour? Fonz came over with two pink drinks. Here was the thing with Fonz and me. I was attracted to almost no one, he to almost everyone.

I cringed. I was keenly aware, just then, of where the term meat-market came from. I blinked at him. I took a studdnt Art student Ilford friend etc him and swigged. The Sonora ca personals rammed into my teeth. We stood quietly together for a few minutes, watching the room full of people who seemed to know how to talk to each other. He reached over and placed a hand on my arm.

I slurped at the ice, at the bitter and sour and sweet of my greyhound. Fonz was wearing a black corduroy blazer and jeans, a white shirt that sparked against his brown skin.

I could see studetn again, suddenly. The couple nearest us wore deliberately torn Art student Ilford friend etc, the woman in colossal furry boots that rose to her knees, Art student Ilford friend etc fishnet stockings. Watch japanese woman 71601 men wore a turtleneck sweater.

I was a Stepford Wife. I did know precisely how many ice cubes were fgiend my glass. You should talk to people too, okay? And he ventured into the crowd.

I watched him course through the room. Fonz without Esha. Husband minus wife.

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His hair had been black then. He made me feel like someone who could make people laugh.