At 21.30
I crush a pinch of poppy seeds
and sprinkle them over
a cup of warm water
If I feel festive
I add a teaspoon of honey
By 22 I’m asleep,
to let my subconscious take pleasure
in four of the most productive hours of the day
these four hours could be described
with the scenery of the road sweepers
that clean up the remnants
after the closing hours of an amusement park
During these hours I’m elsewhere,
gliding through landscapes
while the frequent hum of machines
take possession of my muscles
For the remaining 4 hours of my sleep
I enter a lighter state,
I glide into a more apprehensive mode
this is where I’m able to see myself
levitating from my body
A coy moment, a moment of play,
as I ease back to my awake life
There is departure and return,
beginnings and ends
and in between there are two separate lives
In my sleep,
I feel like I dream things into infinity
When I’m awake
I learn to systematize and structure,
I study and write
I tune into her thoughts,
and we explore these things together
We exist side by side as this happens,
and our hearts melt into one,
heartbeat at the time
my even heart pace,
deep asleep, calms her
But recently I’ve become aware of something different
as I’ve transitioned into our shared fabric
It’s a shift in tone,
her voice carries a sub-narrative
that I haven’t been informed of
It’s so subtle, and at first I was just convinced
it had to do with me
Was I too cold to participate?
The more I’d started to spend time with her,
the more I’d come to understand
that the zones she traveled through were mnemonic
it was a technology to store memories,
and to access them again
Sometimes I would walk next to her
for a long time
until she’d become aware of my presence
that would give me the benefit of observing her
After she’d welcomed me in,
this was more difficult
as we became one
Was it all just a
sophisticated déjà vu?
The things she had seen before
was perhaps just a
confused hippocampus?
It’s not that I roll back my eyes
and let her demon possess me
Our deal is that I
create new stories
and narratives
from fragments of her life
She holds the seeds in her hand
and I tell her
where to disperse them
I am her ghostwriter
But she is the real ghost
Our roles really confuse me sometimes
When things get to my head
I like to chew eucalyptus gum
and light some incense
that smells like a herbalist
got abducted by a team
of researchers from Primark
to formulate
a scent for their
loungewear section
It’s not very far off
I actually got my incense
from the TK Maxx-store
opposite my flat
It was just there,
in the abandoned mess
on the floor,
a few months back,
when our pipes had started to freeze
Today I light the incense
and I tell myself;
I need to set my own boundaries
I make time for her
similar to my therapist
making time for me
in their calendar
With patience,
understanding
and a firm border,
and not with bewildered compassion
When I once ask her about all of this
composition of self,
she tells me this:
There I sit
in the tranquil bath of
efflorescence
All whilst the surroundings
keep bashing the pulse
of ambulance sirens,
children screaming
from a nearby school yard,
dogs beating their tails
like little whisks
in a batter full of
freshly cut grass
Keeping my eyes closed
I envision someone
passing me by,
perhaps in the company of a small dog
running up to me,
clumsily with its tiny paws
making harmless scratches
on my bare knees,
and me exchanging a few words
with its owner
Maybe I make a comment
about the weather
that appraises
the shifting of seasons
Oh,
(“I could never really tell if that girl Cheryl was a flake or a flirt”)
the cherry blossoms
and their ephemeral life
that envelope me in their fragrance
I remember the line
in some old house track,
that lonesome statement repeating itself
like a broken record,
trying to create a mantra
that dissolves in the listener's
consciousness
as smoothly as honey
dissolves in hot water
Flake?
Flirt?
I bet Cheryl just wasn’t that into you
I bet she was busy
exploring life amidst the brief
blossoming period
of a month a year
When I was a child
my mother lived
just by the edge of our country
After the edge there was water,
and on very clear days,
a silhouette of something
past the horizon
could be seen
We gave it cryptic names
Turned it into a kingdom
of dysfunctional
royal family members
In our shared fabrications
the royal family were fantastical,
crooked beings, they wore
rag-like clothes,
really ill-fitting cycling shorts
and moth-eaten t-shirts
Their make-up couldn’t stick
to their face
so an eye shadow would easily
become a tear
North of our house
were ice sheets
that formed their own
sovereignty
She writes portraits
Or rather
she has found someone
who writes them for her
She considers herself a compiler of assets
Her collaborator could be
compared to an archivist
Someone who analyses content
It was no easy task to find someone
suitable
for the extent of her documentation
Sometimes she asks herself,
why recompose something so compostable
as the memory of someone?
When you miss someone,
what is it, you miss about them?
An image, a picture?
Where in your presence do they reside
when you forget about them?
The way they look at you when they ask;
should I get you a coffee?
Their voice on the other line,
breaking up through a weak connection,
telling you they are on their way,
and the way they smell
when they come pick you up from your work
Waiting outside,
the way they look
at the people passing by
and the passers by
gaze on them
How they speak
to someone over the counter
You lock eyes,
for the first time
How did they feel the first time you touched?
The way they get dressed,
asking for your opinion,
what color suits them the best?
The way they undress
How they fold their clothes
after they’ve been washed
Open the fridge, open a window,
ask for a lighter, gaze at something odd,
in the periphery of your shared frame
Is it the way they touch you
when they try to reach you,
reach through you,
that stays
when everything else has departed?
<3 - 2023-12-29 13:36:28 - <3<333333
adolphus50@moneysquad.org - 2022-10-06 00:56:37 -
- 2022-10-06 00:56:37 -
adolphus50@moneysquad.org - 2022-10-06 00:56:35 -
joan14 - 2022-10-06 00:56:35 -
Developer - 2022-10-06 00:56:33 -
Developer - 2022-10-06 00:56:25 -
shannon_boyer@moneysquad.org - 2022-10-06 00:56:09 -
- 2022-10-06 00:56:08 -
shannon_boyer@moneysquad.org - 2022-10-06 00:56:06 -
joan14 - 2022-10-06 00:56:05 -
shannon_boyer@moneysquad.org - 2022-10-06 00:56:03 -
joan14 - 2022-10-06 00:55:57 -
118 Yundt Burg - 2022-10-06 00:51:14 -
- 2022-10-06 00:51:14 -
118 Yundt Burg - 2022-10-06 00:51:13 -
Suite 574 - 2022-10-06 00:51:12 -
118 Yundt Burg - 2022-10-06 00:51:11 -
Suite 574 - 2022-10-06 00:51:03 -
lonnie46 - 2022-10-06 00:50:45 -
- 2022-10-06 00:50:44 -
lonnie46 - 2022-10-06 00:50:43 -
nico.franecki@bdcimail.com - 2022-10-06 00:50:42 -
nico.franecki@bdcimail.com - 2022-10-06 00:50:40 -
lonnie46 - 2022-10-06 00:50:38 -
lonnie46 - 2022-10-06 00:50:21 -
- 2022-10-06 00:50:19 -
lonnie46 - 2022-10-06 00:50:17 -
baylee_harris@bdcimail.com - 2022-10-06 00:50:15 -
baylee_harris@bdcimail.com - 2022-10-06 00:50:13 -
lonnie46 - 2022-10-06 00:50:08 -
E - 2022-04-11 00:22:06 - so beautiful
- 2022-04-11 00:21:49 -
- 2022-04-11 00:20:38 -
*_* - 2022-03-31 12:01:05 - I love it!!