Thursday's Child Has Far To Go.
I said: "Reality hurt my world." and some wall nearby shattered. It's all been fast.paced since then -hustling, bustling, December light begging to be let in. Worn shoes flattening molehills, bandaged hands tearing mountains apart. And I don't know where to start. Here I am, standing on the banks of the Styx and I know I have to get across but I lost my coins, I can't hide my eyes and I never even knew on which side I was born. Earlier, I was watching the candles flicker like will-o'-the-wisps, sitting in the bathtub with Radiohead and a smoke. Trying to remember the past yesterday or hour or second. It's been cold and gleefully raining; busy, noisy and quiet, bone.deep thrills. I wonder if you ever are at risk when you let trees wind around your heart and bloom into your head, if their leaves could turn out to be carnivorous mouths dripping smirks into your wounds. But you can only accept what you already want to know and I sometimes want to scream "I used to be God, I used to be God!" with my life expanding right and left -my freedom resenting this cage of lukewarm safety, demanding the key to the foetus rotting in my body.
Bruxelles was six hours in trains and empty stations, passing landscapes, dazed crowds. Things have changed but Caroline seemed the same and it wasn't hard to slip back into an odd familiarity, mildly prickling when she'd slide against Pierre to break conversation. He's still magnetic, we often talk as if we were the only ones there ever since we met eight or so years ago. When I realised Victor was staring and didn't look away, I took in his relaxed expression, the light in his eyes and thought he must've found some sort of inner peace. I asked him about meditation and: "You have to empty your head and concentrate on your heart." "What. The organ?" "No, the love in your heart." He laughed and I held my head in my hands, going: God. And that was that. I left and Pierre followed to open the door, saying he'd come see me. Seriously. "Yeah." and he had a strange expression so I cupped his cheek and kissed it. Distance cushions and complicates everything. Incidentally, I saw my brother at a family dinner and some of his first words to me were: "Still as feminine, I see." and me: "You can go fuck yourself." Some things never change, creating awkward stability.
There's a triangular piece of wall I'm painting something for but I'm in no hurry to finish and it's been rustling on the floor for the past few days. Stories and Edo, exhalations, winter and smokey angles. David Bowie, Nirvana, coffee and late nite cinema. The air being so crisp it brings tears to my eyes, heat to my lips. I lay down and rise and fall, dreams like postcards from this faraway land but that's my signature at the bottom, that's one of my names. And my soul reaches into me, making my skeleton collapse -my skin burning from those stars melting through my pores. A boy sometimes points at them and says: it died. Then points elsewhere. It died. It died. It died. And he laughs this hollow sort of laugh. Creeps me the fuck out. But when motion attacks my neon lights, I can curl in the spaces he leaves, fit my tangled limbs in these crevasses on the road and fill them with all the words for all of those moments. The more I am myself, the less I seem in touch with myself but I'm my favourite stranger. Sitting naked in the sink, writing hungry for? on the foggy surface, lighting some tangerine incense, getting high, forgetting low. She's my type, she's okay.