NO REST FOR THE AWAKE - MINAGAHET CHAMORRO

When relationships end, people may fight over pets, fight over furniture, collections, kids. One thing that has always struck me, for certain, but not all relationship apocalypses is songs. Music where affection and attachment were forged and welded together with tunes and lyrics from particular artists. It provides the rhythm to togetherness, to grooves of the “us.” When a relationship ends, the rhythm of togetherness sometimes sours, turns grimly bitter. What once caused joy, now feels like it creates bone cancer. Songs or artists that I shared with someone and used to make me smile, now make me retch, make the skies insidiously darken in the space between beats. The muscles remember, even what the mind or heart wishes it could forget. For one particularly tough relationship, the music of Tegan and Sara was part of the soundtrack of us. For years I enjoyed it alongside her. For my girlfriend at the time, she was a twin and adored the duo, and introduced me to their music

Diagnosis Guinaiya by Michael Lujan Bevacqua I flip through the untouched yellowed pages of a phonebook where photographs of smirking physicians remind me that there is no cure for what I feel. Symptom 1, the itching, restless dancing of fingers hovering above a keyboard, agonizing over an email to you. When I glance away, they audaciously type, “tåya’ åmot para guinaiya.” I spend sleep-starved nights tabbing page after virtual page from malware infected medical sites, each of which is sponsored by the fact that there is no cure for what I am feeling right now. Symptom 2, my poor eye, crooked and scratched, sprained in its socket from straining to watch you from afar. As my eyes fail in frustration, the normally invisible detritus of the world’s afterglow mimes the plot of the most recent installment of my life, “Tåya’ åmot para guinaiya” I Whatsapp friends and foes photos of my symptom-sick form, hoping for some positive prognosis, but each