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“We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.”[my art blog dedicated to everyday muses]
I remember that glassy sky and mirror lake
and the sharp blade wind and the creaking airand the sweet cold metal and the heat of your voice
and the cold dull future turning crimson red and white
I remember the horizons coloring
Slowly to full song
I remember when we had all the time in the world in our hands
a new art idea sculpture I need some sculpey or some air dry cllay tiny tiny busts miniature art museums okay thats my idea for now and i wrote it down so yeah I will do it yes make me some art for me!
we were a bead you see of two joining pieces of mercury hot and shiny and toxic and bright dissolving dissolving into one another and I thought we were one thing, one unmeshable solid flowing blob of brightness. but no we crystallize and harden and splinter into cracks into islands into shards flying every which way we weren’t what I thought I saw we weren’t sparks and light and wholeness we were two conflicting elements waiting for differing heating points to break apart.
There is a nail
Iron sharp and metal cold
Pressed ever so lightly
A small dent into the thin skin of my temples
Thin stretched leather over limestone bones
Of my head it presses
Ever so harder
A thin pale dot into a dark dripping line
Unto my shoulders unto my front
The sharp point digging straight through
Into flesh and brain and bone
Dot to line to snaking cracks
All around my brittle head
The nail it rests
In the very middle
Of my oozing head
My tired brain
Skin as hot and damp and sticky as inside is cold damp concrete cold hard shivers cold hollow night air cold cold cold
The whole beneath your ribcage filling with salt water and mucuous
The little hammers hurling down hard on the walls
Of your temples they split and ache with every turn of your skull
Your temples they crack and shake
Your skull it vibrates and wants to cave in
You’re down down it hurts to get up and down feels terrible but so does up
You’re down down there’s no going up
Medical exams and not eating to get blood tests and needles and syringes and wooziness and crowds and public bathrooms and drug testing and noise and withering and embarrassment and incompetence and I’ve never thought this was home no not at all no.
Reading “Norwegian Wood” and it struck me how soothing it is to read about those simpler times and the letters they write to each other and how they go about describing the simplest things, the seemingly mundane things, the little things that for some reason or the other strike them amidst everything else that goes around in their day and in their heads and in the routine of their lives. How it adds that much color and nuance to the biggger issues they deal with. How, in writing a letter you pick and choose your words carefully, and how anxious and mixed up you can feel just grasping for the right way to say something, how to sum up that tangle of feelings inside you so that you can be sure you’d be understood just by simple lines of words on paper to be read not right then and now, but by someone some distance and time away.
Then I get sad that you don’t see that so much these days. These days people write letters to themselves on blogs and such, and those don’t tend to be so very long either. Heck, I’m doing that right now. Choosing your words carefully in a day and age where people say/tweet/post what’s on their mind right then and there seems like a lost art.
Like the tide on a full moon
My days are like
That troubled surface
That rippled mirror
Shiny bright sharp with other’s edges
Not my light not my own
Dark as shut lids
Like the tide it feels
And the moon never wanes
I’m that scab that won’t heal, the spot dug deeper then gouged out, this million lines of red like a net of highways and rivers converging and splitting and crash into each other again. I’m that peeling raw skin on your lower lips, teeth meeting over me peeling peeling back all pink and stinging. Peeling the skin round your nails and round your nailbeds, hang nails and loose skin and more little lines of red. A starburst of red pinpricks fading to brown in the crook of your elbows, behind your knees. A million little obsessions in each pore and pit and abscess. A million little regrets with each peeling back of a clot. A million tiny scars and marks to small for the eyes to see.
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