Oh my gosh, this has gotten so complicated, or maybe it just seems that way inside his head on this cold night, where all the old lovers have turned into leaves and pages o hojas tal ves of the book of his chambered heart. He wants to be thinking more about why he's here, this is something about his father, or something about fathers in a larger sense, something like a rescue, but he's not sure who is being rescued here.
It's hard to know, becoming charmed by a phantom in the world of the living and being drawn to connect to the blood in his family bones in the land of the dead, both of these have the potential for rescue, and perhaps we all get to rescue each other in some way when the sun sets and another day goes to bed forever.
And oh my gosh this is too much text, no one will ever read it. (Please signal if you have by knocking three times on something pretty when you see me). And oh my gosh this is suddenly the start of something else entirely.
From where he was sitting on the raft, he could not see the water, but when he moves, he sees into the water, and there's a message there.
HOW RU N HOW DID IT GO U OK N WOTNOT
And he's thinking that this is probably something from her. And for him. And that makes everything so very exciting because no one else will know they are talking to each other through the water like this. He writes back.
I M OK SO HUNGRY I M ALL HUNGR 2DAY THISE DAIS
He writes again.
THESE DAYS
She writes back.
:)
And you can probably imagine, this, how long can this go on? And you can probably answer, this, this can go on for a very, very long time.
His face is hot, his head is hot, he can't tell if he is like this because he just doesn't eat very much lately, he understands this is an adventure, this is an important adventure, and maybe much more important than he'd intended, when he set off to get away from all the phantom limbs that were pulling him and yearning for him in the middle of the night. He understands something important is happening, and he hopes certain things and he is worried about certain things, and it's hard to keep anything really straight. Straight, of course, is radically over-rated and we need to reconsider how language invests values that we don't notice until it's written in our bones, and that's a hard tattoo to remove. But there's this. His head. Hot. Something like a swoony hunger is come over him, something very much like a fever, something very much like a very swoony hungry fever, and if he could write more than a few characters at a time in the water, he might say this:
I see you hiding in the cupboards in the kitchen in my head, your eyes are always peeking out from behind the coffee cups when I'm on the verge of waking up, telling myself this is something too much like a dream. I can't keep track of my hands, they run all over everything I see, and I can't see the things that are there, because you're distracting me. I'm not complaining. I'm not complaining. I'm a hundred versions of myself at once, and the one that speaks might not be the one you see when you're walking on wood planks in the dark. I'm looking into white light tunnels, and not even close to dead, just dreaming, and I suspect you're out there somewhere in the dark, and everyone I can't see looks exactly like someone who could be you, so I'm trying to be on my best behavior. But this is not me complaining, this is not how I complain. And when I'm trying to find my keys again, I keep getting interrupted because you've written on the walls by the door to my room, and I can't quite make out what you said, but I know you said it to me, and that's probably just enough right now, you become becomingly, a ghost in this world of everyday objects, hinting at something less everyday just below the surface of everything that I'm trying to touch, a touch I'm losing, all the touch I'm losing, I've lost touch and this is not a complaint this is how I am at the beginning of something that I dreamed about and forgot, and you reminded me that I was waiting for you.
And that's probably more than enough for right now thank you very much that's just plenty thank you very much he just said way too much thank you very very much I assure you and adore you.
It's hard to know, becoming charmed by a phantom in the world of the living and being drawn to connect to the blood in his family bones in the land of the dead, both of these have the potential for rescue, and perhaps we all get to rescue each other in some way when the sun sets and another day goes to bed forever.
And oh my gosh this is too much text, no one will ever read it. (Please signal if you have by knocking three times on something pretty when you see me). And oh my gosh this is suddenly the start of something else entirely.
From where he was sitting on the raft, he could not see the water, but when he moves, he sees into the water, and there's a message there.
HOW RU N HOW DID IT GO U OK N WOTNOT
And he's thinking that this is probably something from her. And for him. And that makes everything so very exciting because no one else will know they are talking to each other through the water like this. He writes back.
I M OK SO HUNGRY I M ALL HUNGR 2DAY THISE DAIS
He writes again.
THESE DAYS
She writes back.
:)
And you can probably imagine, this, how long can this go on? And you can probably answer, this, this can go on for a very, very long time.
His face is hot, his head is hot, he can't tell if he is like this because he just doesn't eat very much lately, he understands this is an adventure, this is an important adventure, and maybe much more important than he'd intended, when he set off to get away from all the phantom limbs that were pulling him and yearning for him in the middle of the night. He understands something important is happening, and he hopes certain things and he is worried about certain things, and it's hard to keep anything really straight. Straight, of course, is radically over-rated and we need to reconsider how language invests values that we don't notice until it's written in our bones, and that's a hard tattoo to remove. But there's this. His head. Hot. Something like a swoony hunger is come over him, something very much like a fever, something very much like a very swoony hungry fever, and if he could write more than a few characters at a time in the water, he might say this:
I see you hiding in the cupboards in the kitchen in my head, your eyes are always peeking out from behind the coffee cups when I'm on the verge of waking up, telling myself this is something too much like a dream. I can't keep track of my hands, they run all over everything I see, and I can't see the things that are there, because you're distracting me. I'm not complaining. I'm not complaining. I'm a hundred versions of myself at once, and the one that speaks might not be the one you see when you're walking on wood planks in the dark. I'm looking into white light tunnels, and not even close to dead, just dreaming, and I suspect you're out there somewhere in the dark, and everyone I can't see looks exactly like someone who could be you, so I'm trying to be on my best behavior. But this is not me complaining, this is not how I complain. And when I'm trying to find my keys again, I keep getting interrupted because you've written on the walls by the door to my room, and I can't quite make out what you said, but I know you said it to me, and that's probably just enough right now, you become becomingly, a ghost in this world of everyday objects, hinting at something less everyday just below the surface of everything that I'm trying to touch, a touch I'm losing, all the touch I'm losing, I've lost touch and this is not a complaint this is how I am at the beginning of something that I dreamed about and forgot, and you reminded me that I was waiting for you.
And that's probably more than enough for right now thank you very much that's just plenty thank you very much he just said way too much thank you very very much I assure you and adore you.
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