A low curtain hangs over me; if it were smoke, it would be in the shade of blue that desperately wants to be silver. My window is open, the mesh the only boundary between me and the bugs outside. The air creeps on my bed. I can pull the blanket closer and tighter around me but. Lately there has been a wetness creeping over my body. Think of moss, think of slime. Of sex, of milk. My brain feels like a sludge factory that I clock in and get lost in. Let’s take a moment to remember The Packard Sawmill.
Thinking too much about oneself is always detrimental, so I think of words/images that feel/sound wet.
Steeple. primrose. Lacanian. torment. blood does, of course, but a wound doesn’t. Shadows of leaves but not buildings. If you could be something made out of metal, what would you be? A telephone line — probably the one in My Private Idaho. Is there one? I am fairly certain. Oh, firefly sounds wet. What else? Anything with a little “l” moment going on. Else. Although. Preamble. Sicilian. Spleen (I mean). julienne. pencil. steel. silver. sliver. slice (open a wound and there will be blood).
I think of what can be kept in a jar. Buttons. Rocks. Bones. Needles. Pencil Sharpenings. Sawdust. Tree bark. Leaves. Water. Water with food colour or sugar in it. Just salt. Chilli Powder. Coffee and chilli powder together for that perfect wake you up call. Bugs. Dead ants. A locket. Tea leaves. A smaller jar.
I think of all the blue things I am collecting for something personal. I think of green and how I have abandoned it. I think of how green and blue are bound to meet, on the horizon, always. Soulmates.
If I am making tea and I add a little blue and green to it, it will turn to teal. If I were Bob Dylan but better, so basically Joan Baez, I would write a stupid song about colours and release it. Teal me something, do you love me too? Don’t leave me green with envy, leave me black and blue.
I wish light were liquid. I remember a metal bucket on the terrace, the kind that is heavy even without water in it. I remember dropping it on my foot and a scratch that burnt. I remember bathing on the terrace, it was one of the cooler (not colder) months, the sun the air the clouds all in gentle adornment of the sky, enveloping my brown and frothy nakedness, a mere blotch.
I remember catching the sun in the water in the bucket, golden that is imitating white, but is emptier. The water only warm in certain pockets of molecules, the breeze a cool sensation on my back, making my hair stand. My thighs aching from the constant crouching; but to stand up is to expose yourself (and in these trying times, it is necessary comrades). Is being awkward the same thing as being shy? I don’t remember being shy, I have only been overtly conscious and anxious and easily driven to tears. I am the mother that embarrases her own child, but then I tend to myself by getting an ice cream and sleeping next to my shame.
A year ago I couldn’t bear it so I slept in foreign rooms on mattresses that were probably never shown to the sun. Everything was beginning to be foreign to me, and I could tell nobody about it.
In lieu of light, I have a wet sensation all over me. The blanket is sticking to my body and the window is now broken and the mesh has caught on fire and oh god so many bees inside when did that happen why is there a huge lizard on my bed the wind has turned into a storm and now I am freezing. I get up, don’t look at the lizard ignore ignore ignore, take off my clothes and stand upright. There’s no sun.
stunner, you hold me captive...
oh this is absolutely beautiful