dismay : disarray : disloco : disinganno
Sep. 17th, 2001 01:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aslantbeen feeling rather temporary about myself.
[oh willy loman i've got you here in my hand]
i leak water all over my sleeves from my eyes. i cave, i weaken, i splinter unrecoverably.
friday i shut down in the car. it carries me and i repeat like a windup that i don't know i don't know i dontknow. i'm so close to the wall all i see is just that one brick. saturday and sunday: trawling around the town, wrestling beds into rooms and wrangling toasters from their shelves. receiving no mail, no paper comfort. cooking a large dinner with the uneasy feeling of shifting underfoot. seismic tremblors. the unavoidable one looking me in the eye as i shift, look around seeking a safe harbor. any port in a storm: i pick her girlfriend's hands. we hold hands and laugh. but i think she was bitter as well, sitting as we were, edgewise, unaligned, unencircled and momentary among j and m and the other j. iago says you can smile and smile and be a devil. it's not as bad as that. but when they all leave i cry a little. wondering what secrets i'm telling or not telling. the body language of avoidance. the linguistics of uncertainty.
yesterday losing the connection on the phone over and over. the phone crackles in my ear. the sensation of lost words. the phonelines going in and out of reach, of touch. i name names. i am spared any goodbye because abruptly the connection goes out. it's a sign it's a sign i say near tears again and childish in my socks. j saying no it's not a sign. me clutching two telephones like the drowning clutch at spars. but neither ring for me.
all of that was after. after climbing into warm clothes, out of smoke filled and salt-tear ridden clothes. after collapsing into c's shoulder, into lungfulls of the blood-quick pulse of cigarettes on the rocking chairs. this was all after they kept creeping up on me, the blurred eyes and unbreathed bits of air. this was after the first telephone call.
i remember not breathing. i remember hanging up. out on the porch where lorna's pots are kept, all the terra cotta in the house stacked on the bench. the windows are screened. i looked at the blue and white painted china-patterned pots and desperate to break something, rip something apart and unleash fury, unlock fucking hell on what is fragile and temporary. wanting something permanent to hurt. i slumped on the wall all crouched and broken spine and hollow empty lungs and gasped for air.
i gather together. i prop up. i go inside some time later and the rich air stings. i collapse again. i erode. i get to the point past breaking where you just rasp along the edge of it, you let it not fit. you let the eyes dilate full to the light. you let it in. sorrow's suck and wash.
you let it. you just.let it. let you.
[oh willy loman i've got you here in my hand]
i leak water all over my sleeves from my eyes. i cave, i weaken, i splinter unrecoverably.
friday i shut down in the car. it carries me and i repeat like a windup that i don't know i don't know i dontknow. i'm so close to the wall all i see is just that one brick. saturday and sunday: trawling around the town, wrestling beds into rooms and wrangling toasters from their shelves. receiving no mail, no paper comfort. cooking a large dinner with the uneasy feeling of shifting underfoot. seismic tremblors. the unavoidable one looking me in the eye as i shift, look around seeking a safe harbor. any port in a storm: i pick her girlfriend's hands. we hold hands and laugh. but i think she was bitter as well, sitting as we were, edgewise, unaligned, unencircled and momentary among j and m and the other j. iago says you can smile and smile and be a devil. it's not as bad as that. but when they all leave i cry a little. wondering what secrets i'm telling or not telling. the body language of avoidance. the linguistics of uncertainty.
yesterday losing the connection on the phone over and over. the phone crackles in my ear. the sensation of lost words. the phonelines going in and out of reach, of touch. i name names. i am spared any goodbye because abruptly the connection goes out. it's a sign it's a sign i say near tears again and childish in my socks. j saying no it's not a sign. me clutching two telephones like the drowning clutch at spars. but neither ring for me.
all of that was after. after climbing into warm clothes, out of smoke filled and salt-tear ridden clothes. after collapsing into c's shoulder, into lungfulls of the blood-quick pulse of cigarettes on the rocking chairs. this was all after they kept creeping up on me, the blurred eyes and unbreathed bits of air. this was after the first telephone call.
i remember not breathing. i remember hanging up. out on the porch where lorna's pots are kept, all the terra cotta in the house stacked on the bench. the windows are screened. i looked at the blue and white painted china-patterned pots and desperate to break something, rip something apart and unleash fury, unlock fucking hell on what is fragile and temporary. wanting something permanent to hurt. i slumped on the wall all crouched and broken spine and hollow empty lungs and gasped for air.
i gather together. i prop up. i go inside some time later and the rich air stings. i collapse again. i erode. i get to the point past breaking where you just rasp along the edge of it, you let it not fit. you let the eyes dilate full to the light. you let it in. sorrow's suck and wash.
you let it. you just.let it. let you.
