going on with all of us in it
it's not so much an ache. more of an itch, if an itch can be pain. which it must be as they come from the same source, along the same pathways. it's low and constant, a murmur through the body like a wind through the leaves. pain comes in so many flavours, so many colours, so many sounds. pain has hierarchies, supremacies, gatekeeping. pain stands patiently in a queue. it performs its own symphony.
.
the trick is to keep the air that's already hot inside. you leave the windows open overnight to cool it down as much as you can. then, before the air outside begins to burn, you shut the windows tight, you close whatever you've got to cover them - blinds, curtains if you're lucky - and you wait. the air inside will be hot, maybe stifling. it will get hotter as the earth rolls beneath the sun. but it will still be cooler than the air outside, the air that snaps like a rabid dog, slamming itself against roof and walls. then, when the sun loses some of its bite, you open the windows again and let the sluggish inside air ease its way out. if you're lucky the wind will be coming from the south or the east and it will change places with the air you've been used to. that air will rise up into the clear, darkening sky, losing its heat and the particles of you that it's gathered. it has passed in and out of your body. what is more intimate than breathing?
.
writing sometimes is about creating an absence. like plowing snow. you are shoving a something out of the way and what spills to the sides turns grey and black, slushy, unlovely. but at the end there's a path you can navigate, a way to go. it's the only one open, so you go down it. sometimes writing is merely a persevering through the absence of choices.
.
havoc. i like the way it just stops all of a sudden, like the 'c' is the edge of a cliff you almost fall off, or the kerb of a busy street. there's the cessation of forward momentum, the abrupt almost-panic as your centre of balance shifts and the body throws itself back, stumbling. the gentle, familiar ha, the almost-sussuration of the v-sound. the movement automatic, lulling, you're not really paying attention, you know where this is going, until stop. trembling on the lip, dangling from the edge, nowhere to go but down and nothing to catch you. it's a breathless end, that hard, unexpected, jerking halt. brought up short, startled, awake. almost had you, says havoc, turning back to the beginning. maybe next time.
--
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. If you feel inclined, comment there.
.
the trick is to keep the air that's already hot inside. you leave the windows open overnight to cool it down as much as you can. then, before the air outside begins to burn, you shut the windows tight, you close whatever you've got to cover them - blinds, curtains if you're lucky - and you wait. the air inside will be hot, maybe stifling. it will get hotter as the earth rolls beneath the sun. but it will still be cooler than the air outside, the air that snaps like a rabid dog, slamming itself against roof and walls. then, when the sun loses some of its bite, you open the windows again and let the sluggish inside air ease its way out. if you're lucky the wind will be coming from the south or the east and it will change places with the air you've been used to. that air will rise up into the clear, darkening sky, losing its heat and the particles of you that it's gathered. it has passed in and out of your body. what is more intimate than breathing?
.
writing sometimes is about creating an absence. like plowing snow. you are shoving a something out of the way and what spills to the sides turns grey and black, slushy, unlovely. but at the end there's a path you can navigate, a way to go. it's the only one open, so you go down it. sometimes writing is merely a persevering through the absence of choices.
.
havoc. i like the way it just stops all of a sudden, like the 'c' is the edge of a cliff you almost fall off, or the kerb of a busy street. there's the cessation of forward momentum, the abrupt almost-panic as your centre of balance shifts and the body throws itself back, stumbling. the gentle, familiar ha, the almost-sussuration of the v-sound. the movement automatic, lulling, you're not really paying attention, you know where this is going, until stop. trembling on the lip, dangling from the edge, nowhere to go but down and nothing to catch you. it's a breathless end, that hard, unexpected, jerking halt. brought up short, startled, awake. almost had you, says havoc, turning back to the beginning. maybe next time.
--
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. If you feel inclined, comment there.