In between the noise of humming birds, the mechanical flapping Of their tiny wings, the systematic beatings of their heart, lies a stillness. A place of calm collection. Visits are temporary, fleeting. Our bodies are made to withstand the external chaos. White noise fills The depths of our ear canals and buries itself in a mausoleum. Words link to objects. What if I told you that round, red fruit on the table was
a banana? Words link to ideas. Physical space and eternity are all concepts of time. Time is
a concept, someone told me. As I lay on the floor. Desperate. With a cup of chamomile. The sickening smell lingers long after the drink is gone. Buildings bent, silted rose. I sat still.
Simply to see. Rafts of autumn leaves riding waves of crimson and gold. A boat, with masts made of animal skins skim the surface. An orange tiger sits quietly in the corner. Watching
Footprints. But where are the feet? Parallel lines circle around. Irresponsible Maya. You can neither be described nor defined. The tree isn't a tree. Suffering is suffering. Dabble in existential thought. You won't get far. The bottle of water sitting on
the bed will eventually disappear. The hungry ghosts, the warring ghosts, the ancestors will
take it and what will you do? Your obsession with tomato soup is disturbing. Did you know that Lola just wanted to sit down? Rest from the heat. Of stares and stoves and sex. What IF could have "eternal sunshine" would you smile? In that moment, right before
the storm, the kiss, the end, have you watched the air? Seen it turn, eddy. Find ways to capture
that moment. Through a looking glass, Alice grew up, found the rabbit was a predator and
ate all the marmalade in town. She sits. Staring at me in the middle of the night. The parks
are overrun with drunken fairies and the words that escape and have no home. We have no home.
Our house on stilts is stilting. Let's eat the stars, you suggest one moonless night. We walk
outside through the grass, cattails and dogwoods. Even the fireflies have no light left in them.
A small purple and yellow cow hunts us down in the deep brush. A technicolour thrush sings. Dante looks
up and stops pouring wine for Poe. I feel the need to go home.
A pouncing gargoyle sits silently on your desk. Staring. You find it strangely comforting.
The thought that this indelicate creature, this monster of blood loves you enough to
watch you. He created blue and jumped of the side of a building. You create stories in six words. Nothing exists in this world, darling. Cushioned by sentences, fragments (that poke)
and punctuation, you feel safe. Encapsulated. Till. It. Falls. And then our bodies break
into. Fragments. I yawn, make paper moons out of foil, fill bowls with dyed water, create
castles out of candles. My stunning use of alliteration should impress you. Who do I keep on
talking too? Fifty three that is how old I shall be when you decide to talk to me. Irreverent
little rhymes. Mind games. Stone walls will crumble under the weight of your space. Look at of the
window and you will see symbols emerge in rapid succession. Triangles, lines, circles, pentagrams. There is a huge eye in the sky that keeps staring at me. In desperation, you claw
hope, bleeding and bruised into the light. It shivers. Iridescent. Shimmering. Fleeting. You look
around to find something to trap it, so it can never leave you. A hammer falls. And blindsides hope.
It is lost. You feel like Dante on a raging river. Silently, you are pulled into the light, your
shadow is lost in the darkness.
In the Space between light/dark, chaos/order, well/unwell, love/not being loved, you
learn to breathe.