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I lost it somewhere between my head and the page. My cornucopus, nouveau oeuvre, monolithic thought. Collided headlong with something equally tragic. Rendered lifeless, anxious — a panic attack. Stuck in the center of another November. When you’ve spent your entire life in a place, you start to see personalities in the months. November - dry, still, incessant time - inescapable. Chilly serene desolation, a parade of identical moments. I made my way outside and not even the bugs were busy. Naught but thirsty weed reaching for open sky, sprung from rock, escaping a subterranean prison, dreaming of freedom — I could sympathize. Years churned in the fog of the mind. November around here is a headache on an otherwise-nice day. I had stopped wishing well for my years ahead. No dreams, no nightmares, six missed calls, and hell knows what else. Dormant palms and psalms on doormats. This was no place for me, I hated how the ground slept in the winter. Synthetic kinesics — plastic miniatures, all of them. I dreamed often of a small maritime town. Buildings painted ivory, mien striking sharply from a sky otherwise shook with stormcloud. The smell of salt and seaweed. Gulls comfortable on rooftops, sacked-out town drunk snoozing in a brick-paved alley. The sea never sleeps. Locked the door and bloomed a match. I made a show of lightning a cigarette — It would be my last. No water here. It was late — well past sundown — though the sky still burned brilliant neon in the city’s afterglow. Our greatest achievement was painting the sky black. I remembered chasing fireflies at grandma’s house, when summers ran long and the sun stayed ‘til near 10PM. The Childhood Dimension: still woven in magic and mystery. Sullen streets still seared in the sun’s stead. I could never leave the desert, the warmth of the nighttime concrete in the summer, father time himself hibernating for the other season. An onward march, forward lurch. I was ready to bind my sorrows in blocks of ice and drown them in a tall glass. I’d always picture myself an outlaw as I shoved dust from saloon doors. These days, I’d even get the hushed stares and nervous respect like they do in the movies. Wishing for hat’s brim to hide myself, I settled instead for a headpiece more befitting a modern outlaw — hoodie’s hood — and reached the bar invisibly. A drink was soon made mine and through laden eyes I consigned to a booth both blatant and blithe. Strewn beneath the one working light in the place, ghoulish in grave emptiness. I couldn’t avoid the spotlight. The seat’s gray-by-design, faux-leather upholstery was cracked and peeled pathetically, revealing inner padding. Sitting on sponges. The table was worse for wear; waking with a worrisome WHOMP, wobbly wooden footing warped with warm weather. This sort of destitution I thrived in. Again my mind fell upon the seaside village. I could smell the seaweed and hear the gulls. I would sit on stone quay, feet dipped in the ocean - oh, what a place to write! Open wooden shutters and breathe deep the salted air. I craved wet sand mushed between my toes. It wasn’t long though before the brine began to dry, I never lasted long in this place. She called me back to actuality. “Hey-o!” — or was it ‘Hey, O’? Not what I expected to read tonight, she was a difficult book. “Imagine running in to you here! How are you?” She stole a seat, still speaking. I responded in kind with an “Okay,” or perhaps an ‘Oh, K’. “I’m fine, yourself?” I postured properly and faced her. “Oh, I’m great. How go the songs?” “Ah — save your breath, Kelsey. I’m done with it all. The well’s run dry.” “Again already?” “It’s for good this time.” “For the good of the whole weekend, or maybe just tonight.” I sighed again, defeated, “You’re probably right.” “You’re always threatening suicide, Olly.” Threatening suicide — what a way to put it! Still, suppose she was right. Everything from the writing to the smoking: always threatening to kill it off. It’s a shame I’d never got the guts to get my grip on the gristle and tear. “Listen, I was just on my way out. We should get together sometime, it’s been a while!” “It’s been too long, Kels. Give me a shout.” She was up and off with a nod, out the door and sailing down the street before I kissed glass. Left again to myself. Solitude wasn’t what I wanted, but neither was the opposite. Like most of my desires, this one was a blank; in serendipity, I found myself equipped to fill in the blanks. Taking the glass with me, I made for the door to shake hands with tobacco — though it must be my last. The patio beyond the doors was quiet as the night grew old; peppered sparse with entwined couples and those lonely few, both drunk to opposite extremes. Dark in a smeared city — miles wide and barely twenty feet high — was a ghastly spectacle. Streetlights thrust pools through tenebrous veil, scintillating spheres each drinking bright from the realm outside. Impossible to see a thing beyond them. Each stood still in time and separate from the others, pocket universes shrink-wrapped and scattered on a sheet-black plane. I watched one flicker; the dimming of a dynasty. One streetlight over: an addict scratched his neck, broke the skin and bled regret. Two: a couple bickered; but better than battered. Between: dark enough to lose myself in. I’d find the right light, one day, next to the ocean, and I’d quite like to find it before I kill it off. Cigarettes live such short lives. Few remained inside, a sea of scrambled eyes and lips. Where were the familiar faces? Not a regular in sight. Not regular tonight. No worth to be found, I’d down my drink. It was time to put an end to the eve and return to my apartment in the sky. Consider a violent dive, right down to the bricks and the pavement, nightgown splitting, ripped and flailing. I reminded myself that it was all in my head, and let the crashing waves sing me home. * * * |
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Nov 2, 2015 01:52
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| # ¿ May 10, 2024 20:29 |
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I don't think this thread is serious. . . |
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Nov 2, 2015 01:54
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