696
two-thirty in the morning and i am beyond tiredness, close to tears, an ocean just below the skin. time has reset itself. over the last few years my focus has shifted to birds, light, weight. bound to the earth by a heavy sky, bleeding into valleys, across hills. i wish i had a language for music.
my sweat is watery, like a freshwater lake. underneath my breasts, i smell faintly of yeast, of dough, of something warm and rising. red like dying leaves, like the skin of an apple. the heaviness of the dangling pear, its weight suddenly noticeable, solidified. the fluttering open of the cervix, syrupy. from the fruit to the tree, not the tree to the fruit.
if you imagine a girl dancing around a tiny living room holding a metal spoon, that would be just about right. how mass is different to weight: weight is you pressing on the earth and the earth pressing back; mass is shouldering our atoms through space.
eager, eager. always half-standing when i should remain seated. the uncertainty of light. the way it falls; the way it hits you; all that speed. the sky is an aching, unrelieved blue.
a man with a shirt like graph paper. i want to draw parabolas all over his back.
the language of wings is always delicate, as if their motion were effortless. but the beating of wings requires muscles, each wing its own heart. i touch the rough sides of trees and hope that bark is contagious. subtle, like solace. i imagine that roads are paved over great networks of root systems, linked together and holding us up.
from underground, we hear the planes glide overhead, the sound so close it seems they are rushing through the dark to meet us. exiting the tunnel, the sound changes before the light, even though light is faster. a fast disappearing common point of reference; an isthmus.
(i should not be entrusted with living things. plants, animals, hearts. no matter how much i try, how much i care, they sicken, brown, shrivel. a crow picking at the flesh of a dead possum in the road. all that black gloss, and the brown and red of the possum spread against the bitumen like a painting.)
it's in the unscripted portions where i get lost.
*
sometimes i tell myself stories. sometimes i even listen.
--
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. If you feel inclined, comment there using OpenID.
my sweat is watery, like a freshwater lake. underneath my breasts, i smell faintly of yeast, of dough, of something warm and rising. red like dying leaves, like the skin of an apple. the heaviness of the dangling pear, its weight suddenly noticeable, solidified. the fluttering open of the cervix, syrupy. from the fruit to the tree, not the tree to the fruit.
if you imagine a girl dancing around a tiny living room holding a metal spoon, that would be just about right. how mass is different to weight: weight is you pressing on the earth and the earth pressing back; mass is shouldering our atoms through space.
eager, eager. always half-standing when i should remain seated. the uncertainty of light. the way it falls; the way it hits you; all that speed. the sky is an aching, unrelieved blue.
a man with a shirt like graph paper. i want to draw parabolas all over his back.
the language of wings is always delicate, as if their motion were effortless. but the beating of wings requires muscles, each wing its own heart. i touch the rough sides of trees and hope that bark is contagious. subtle, like solace. i imagine that roads are paved over great networks of root systems, linked together and holding us up.
from underground, we hear the planes glide overhead, the sound so close it seems they are rushing through the dark to meet us. exiting the tunnel, the sound changes before the light, even though light is faster. a fast disappearing common point of reference; an isthmus.
(i should not be entrusted with living things. plants, animals, hearts. no matter how much i try, how much i care, they sicken, brown, shrivel. a crow picking at the flesh of a dead possum in the road. all that black gloss, and the brown and red of the possum spread against the bitumen like a painting.)
it's in the unscripted portions where i get lost.
*
sometimes i tell myself stories. sometimes i even listen.
--
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. If you feel inclined, comment there using OpenID.