If this is where it begins, this is where it begins, this, the blend of light flashes in my eyelids and the sounds of cars on a milesaway highway. Cold chills running hummingly up arms, the sweet soundless silk of warmth in my torso, warmth of my eyeball (there is a warmth in an eyelid, isn’t there; an eyeball is a warm thing; fingernails, hard as they may be, are warmed by our bodies.
I feel itched, not scratched, but itched, as if I’ve been seeded with itchiness; there are things that must be done that have not been; there are things I want to say that I haven’t, strappingly stuttering forward; water itch and cold itch; handskin pursing its lips around the dry places.
Working, I say “how are you?” and people sometimes look at me like “how the fuck do you think I am, I’m here, aren’t I?” and I see where they’re coming from and how how are you will never cut it (it is a dull knife in a density of hurt and scarcity) and there is also the everdayness of work, the shoes and hats people wear, the things they say when they’re receiving food, the sound they make opening and closing the door, their lingering to talk, their squinting at the menu.
And I have a shudderhalt in me — a shudder that wants to levitate out of my body, and a halt that wants to skid itself still in my cells– my my my my my — I can only speak for my, but I tell myself there’s something selfish speaking from the place of my — for now, my is where I am, the smooth polish of cold fingerskin on keyboard;
Re-reading, I haven’t found anything clearer; nothing clearer than this feeling of meaning tumbling out of me (what a convoluted tube! synapse to finger nerve to keyboard to computer drive to screen to eyeball back to synapse! a warbling oval, a shy roll) hunger squealing, a little satisfied with itself squeal, one that goes on for too long, one that hurts the ears of my stomach, one that makes my stomach walls say: shhhhhh, and feel guilty for saying shhhh, it’s only a little hunger after all
The idea in my dream blended with the one in the shop, and I wanted that to happen. I wanted holding and electricity of touch, electrons chattering, teeth chatter and heart chatter (and stutter) and letting go is hard, there is still the chattering, the chattering that wants to be somewhere else
Prairie was a hair tie that had been stretched till the rubber band inside her broke, and a little woven link of fabric, more like a stretch of yarn, tethered her to the metal piece suturing two sides of her together. She was sometimes around a wrist, getting wet in sink water, rolling down to the upper forearm, holding the skin between her singular arm (which was her whole body) until a divot formed. She rested in the divot made by her pressured body, and felt the skin bracing with the pressure. Sometimes she was around a tangle of hair; she lost herself in it and sometimes mistook herself for a hair; but then she remembered she was woven, and contained many hairs that came from plants, and identified more with the hair she held in a little tail, which contained many hairs that came from a human. She held the wrist until she became loose, until she was too loose to hold as tightly as she had, but couldn’t stretch enough to do one more rotation (she shouted at the fingers to stop trying so hard, it wouldn’t work). She held the broken rubber band inside her with a gentleness she didn’t know she possessed; her stretchedness made her softer and deflated-seeming; she swooned in a tangle on the ground when before she had sat stalwart in an almost-perfect circle. She sang the hair she held to sleep and accepted that it might be her last time nestled around the hair.