Jan 18, 2006 00:06
Today began cold not rainy but clouds were in the air I think of today as somthing I want not to remember tomorrow. Frozen. In this world I am frozen upon that ice that paves the street harder than stone. I did not fall but felt the blow upon my feet which held between me and the earth that promise of pain. Now it rains. Heaven poors out tears which I shed this morning upon fear and tired thought of tomorrow. Not tomorrow of the morning. The next morning this morning when the sunrises but the sun that will lead me to my future set me upon my death and hold me there in a forever question of doubt in nothing.
And then those clouds, if there were clouds, passed upon my day and made me smile.
Laughter rekindled my lost friendships which never gained have been ignited I fly to my books my paper the soft pencils and paint embracing that hopeful dream that is my tomorrow my sun my destiny. Silly for me to guess upon it now so young.
Imagine him, lost lover, tangled in so tight amoungst his heart. None of this troubles him. Yet I loved once. Loved that same tangled lover and held him in what I thought a calmer grasp. Silly me, I see past the tangles to a knot. Future tied it binds me in a plague of work and questions. My power to change my future lies nie. Yet so far that my worry comes at a shock. To friend and fellow I fall short of a girl that should be a man. A mans women would not have me as her husband. Yet I am content holding between my legs a forever lack which drives those around me to drive me less. My future is posed in question perhaps, I admit not by my gender but by my mind. Oh great question what is my mind to me? To others? To this world and my art which I am bound too.
But I was speaking of today. Speaking of today to talk of yesterday before the cold hard pavement the ice the white sky milky in morning. So this yesterday happened. This yesterday not the past yesterday but the yesterday that was near before the sun rose today... or before today.
The sun rose hot south from here. I lay in an itchy bed plastic sheets that crinkled on the quilt. Easy cleaned with bleach and powder easy mended with a maid who speaks with out english. Motels are always easy... this being an Inn. But Motels and Inns are little different now a days. Next to me lay a girl on the farther bed. Same crinkly sheets ontop of her as mine. Strangers only a week before now friends.
Her hand intrested me. On the left two toe bone made into finger and thumb were her hand and three little nubbins, a medical term, sat next to those toe bones and to me they said three little piggys running home like babies toes. She did not see the reseblance of a babies foot but laughed at me trying to convince her so. She knew film, sometimes better sometimes worse than I and she reminded me of former friends.
The others were boys. In other rooms they lay in much the same beds with hard custard like walls between us we knocked upon the deadness and waited for a reply. Nothing heard for most, as it was nearly two in the morning in most cases. We giggled trilling our vioces, I mockingly, hoping to be heard by our neighbor. A boy that reminds me of someone else... who by misfortune I wish to forget but as of yet have not.
His likeness was that to a ferret I suppose long and dark. They were all taller than me. Though I am no midget it startled me. I love being short but these giants made me ridiculous in their shadows. Towers of at first nervous gazes. Soon we warmed.
Our neighbor roomed alone, our number odd, he the seventh lay alone. He was tall and dark as I said and his picture took much of his twistedness out of him. I like boys that twist their features always malicious eyes always gleaming and nose always sharp. I have bad taste.
The other boys were not like our neighbor. More sun filled their hair and eyes and skin though pale and pasty, like us all nerds still they smiled.
Through many chats and uncomforts we passed and played with one another as a team of seven we both fought and gested. But Saterday stood out upon the rest as a night so strange that I miss write not to forget.
The wind blew cold through the sun warmed air. Pulling palm trees by their leafy hair and ringing their long necks the wind caused a frightful dance upon the plants. When the door opened the wind was first to greet us. Like a gleeful child tugging at my skirt and hair squawling that I come outside and play with him. I was wrenched from inside my room and went running to the other door ways. Fighting them open and finding still inside the wind knocked upon the windows as I passed them flew in and shreaked when the doors mouths were opened and closed by others dashing inside. Trembling from cold and unadmitted fear I listened to the talk. Our show was to be in a tent tonight. The words tent repeated in my ear. Bright red stripes in my mind wavered in my mind as poles and posts came falling down. Like Dumbo knocking down the domino of elephants I saw the wind crack and snap the beams that held that tent together. At this idea I laughed merrily. To think I will die in a tent. The idea charmed me. Warming me with a sence of adventure. After we groomed and slipped into jewels and dress we climbed into busses.
I as always a smudge of black abstracted by my dress and coat wore a bowler upon my head silver about my neck and hands. Another prize was set upon my bosom, the prize my prize the medalion swung. Silver it did not clash. Dismounting the bus all white, a varneshed marshmellow, my eyes searched for the cameras they must avoid.
The tents were white. Shaped like Monopaly houses giant white. Mexican swept and dug at the front flaps their faces sparkeled when the camera's flashed their white light captureing our entrance. My eyes rested upon them their confused, angry strange faces, for some reason I did not ponder them. Only the red carpet that they swept and dug for. I wondered on it with out words, the people to walk accross it, the first I, the first them the first we.
The tent opened up to us. Men and women dressed in black stood waiting on bright green carpet. Dozens of men holding silver trays balancing flute shaped glasses filled with champian, on top of each a strawberry full and red was pressed deep upon the glass. Gaping the tent held shapeless chairs and couches, modern in style looked like pieces of unformed playdoe or childrens blocks, the kind that you made castles out of when you are six or seven. We are not allowed to drink. Giant letters span the room reaching to the towering ceiling.
Passing through this tent we came to a second, larger than the first. All smoke and purple. A stage fit for a rock show set in front hundreds of seats. From the cieling in both these tents are screens that play live footage of us entering, of those entering behind us, and then what will happen next.
Long pieces of fabric hang from the bannesters swaying slightly. Again the wind catches my eye. The metal rails rustle in tin the wite tent flaps around its frame the light bounces erradically. A piece of fabric falls gracefully.
We sit watching men rise to the cieling in cranes to afix the fabric. We watch our leaders yell and dance and preform what we are to do next and then we do it. Practice as they yell and dance and preform what we should do. The people arrive. All men and women 60 and 70 years of age gowns trailing behind them like peacocks tails. Minks around their heads arms and shoulders. They sparkle with diamonds these rinkled smileless bunch who come to watch us. I giggle watching the feathers waft around them, the gloves cling to their skin and they pose in their shoes. I amused and terrified giggle.
From then on it is waiting to do what we are told watching these elders of ours judge us in a silent rich manor that they enjoy.
On stage I say my name and skitter off and then we waited for dinner time.
When the performance was over a woman in a top hat and comical tails stood up on the table nearest the next set of curtain doors and pointed the rich to the bar. A silent auction was held their for wine and jewels and other things that all we did not see. But I did see the quills that they wrote with. Long and purple feathered and fanned for each paper they had a new quill.
Dinner in a third tent was held in the round. Hundreds of round tables in a round circle served round food upon round plates upon table clothes with round sequens that made red round reflections upon my face. The food was bland and the service slow but everything was very rich and fine. Liver steak birds nest of mashed potatoes and fruit of un-decribable kind. Each table had a man or woman dressed in black who performed our every whim. We asked for red drinks but I missed mine as it was stolen by someone who I did not know but in the end perhaps I will get another.
Dessert was served back in tent two, transformed into a dance floor. Fountains produced chocolate and women were dressed as tables. I plucked petifours from their skirts and tried to smile or not to smile or avoided their glance and then tried to capture it. Their hair were bright and pastel towering above their heads their gowns were flat coming out from their hips. Platters filled with desserts laid their as they danced as we danced. And that was where I remained. Dancing.