How I long to write you in all of your shifting
but its interminable nuance is impossible to pin down
and these glasses like tunnel vision are cramping my mind.
I could take off my glasses, I suppose,
but maybe you are just not meant to be written,
and probably in an ancient language’s complexity
with those musical scales we don’t even use anymore,
and that celestial spectrum our human eyes fail to see.
And then I started thinking about Jesus cooking breakfast on the shore after everything he had been through. If anyone’s profundity and humility came close…
He thought for a moment, that he was over doing it. But he wasn’t sure because of the compartments in his mind.
She didn’t have those compartments. And it moved him. Moved him.
He decided he wouldn’t work on his rhyming on Friday, afterall.
It felt so much like a Wednesday – porous and drifting…
It wasn’t quite cold enough to start a fire, which kind of threw him. It’s always nice to have a fire to work by, when the Wednesday dig starts. But he reasoned with himself that the digs were getting shallower. Dr. _____ said that was a good thing – the need was lessening, you know, to build defences from the debris he found. They thought he was inching closer to jumping off and grabbing the drifting instead.
He wasn’t sure. He looked down at his journal. Apparently he had been writing in it.
those notes are soaring above me, but there’s blood all over my un-reach. This is the refrain. I need to re-write the refrain. I need to let it rain.
His breathing, stopped, he found it. Four dimensionally, he opened it.
Its fragility stunned his eyes with convoluted memory tears, while his new inhalations syphoned the colours from the pages – colours that would help him navigate the convolutions –
that’s when he noticed some words were underlined.She had underlined them! But the ones left untouched – he smiled – they were the portal.
There’s a door down there I keep circling. A closet door in the deepest floor, and these stairs like optical illusions. Or as my mother liked to say, optical collusions.
These stairs of chalk.
She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.
She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.
Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?
Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.
Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.
He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.
He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening. He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.
I fell into what I thought was one of my clichéd dreams, filled with doors.
But there was a door that stood out. It stood out because it was familiar.
Still on its hinges despite the relentless wind coming through, I tried to close it.
My neck ached, being in the same position every mourning.
Eons before/maybe last week, I had opened it because I had seen your music through the window of it – blushing colours and adverbs on a stave of missing meaning.
But that was then.
Now it was time to change my glasses. They were tinted, it turned out.
"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words
if you press your ear against the stone."
He hated this place. But she promised it would
be the last time. And it had started to snow.
It would hopefully slow the others down.
They needed to leave. He was too scared to look
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting
from the tears frozen on her face.
He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.
mother they are coming again
they come to shoot what we already lost
mother they are coming again
our silver covered by their rust
father they are coming again
they come to jail the things that i have seen
father they are coming again
burning minds to keep the ruin clean
no one is around
„little girl there’s safer ground
follow the sea and you will find that place
little girl there’s safer ground
come take your years and put them in their hands“
She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?
But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang
instead. The words she had taught him when they met,
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before
they never saw him again.
"Little girl, there's safer ground..."
That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.
Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.
She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was. She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.
And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car
Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.
this rake isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be,
I feel your suggestions as you’re watching me
make these corrugations –
they were in my dreams,
bursting from the seams
of my mind’s eye.
From here below periphery,
silent door’s epiphany,
you hear my eyes as you look at me…
one of my current ear worms. if you need a little energy boost, or a push through a portal or something…(and if this video doesn’t play for you because you don’t live in the best country on earth 😉 there is this acoustic version:)
She drew back the curtains with all the care that wasn’t in the world. It was the only way she knew how. To stop the time. To restart his breathing.
(I could have that wrong – it might be, that she was the only one who knew how to do it. No one remembered. No one cared.)
The air was so thick with the calligraphy they had forced out of him. She uncurled it and admired it in the twilight/non-time. All things considered, it was still exquisite.
She had a new idea. And when he read her thought, he sat bolt up right, smiling.
she searched for other words for her wrists, singed
her edges smouldering, smoke fringed
internal edges, that is.
Scrambling through the messages in his eyes
he finds the one he wants to send her, hopefully
she’ll read it without doubt, earnestly
not doubting him, that is.
The other he, she should be doubting
he holds that glass, sun’s rays re routing
to warm her, that is
what he’s always told her…
He knew it.
This would be the place. The place at the end of the wrong road. And somehow, it was exactly how he pictured it. It looked just like the other fork where he made the wrong turn.
His favourite music particles flew past in perfect, mesmerising harmony with his non astonished gaze, landing at his feet. Forming those pages. He just wished he could remember which was the wrong page turn.