It’s midnight. Nothing moves beyond the black. She smells something and follows the scent while I toss a green cellophane bag into the dumpster. Leave it, I tell her, go potty. She sniffs at me. I look up. It feels like country, but the pink glow of our small city kills any hopes of spying electrical energy.
Peculiar. A drone. Closing my eyes, the image of a plane, circa Casablanca, landing the black and white runway before Bogart. A gnawing grrrr grows louder. Where could it be going at midnight, flying so low. Was it real. Were we real. Sometimes the heat changes everything.
She (Hannah Weiner, The Fast) keeps speaking in colours. How she feels the purple stripes – sees pink auras -hurts from too much green – each hue a metamorphoses of heavy energy. Her body throbs with pain until she resorts to going almost naked, devoid of any fabric that may carry a colour. It’s not just fabric or objects, but people who carry their burden… her neighbor who sent her into spasm, his person thick with a purple/yellow/black stripe pattern. It had nothing to do with gender/ we know not their heritage/ no, each soul a crayola box of communication in a world so few actually see. It makes me want to see your aura.
While reading this, I did see yellow flowers, and it made me think of Nora (Ephron).
Yellow daisies = You’ve Got Mail (Kathleen Kelly liked daisies, but they were white, but yellow is what get imagined). Death makes me feel heavy, the ribs actually start contracting. Death is so common, it happens every second, minute, hour, thousands upon thousands times a day – we may know one (if that) via six degrees.
I see my death often. When I ride, when I turn in traffic, even after I look both ways, I feel the car hit me / I don’t see color/ I feel metal go cold.
There is no delusion of what will happen, unexpected death is sad, but in days my person will be forgotten by most except for mom and dad. There is no false belief of grandeur, despite what one blogger (who hide his identity) has kindly told me more than once:
Narcissistic likes to to blog.
Web definitions: egotistic: characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance.
90% of the bloggers that I’ve seen online….
And of course there’s very little to them under it all. Under the ACT. Under the Angela.
We shall give him a bit of credit for such insightful commentary. Yes, I am egotistical. I’d have to be to believe that anyone would ever read this…no? No / there is comfort in writing upon a white screen, hearing the click of keys keeping a record of thoughts that may or may not be thought through – that is the freedom of a blog.
Death. I sat in lecture tonight (code for church – though as a skeptic, I prefer lecture) and we proceeded to delve into Roman rules. Romans shakes my nerves; I almost vibrate with angry thoughts – sin, this need for salvation; to be set up for a fall when the cast members were already given their faulty directive eons ago by a director who wanted continual action. It was always a tragedy.
…suddenly, i’m sitting there and things go quiet / the lecturer continues to talk but suddenly the ceiling above me goes brighter, the lights are on high above where the catwalk resides / there is a waterfall and we shouldn’t hear the 20 foot stream of baptismal water, but I swear that is what is drowning us all / C_ visits my thoughts / his death reaches out to touch me/ water wells / i will not to cry but there is a sense of overflow / how he would laugh at all this, we’d debate sin over red wine and coffee / what was i thinking to throw it away before it was stolen / coward, i am/ there will never be another brilliant light of color over this head in this life time / god laughs, sin is upon the living ~
(exiting the fullscreen it keeps saying saved…they said tonight that is only for the repenting)