nonpariel

At night I remember what all I can’t remember, which is a lot, years and years of it, and feel the unmoored life of a life undocumented, battered. My journals I would’ve referred to, I would’ve bequeathed to someone, gone. My one anchor, don’t tell me it wasn’t and don't tell me I didn't lose it - I know it's gone. And so at night, it’s hard, but it’s as real as it gets and I don't mind.

Because during the day I live, living, life, the way a wholly living person lives, the kind of life that continues to inspire me to write in journals, to pull photographs from the air, to hold plates on sticks and spin. Open arms, not closed; following an open road – just because I’m unmoored doesn’t mean I don’t go. Be, and think about sleep, free of gaps, free of tendrils of the past, and traces of grief I can’t grasp - just sunshine, a mule-drawn carriage, tea, fruit, men in hats, the circle widens, I breathe the gap.

Fire, water, a gurgling pull earthward, Mexican snacks brought to me with a white plastic fork, hardware store, broom, African style, cyan, woodland creatures, gardenias in a pink teacup, oils, water, air. We wipe our fingers on paper towels; we marvel at the waves and points of style. I work, straightening hangers on the rod, lying the book of Dada on the wooden doily on the mauve plate, reading “Cabinet”, wrapping string with yarn with string with yarn, and not giving too much away. I sell hats now.

And Bryant is profound, the only person I know with triple citizenship: German, Brazilian, U.S.A. I make him laugh; he gets serious. I’m gun-shy of people – we can be so insane - but he is a Libra too, another Libra man infiltrating my life, another one to tell so much to without saying anything at all, it’s in the depth of our Venus’d eyes. I work for him in his store and he lavishes me with rich iced coffee, seltzer with lime, Vietnamese food, ideas, images, words, visions, sushi, typography, jewelry, a pedicure, tales of the dream and romance, and we become friends. This is not how the story ends. Someone in the world gives what he gets.

Now it’s dark again and I don't forget what I can't remember. So I spritz some Coco on the pillows and aim my thoughts at the way clouds become wooden tchotkes in the store window – owls, pigeons, apron, bandana, spectacles – the metaphysical happen/s. The tin can phones ring, lying in a bed of cotton candy and glowing red, yellow, green. Little seeds of goodness feed the day. Open, closed, open. My kitchen will be white with green polka dots; the flame that lights this lantern burns white hot.

Comments

[Indy 500]

It'll be nice to eat some of your food in your kitchen. Especially with green polka dots.

[MIV]

You should get paid to write this good.

Did you get the thank you package yet? I sent you one to thank you for everything you've been doing for people who haven't sent you a thank you package. I wrote "OK TO TOSS OVER THE FENCE" as instructed. But I hear it's raining all the time down there - I just want to make sure you get thanked.

[Ellie.]

You're terribly good. Yes, package received, thank you. I really needed a bag of rubber gloves. More than I needed a wind up robot but not as much as I needed the canister of Earl Grey tea. Terribly terribly good, you are to me.