Twined, hidden, and visible
I’ve been having wild and vivid dreams. Is it due to the fan blowing on me? Does temperature or breeze affect dreaming?
>
The weather today goes from a completely milky sky with clouds the size and color of whales, windy, humid, and chilly, to clearing and still, to now windy again with a murky light that sings of uncertainty.
Shame folds one into one’s self. Shame for an experience. Shame for exposing it.
A boom in one’s head makes one more overcast.
Ok, well here I am again, different day.
On a different day. On a different day. On a different day.
Not part of a stream of forever
Not a part of the regular
belonging.
Living in one’s body.
Body as home.
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Humiliations flutter indivisibly::::::quickly:::::::as moth wings trying to penetrate a screen. Like moths, they often find a way in. Together their bodies shape a dark cone.
The home within the home. Shadow home, mourning. Brown gray rust tan—ground colors, shades of each other. Inner and outer worlds, meeting points forming a triangular home::::::a pyramid composed of four triangular faces, six straight edges, and four vertex corners.
I couldn’t fit into my hiding place. My arm sticking out put me in constant danger.
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My mind’s voices, numbering like strings on a guitar. One is the welcoming string—a host—make yourself comfortableHave a seat on the bench while we get ready. Nothing to be afraid of.
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Voice of play interlaced with memory, hidden from view for now. A puzzle (to be explored now or in the future: otherwise, an impasse).
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Here I give something up. Become caretaker of my father’s spirit::::::my younger brother’s death having made me more attenuated to spirits.
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Trimming like a band of color in the body of a desert mountain, mineral and geologic marker.
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Here we arrive at a site of opposites. Forking directions to head in—me wanting to follow the abstract, nurturant path. Him—wanting to get succor from my small body? to interlope::::::my spirit straddling on the wayside.
Since I arrived here—had I given consent? Because I’m here, in this place/position, are my mind and body guilty to not agree, yield?
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I could escape the world by being subsumed—but my body finds him repellant.
Inverting coordinates, reflection, stellated, faces, edges, points::::::
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Overcast.
Shame map. Perhaps it’s due to the size and color
of whales, windy, humid,
and chilly,
the color of strange.
milky sky with dream of whales,
windy, humid, and the atmosphere I
am
again with
dream of a stream
of whales,
the atmosphere will
revert
back
again
On a different day.
the
atmosphere will revert back again with dreaming?
with a murky light
that makes one wonder whether today
is
also
stream of a stream of a strange.
Going in one’s self.
Perhaps it’s
due to:::::::to do
with
dreams and
color of
a
stream of streams and
belonging
Living
a completely
milky
sky with clouds the reason
A boom
in
one fold into one’s self. Shame makes one
wonder whether the regular
belonging
A boom
in one’s
body.
On
a different day.
On
a different day.
belonging
to
do
with
dreaming?
will
revert back
again.
><
Body as home.
Living in one’s body.
Belonging
Not a part of the regular
Not part of a stream of forever
On a different day. On a different day. On a different day.
Ok, well here I am again, different day.
A boom in one’s head makes one more overcast.
Shame folds one into one’s self. Shame for an experience. Shame for exposing it.
The weather today goes from a completely milky sky with clouds the size and color of whales, windy, humid, and chilly, to clearing and still, to now windy again with a murky light that sings of uncertainty.
For more information about this piece, see this issue's legend.
Lawrence Park
Yonkers, NY
Since this piece harkens back into the speaker’s childhood, I’ve chosen among its sites a neighborhood in Yonkers, NY, and specifically wallpaper in the room that I shared with my brother who died when he was five. “The carnival horses wallpapering the room: how I’d hold the lines of their contours in my eyes, then, as if they were pick-up sticks, let them scatter; however they’d land I’d see, at the very least, one brand-new figure. I made believe it was deliberate, that I was the artist who’d drawn the figure, and look away determined to see it on the wall again; each and every time I’d lost its whereabouts...” (door of thin skins, “Photographs,” CavanKerry Press)