Hattie wears a watch that stopped ticking years ago. The face is a maze of spider veins and the band is dry and cracked. Hattie and her keepsake have a lot in common, and they both know better than to mark each slipping minute. Tomorrow has stretched beyond Hattie's reach, and yesterday is tied around her wrist. Tickless. Tockless. Now is a good time to let the present unfold.
I see what you're talking about. That is a giant mirror up there on the hill. There we are! The shiny blindness seems sort of dangerous, though. You'd have thought they'd have thought it dangerous, too. They being the park builders and the committee that selected the sculptures. I know. Can a mirror be called art? It is really huge. Yeah, probably something to do with our obsession with looks. Bad for the finches, I'd bet.
a breakthrough at 22
completely forgotten by 60
the work, at the time, was true
true to an ideal that never quite fit
but tenacity was the whole point of it
keep rewinding those spools of thought
until an answer breaks through the membrane
in random perspectives and cloudy horizons
absolute mastery of nothing awaits
sweetly we shall slip into non-existence
and rejoice in the darkness of a most
If you can't put a thought into words, then you're dancing in the big black empty. Yeah?
I brewed a pot of peppermint tea. Here, let me pour you a cup.
And if I don't get out of here soon for some water--I'm talking miles of the stuff--and some right proper dim sum I am going to 100 percent lose my shit.
Oh, you're hungry? I've got a blue box in the cupboard. You'll feel better with some M-and-C in you.
Well the joke's on me, apparently. Here in exile. What's the point? Leaves you feeling all bunchy. You know?
Ok. Lunch coming right up.
What lies on the other side of language?
Por ejemplo: If a picture tells a story, does he expect me to understand what he is saying in the same way he does? If I take away my own, different meaning(s) from what I hear the picture telling me, it stands to reason I am no longer looking at the same picture that began to tell its story.
La pregunta: Truly, what is it I see in the end?
but she ran away from reality and hid out in a nunnery. she was young, impressionable, given to respiratory illnesses, and not very well-educated to begin with. austerity and devotion. piety and poverty. hell, anyone'd hallucinate on a diet of too much prayer and too little calories. incense'll go straight to the brain with all that heavy, smoky sweetness. low blood sugar. really anything can agitate a supersensitive disposition. roses do make for a pleasant distraction, though, from cold stone and echoes.
Damn your fake tan and that white dress, too (the thing doesn't fit me and it looks worse on you.) Is this what our conversations have become? Insecurities are battering rams we use to knock down and bruise and negate one another. Three years of demolition and we can't come up with a plan. The harangue hasn't stopped (I won't give it up) and you've let the dandelions run riot in the garden of right and not wrong. Weeds ignore the insults hurled at them. That's not us. We are Right and Not Wrong and we know it all (enough to keep the divide widening every day.) This is how our garden grows.
A month. A week, day, hour. The moment that just passed. We all sit beside the Wishing Pool. Oh cool giver of sustenance! I'd drink from you if the taste didn't drive me to excess. Excessively expressed, no less. Mesmerizing ripples and profundity for nights on end. The wish to be heard when I don't want anyone to look at me. The wish to be read when I can't stand the sight of moving lips. I long ago gave away everything that could be bought and sold. I told you so, and all for the price of a five-finger lie. Statistics don't even try to answer the call. Apply. Repeat. Again, I ask: What was the point of pooling our wishes? We all want riches for which we are ashamed to ask.