(no subject)
victoria does pretty pretty well.
1. the valleys of sand seem to heave & form miniature avalanches, little rocks tumbling over little rocks, with my heavy heartbeat. i prop my forehead on my arm, then conciously let it drop to form an imprint in the sand. i visualize what this looks like from above as i deliberately drag my fingers like a rake, lightly fingering the larger granules that hardly count as sand. if you were to remove these rocks & set them aside, you would not call any of them a piece of sand. you would say they were rocks. regular rocks. with unopened eyes i look at the wind billowing my shirt, the beads of sweat collecting in the small of my back, & you. i don't even like you, i don't even like you, i repeat to myself. i repeat to myself: my body is heavy, heavy, my body is heavy & sinking into the sand. i repeat this in my head as clearly as if i were speaking aloud. i do this in case you happen to turn the tables & ask of me what i so frequently ask of you: what are you thinking? when i ask the question it is usually to pass the time, to explain a face showing an emotion i can't match to an expression, or so that you will tell me your banal thought & then ask me what brilliant thoughts i am thinking. i must be thinking brilliant thoughts in case you summon up the curiosity. heavy heavy body is sinking, heavy, sinking, forming an imprint that will remain when i leave. sinking sinking into the heavy heavy earth that is sand, little & big grains, for lots of layers. heavy heavy sinking sinking layers layers, i repeat; i try to feel the heavy & the sinking & the layers all beneath me. i try to think about my limbs turning into honey because i read somewhere that that is supposed to do something but nothing really happens; the sand is still heaving with my heartbeat. eyes still closed, i see the sun through my eyelids. the sand is sticking to the light dampness on my forehead & upper cheek in what i would imagine to be a beautiful, intricate pattern (but it just looks like smudges of dirt. you will tell me there was something on my face but you will not rub it off). heavy sinking layers heavy heavy layers sinking. i don't even like you.
2. on father's day i went for a walk with my parents in the ravine by our new neighbourhood. new in a few years, but we like to pretend it will be sooner. we like to pretend we are already living the condo life in forest hill, having brunch at the local restaurant where i try to flirt with the waiter.
the floor of the ravine is covered with a thin layer of insides of milkweed; a thin, foamy white layer that looks like spiderwebs woven or translucent snow.
a little girl strays from her mother's hand to pick up the something that looks like it would fall right through her fingers, something that looks not quite corporeal, half liquid. the mother snaps & pulls her back, scolding her for touching the dirty ground.
a couple, approximately seventy in age, stands in the middle of the pathway, staring at each other, hands hovering in the air like puppet limbs. her face looks up at his face - she looks like a little girl - & he slowly, delicately pulls the fluffs of translucent milky snow from her coarse gray hair. he performs these actions in such a manner that it looks as though he were stroking, caressing, & holding her all at once. i would like to be held & stroked in this way when i am old & gray.
3. my favorite part of facebook lately is just seeing who is online & thinking about them sitting at their computers, maybe hunched over looking at things they feel slightly guilty about, something they shouldn't know, wouldn't know were it not for the surreptitious clairvoyance; maybe drinking tea & looking at pictures of themselves.
tell me a story, tell me something true.