Blinding light makes me shield my eyes. Brighter than Buzz Lightyear’s laser to a 5-year-old toy. With eyes shut and hand raised, I can still see the brightness through the darkness. I know it’s there. I smell the dampness of the cave. And hear the occasional falling pebble, water trickling somewhere. Everything echoed, slightly amplified and reverberant. I reach out and grasp at the walls feeling my way by jutted rock. Eyes still closed, I don’t dare look. Because this diamond is cursed. Feeling my heart like a teenage rebellion threatening to move out of my chest in a violent and dramatic way. I cannot coax it. Cannot pretend this isn’t happening. Indiana Jones would have capture this gemstone with no problem. Not me. I must now find my way back with my life and livelihood intact.
What if marriage is a real life horcrux? We split our souls into an institution and symbols of our love (ring), at our own peril. I guess the counterargument to that would be but that when we die, we die. Though if the love is true, that moment can be torturous for the other party who knew and experienced true love with the deceased. This is garbage and I’ve just been reading too much Harry Potter. Maybe not to much … but too often.
Sparkling, even in small amounts. Dazzling in large. A symbol of status. A symbol man kind and ad agencies have ascribed status to. These things are not intrinsic. Their value is created. I feel bad for those pinned down by its trappings. When there’s enough money involved, I think that happens more often that we realize. Trapped by wealth, spoiled by it. You cannot eat it. You can wear it and sell it and perhaps for a moment it makes you feel good, but like all things that fades.
Diamond records, diamond teeth, diamond rock, diamond ring and jewelry. Diamond needle.
Asunder. The sea quakes open and attempts to swallow all marine life. “You and I are like when fire and the ocean collide”. Underwater volcano. Lava and water makes steam, threatens to dry up the ocean or light it on fire. There are no firefighting fish. They’re all reading books while wearing glasses. Arthur Read, perpetually in 3rd grade, always in a time loop. It’s Groundhog Day forever. Chris Brown never forgiven and ostracized forever. I can never consider myself a fan anymore, despite how good the song is. True colors. A Bob Ross palette I cradle in between my forearm, bent elbow, and upper arm. A shot for the pain. By needle by mouth. Two if by needle, one of by mouth. Emoji answers. Telephone ringing. “Three Miles Down”. All roads lead to Saves The Day lyrics and I cannot map it any other way. I bought a Snow Patrol CD around 2005 at FYE at Willowbrook Mall. I remember the store was playing a song from it over the speakers and I decided to buy it. If I had listened to that same record.
Don’t you wanna hold all your thoughts close to you? Wicker threaded basket, hardened reeds from the water. Baby Moses in a towel floating down the river. Smells like stagnations touched with the perfume of distant-growing flowers. I hear the trickling of water nearby, but cannot see it past the tall reeds and grasses. Cooing of the baby. We are all saved. I stand in the water barefoot and it is up to my ankles. It feels cool, but gets increasingly warm as my body adjusts to the temperature. But this is a cartoon and I cannot see my feet within the water. So my legs just like like two stumps hovering across it. But I am balanced and that’s all that matters. I put a piece of grass in my mouth and taste its earth. It is bitter and unsatisfying. My saliva generates around it, mistaken. I spit it out, regretting it. I open my eyes to witness the clear blue water to be nearly identical with the clear blue sky. I can breathe more deeply, more fresh air when it’s like this. It’s like applause from Nature. It’s applauding itself. She’s applauding her self. I run my hand across the reads and twirl my fingers in the water, crouching down, trying to see a fish. I get goosebumps from the wind in the air. A slight chilly breeze. I will sit in the water and feel my clothes begin to saturate like I am a biscuit dipped in tea for a long time. Soon enough I was prune and start to fall apart. You’ll have to collect my crumbs in the water. This basket holds towels. I look out for snakes and eels, lurking in and around the water. Life was so much more dangerous back then. But no signs, really. Everything was word of mouth or you got lucky. I’m lucky enough to be sitting here now. I will take this basket back to shore, hold it on my head. Feel it’s weight. At first, it will seem like no trouble at all, but soon after I will be desperate to find a resting place. A genius invention to carry thing. These crisp reads bent to for this helpful container. Before mankind grasped plastics and metalwork and went beyond cupping their two hands to gather food and water and belongings. It’s not suitcase, but it’s a start. The salty smell of sand. Temporary castles no one thought to build. Wondering how much of my mind is collective unconscious. A toga wrapped around my body. I am lithe. Thin and beautiful. I am not myself. Not self-conscious. Tying a knot at shoulder-length to tighten my apparel. I greet other women while I go about my work.
Still virgin morning, after twilight moon does not set even though we are transitioning from night into day. It kind of dissolves like a Tums in the Pepto Bismol sky, and knowing how we treat Mother Nature lately, that comparison might not be that hard to believe.
No, but I’m picturing dark blues coming to from God’s dusky fingers. That yellow orange purple glow. Clouds mapping their own artwork, trickling down pigmented paint from the brush made of Pegasus-hair. Artwork of the Gods. Always changing, never the same. It’s Freestyle Love Supreme in Nature. Even before the final shard of light has departed and melted into a clear, darkish blue sky of night, the moon rises up from it’s hiding place and shines down on all of us. How I would love to know the moon in the forest, in a desolate location – anywhere that’s not the city or suburbs although – the moon hanging over the Manhattan skyline does make for a pretty mental snapshot, jumping off the diving board into deep thoughts about life and love. As if Moonstruck could still be a story told today. Maybe it could, I’m not sure.
The moon rules all menstrual cycles and ocean waves and I love it and am in love with it. She is wise. She’s seen a lot, allegedly a broken piece of our own planet rock. Forever entwined in orbit. Chewing gum.
Totally steamed. Angry. Anger. Blind rage. Two black eyes blind rage. Destructive swells inside my ribcage, need to let it out somehow. The spout is not big enough to push out all this hot air I have inside me. I must move and explode. Hot steam. Put your hand over me and I will burn you in a second, so you better call a doctor if you’re going to do that. Smell of tea leaves, forgotten. Despite this pipeline of boiling hot steam, the kitchen is cold. Flame is hot, kitchen is cold. The opposites are too much for me to bear. Metallic shine, conductor material. Provider of heat. Relief. It doesn’t even need it’s own commercial. Flipping through channels in my mind as I trying conjure this emotion and slow down time. Speed up time so I can move on. Some days I shuffle my feet begrudgingly. Sheets cocooned up tight and dark I don’t wanna get out of bed today. Depression is rock climbing. Sometimes you scale the mountain (very rare), other times you slide all the way down to the ground on your rope (it happens), and other times You change you foot position once and that’s the accomplishment for the day. Kettles as alarms. Warnings. Rousing me from my sleep. It’s an alarm. You can’t snooze it from your bedside. Feel the flame tickle the underside of this great container. What genius took a hammer and beat this metal into submission? Made it whole and leak-free? What did that take, just for one? Two animals go two by two into the Ark. It stinks of manure. There must’ve been an immense amount of anxiety. I don’t think the Bible truly captures that. But then again, it’s been awhile since I’ve read the story. I used to have a children’s Bible. It had lots of colorful pictures and the pages were gold on the edges, so when the book was closed you could see the golden look more solidified at the edges of those pages, the edge of the book. One time I got a papercut from reading it and there was blood smeared on one of the pages. I never cleaned it. Just sort of left it there. Again, this activity of reading this bible was usually done in the bed, reading lamp on. I used to have these cool lamps. One of them was this projection lamp with these hippie / psychedelic flowers and it would rotate and project these flowers in these neon colors all around my room. I wonder whatever happened to that lamp. I’m not sure. I had another one too. I think it was a table lamp, tall, primarily pink with the –