diamond

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.

basket

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.

kettle

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 –

plate

Shattered plate, shattered dreams. Foot in dress shoe raises up and smashes down right on top of napkin covered plate – Mazel tov! Weddings and luck and traditions. The colors in the room are white and dark blue. And maybe lavender. Herbs growing up from dead grass, characters from movies and books. Barnes and Noble contentment. The smell of a new book. Plate. Primary setting. Fork on the left, knife on the right. Knight in shining armor, gleaming metallic excellence. Hoping it doesn’t move, but wishing it would. It feels cold to the touch. A meal will touch down upon that plate, smelling good. Like the promise of satiation. Chicken and rice and vegetable. Or pasta with bolognese sauce. Or anything, really. It is warm. The steam melts the cold from your heart and soul. Holder of sacred meal. Dinner table as sacred circle. I will paint the stained glass windows to represent this moment. Pinegrove and evergreen trees and Christmas morning. The forgiveness of sins and birth of something new in winter. Saturnalia. Roman holiday. Audrey Hepburn. Kate Mulgrew. Powerful women. Who could take that plate and launch it like a frisbee to be cute, to be lethal. Plates as two cymbals, shattering on impact. Hardened egg yolk from a sunny-side up egg. I can still smell the bacon sizzle, now sitting cold on the counter. That diner smell. It is a drug, intoxicating. Salt and fat and carb, coming together as emotional cure-all – until I step on the scale. They say to slay your dragons, but that is one I don’t think will ever be dead, one I constantly work on. Ceramic, paper, and plastic plates. China. Is it a party? Is it a holiday? Is it just dinner? Should we remove this setting? Who has called and cancelled? Did we miss a setting? Where do I add one more? Inclusion, forgetfulness. Let’s wash the remains. Load up the broken dishwasher and hope it goes. 3D heated cube that works magic wonders. What sucks is the unloading part, the work that goes in afterwards. I hear the hum of its rumbling, the swishing of water and soap. Again, feel the steam after its complete. I warm my hands and face. The only incentive of putting everything away. I usually start with the plates. Bottom rack.

flower

Open up to me and show me your petals. Night-bloomer, wishy-washy belief. Late-bloomer that’s me. Strong strong stems supporting the fruit, the meaning, the show-off. Petals so delicate they would feel like soft kisses or soft tears, or a ten-week-old puppy’s ears. All kinds of colors red and white and purple and blue and teal and turquoise. Smell like nature, so sweet, heady, earthy, natural. Sometimes overly perfume-y. Sometimes it stuffs up my noses. The bees dig it more than me. That’s the honey, that’s the pollen, that’s their lifeblood. In the summer time if you sit out side on my warped wooden deck in the backyard, when it is warm and humid, there are choruses of cicadas singing and talking, starting up and then dying away. Neighbor’s dog barks, there may be a car horn thrown in there too. Maybe freshly mowed grass. But on this deck there are two planters of flowers that my parents with upkeep or replace every season. And the bees love these planters. They love the flowers, especially the ones that are thin and tall and have little nodes protruding all the way up their stalks; littler floral nodes. And these bees gracefully fly over early in the morning and hop from node to node, perfectly content, buzzing about. Some full grown, some babies, but definitely bumblebees. They are large, fuzzy black and yellow. They do not mind that you keep them company, as long as you don’t interfere with their work, their livelihood, their life. I could watch them all day. And they do stay all day. Usually from way in the morning, until the sun goes down. It makes me feel special that our yard can accommodate these bees, especially when many are dying out. I’m sure their honey tastes so sweet. And I wonder if it’s the same bees come back every year, or if this crucial information on where the best flowers are are shared with the hive before death, whispered into another’s bee’s ear. Perhaps their consciousness and though absorb through their honeycomb like a last dying breath of sorts. I’ve never seen their hive. I don’t know where they live or commute from. Hornets are a different story. They are thin and angry. Their hives have popped up on my house throughout the years, always to be removed by a professional. Lately they haven’t come back, but once in a while they do.

Seeing a flower bloom in real time is probably so beautiful, too beautiful and that’s why stop-motion –