Enough for now to note that the plan, to get clean of all those complicated knots before they become cancers, was as intelligent and well-designed as a war, and it spun, the planet spun, and nothing made dents in the walls of memory, and the bed was as cold in the morning as it was the evening before. The knots that could become cancer also are as likely to become a new kind of muscle, and I might need that. I gave it to them, and she wrapped it up for me in the morning, so that it was there like a present at her feet, and she said, "This is the gift I had in mind for you all along." It should be enough to make me insane, but somehow, I am not, or am insane enough to not realize it, and that's about the same thing (and more exciting than calculus).
I don't think this has happened before. Not in this place, and not in this order of events. Even if I decide that I'll go ahead and feel them in the order my heart follows, which is poisoned mad from mercury, it still doesn't create new patterns to match anything that's recognizable, or fits into any story. There are wolves at the door, and there are wolves who need to be let inside, and there are wolves we're better off without in our closets or beds or heads, but the ones who can come clean, whispering in metaphors that are true, with blood still on their paws, and evidence of their taste for dinner still stuck in their teeth, those are the ones I will listen to, because they have something worth listening to. This goes back to Mexico, then, this goes back to San Jose, then, and this goes back to a cave in Utah, then, and something worth listening to took place on my skin and takes place on the empty skin in my sheets, the cells continue to grow into something that might become a better story than they have been used to spinning.
But I won't complain. I'm not complaining. If nothing else is clear on a morning like this, a morning suitable for a birth, it's that I am entirely convinced that when my heart and my head are arguing, it's time to get out of the house until they've exhausted themselves, because in truth neither is worth listening to with any certainty or authority, especially when they are not on good terms with each other. This morning is not one of good terms, I'm half awake in a state of grief, and half wondering what might be on my doorstep when I get back home. Confession: I won't be home, that's just a metaphor. Confession: the grief is not about anything I can put my finger on. Confession: I am more Irish and Polish than I realized, and I think I am sustained, especially in times of an ill-conceived war, by swimming somewhere in grey waters, where the slow sharks are clouds beneath the surface, death is immanent, and all the children have lost their ability to play. Confession: monstrous folk make for enchanting companions. Confession: I don't think three is a good number, even though I saw something about this in my coffee this morning, I don't think I'd like it very much. Confession: even so, I still have to make a phone call. Just in case this all works out.
Except what is causing untold outrage, on a morning like this one, is the copper witch having appeared two times so far, she's always driving a toyota highlander, and she often changes the color to confuse me, but her profile is the same. She's always taking a foto of herself, and has the screen on her phone set to where she can send it to me, but for some reason something always stops her, her daughter starts to ask her questions about soccer uniforms, a blingy boyfriend starts to talk about marriage again, or a version of herself comes back to her and asks her if I ever thought of tattooing her face to my body. (The answer is yes, of course, but only for spite, of course, because that seems to be the only way anyone could ever forget you).
(I would never do anything so stupid as marking myself over you, and especially not the face, your face on my face or my face made more holy, it's ridiculous, a ridiculous).
((Oh my god i am getting so very old))
((I wish I thought more about furniture instead of the things I do think about, because my back would be better than it is)).
And suddenly, you send pictures on your phone, and we've entered into technology. It seems so out of place here, that suddenly this is very much like French deconstruction, only stupider, and without the context that makes it necessary (we know it's necessary, just play along and let me be outraged by the woman in the white suv).
And suddenly, my back is crooked. Because of the way perspective works, it's hard for people under 6 feet tall to notice, unless they are trained and skilled physicians, and I'm not among those (love hate relationship with physics, especially gravity, because I fall, and especially magnetism, because I am distracted by attractions). But it's there, and it won't go straight, because the spine is a tree.
This tree is full of strange creatures that make peculiar sounds, especially at night, something only dogs can hear. This morning, there are bees buzzing my head, and I know what that means, for sure, it means the birth or the death of something important, or something in between death and birth, and it won't be resolved easily, not until the hours start to play in order, not until the moments come one right after another, not until we participate in time, and right now, right this very moment, we refuse to participate, and that's how come we get to drown, forgetting that we learned how to breathe under water a long time before any of this started to take place.
And all of this has happened before. Like a pattern on the inside of a coffee cup. And a certain buzzard is starting to get ready to fly, spelling something in the air, some story about love, something that happened to us in time, something that is written in time, the river currents will carry me, even if I do roll over and try to sleep, and pretend this isn't the bottom of the river, and I have nothing left in me to offer.
I don't think this has happened before. Not in this place, and not in this order of events. Even if I decide that I'll go ahead and feel them in the order my heart follows, which is poisoned mad from mercury, it still doesn't create new patterns to match anything that's recognizable, or fits into any story. There are wolves at the door, and there are wolves who need to be let inside, and there are wolves we're better off without in our closets or beds or heads, but the ones who can come clean, whispering in metaphors that are true, with blood still on their paws, and evidence of their taste for dinner still stuck in their teeth, those are the ones I will listen to, because they have something worth listening to. This goes back to Mexico, then, this goes back to San Jose, then, and this goes back to a cave in Utah, then, and something worth listening to took place on my skin and takes place on the empty skin in my sheets, the cells continue to grow into something that might become a better story than they have been used to spinning.
But I won't complain. I'm not complaining. If nothing else is clear on a morning like this, a morning suitable for a birth, it's that I am entirely convinced that when my heart and my head are arguing, it's time to get out of the house until they've exhausted themselves, because in truth neither is worth listening to with any certainty or authority, especially when they are not on good terms with each other. This morning is not one of good terms, I'm half awake in a state of grief, and half wondering what might be on my doorstep when I get back home. Confession: I won't be home, that's just a metaphor. Confession: the grief is not about anything I can put my finger on. Confession: I am more Irish and Polish than I realized, and I think I am sustained, especially in times of an ill-conceived war, by swimming somewhere in grey waters, where the slow sharks are clouds beneath the surface, death is immanent, and all the children have lost their ability to play. Confession: monstrous folk make for enchanting companions. Confession: I don't think three is a good number, even though I saw something about this in my coffee this morning, I don't think I'd like it very much. Confession: even so, I still have to make a phone call. Just in case this all works out.
Except what is causing untold outrage, on a morning like this one, is the copper witch having appeared two times so far, she's always driving a toyota highlander, and she often changes the color to confuse me, but her profile is the same. She's always taking a foto of herself, and has the screen on her phone set to where she can send it to me, but for some reason something always stops her, her daughter starts to ask her questions about soccer uniforms, a blingy boyfriend starts to talk about marriage again, or a version of herself comes back to her and asks her if I ever thought of tattooing her face to my body. (The answer is yes, of course, but only for spite, of course, because that seems to be the only way anyone could ever forget you).
(I would never do anything so stupid as marking myself over you, and especially not the face, your face on my face or my face made more holy, it's ridiculous, a ridiculous).
((Oh my god i am getting so very old))
((I wish I thought more about furniture instead of the things I do think about, because my back would be better than it is)).
And suddenly, you send pictures on your phone, and we've entered into technology. It seems so out of place here, that suddenly this is very much like French deconstruction, only stupider, and without the context that makes it necessary (we know it's necessary, just play along and let me be outraged by the woman in the white suv).
And suddenly, my back is crooked. Because of the way perspective works, it's hard for people under 6 feet tall to notice, unless they are trained and skilled physicians, and I'm not among those (love hate relationship with physics, especially gravity, because I fall, and especially magnetism, because I am distracted by attractions). But it's there, and it won't go straight, because the spine is a tree.
This tree is full of strange creatures that make peculiar sounds, especially at night, something only dogs can hear. This morning, there are bees buzzing my head, and I know what that means, for sure, it means the birth or the death of something important, or something in between death and birth, and it won't be resolved easily, not until the hours start to play in order, not until the moments come one right after another, not until we participate in time, and right now, right this very moment, we refuse to participate, and that's how come we get to drown, forgetting that we learned how to breathe under water a long time before any of this started to take place.
And all of this has happened before. Like a pattern on the inside of a coffee cup. And a certain buzzard is starting to get ready to fly, spelling something in the air, some story about love, something that happened to us in time, something that is written in time, the river currents will carry me, even if I do roll over and try to sleep, and pretend this isn't the bottom of the river, and I have nothing left in me to offer.
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