Not really last but last so far up until now. This morning was another one of those very upsetting mornings that can only come around once in a great while, but they've been coming like waves like waves that come when a baby is trying to come, and impossible to keep up with, and this is like giving birth except nothing is getting born, not another human anyway. And nothing is really like giving birth except for giving birth, and nothing is like war except for war, and nothing is like performance anxiety except for the anxiety that comes with a performance.
Perhaps every one of those terms can be held in question, and perhaps it would be good to have a conversation about the words, using other words like "problematic," "complexity," and "situation," but it's that kind of conversation that has lead to a morning as upsetting as this one in the first place. In the first place, when he woke up and he put his feet onto the cold floor, the first thing and the most difficult thing about the floor was all the sand.
The excavations of the old house and the sand that came back with him from the coast seems to just be building, and it should be thinning out and waning away. It feels too much like the dust from the moon started to fall to earth and it's hitting here. It is not his house. This is not his house. That seems like an important thing to say. He had a house once, but not any more, and this is not that house.
He also had a vehicle before, and now the thing he is driving is not his. There are a lot of borrowed things, and it is starting to feel like nothing can actually be what it is called, and this is kind of exciting, because that also means that everything can be whatever it needs to be. And by the time the moon dust settles and we need to go back to calling things by names again, these things could be different things entirely and have different names entirely. Things like girlfriends could be entirely different by the time the next moon comes around, and that's a very interesting idea, but this one is also interesting, and he's fully aware that he's not exactly miserable these days. But he's not exactly happy. But not miserable at all, because he heard things that seem true, and the things he heard are not bad things if they are true, and might even verge on being true and beautiful.
But this isn't that kind of vehicle, and this isn't that kind of moon. This is the moon in half already, it went away much quicker than it came, that's how they always are, he supposes. This moon is lighting up the beach, and when his feet his the cold floor, there is sand, and there is beach extending out as far as his feet can reach (and much further because he is tall but not that tall, this is not one of those incredible long-leg man stories). And every few feet there is a version of her, the Copper one, folded in on herself and sleeping like she were in a cocoon.
This is entirely alarming because he thought that she had been away long enough that a few thoughts here and there wouldn't bring her back like this, but they always do. She is like the stations of the cross, and as he walks to each one, she tells him something that she could never say when it really mattered.
People are like that, he thinks, you never can really know what they're really thinking, but then again I really don't know exactly what I'm thinking. He walks to each one, and even though he's well aware that he's being watched, he acts like he were so very much alone, because this would all be easier if he weren't being watched.
But no sooner does that thought come and go (and it could certainly be enough to change a life, because anything that digs into the dirt of liberty can move mountains in a life), when the final version of her comes as a kind of a half-horse, as far as he can tell, and she's being ridden by someone just as interesting as herself, and it's not the most pretty thing he has ever seen, but not so far from it, either.
Someone, he can't tell who, one of the people involved in the scene anyway, someone of those, says, "It does take two to tango, but three is spectacular."
Perhaps every one of those terms can be held in question, and perhaps it would be good to have a conversation about the words, using other words like "problematic," "complexity," and "situation," but it's that kind of conversation that has lead to a morning as upsetting as this one in the first place. In the first place, when he woke up and he put his feet onto the cold floor, the first thing and the most difficult thing about the floor was all the sand.
The excavations of the old house and the sand that came back with him from the coast seems to just be building, and it should be thinning out and waning away. It feels too much like the dust from the moon started to fall to earth and it's hitting here. It is not his house. This is not his house. That seems like an important thing to say. He had a house once, but not any more, and this is not that house.
He also had a vehicle before, and now the thing he is driving is not his. There are a lot of borrowed things, and it is starting to feel like nothing can actually be what it is called, and this is kind of exciting, because that also means that everything can be whatever it needs to be. And by the time the moon dust settles and we need to go back to calling things by names again, these things could be different things entirely and have different names entirely. Things like girlfriends could be entirely different by the time the next moon comes around, and that's a very interesting idea, but this one is also interesting, and he's fully aware that he's not exactly miserable these days. But he's not exactly happy. But not miserable at all, because he heard things that seem true, and the things he heard are not bad things if they are true, and might even verge on being true and beautiful.
But this isn't that kind of vehicle, and this isn't that kind of moon. This is the moon in half already, it went away much quicker than it came, that's how they always are, he supposes. This moon is lighting up the beach, and when his feet his the cold floor, there is sand, and there is beach extending out as far as his feet can reach (and much further because he is tall but not that tall, this is not one of those incredible long-leg man stories). And every few feet there is a version of her, the Copper one, folded in on herself and sleeping like she were in a cocoon.
This is entirely alarming because he thought that she had been away long enough that a few thoughts here and there wouldn't bring her back like this, but they always do. She is like the stations of the cross, and as he walks to each one, she tells him something that she could never say when it really mattered.
People are like that, he thinks, you never can really know what they're really thinking, but then again I really don't know exactly what I'm thinking. He walks to each one, and even though he's well aware that he's being watched, he acts like he were so very much alone, because this would all be easier if he weren't being watched.
But no sooner does that thought come and go (and it could certainly be enough to change a life, because anything that digs into the dirt of liberty can move mountains in a life), when the final version of her comes as a kind of a half-horse, as far as he can tell, and she's being ridden by someone just as interesting as herself, and it's not the most pretty thing he has ever seen, but not so far from it, either.
Someone, he can't tell who, one of the people involved in the scene anyway, someone of those, says, "It does take two to tango, but three is spectacular."
No comments:
Post a Comment