A kind of journal (4)
05/15/2011 § 1 Comment
I touch myself at night and know that I am alive and alone.
Funny the way things come in twos: the sun & the moon, life & death, male & female, fire & water, and so on. Nothing and everything. I think the woman I’m supposed to fall in love with is dead. Perhaps she got run over one night, coming home with groceries. The breaks shrieking, then a quick dull thump, apples and oranges spilling out from the paper bag like broken things. The smell of burnt rubber hung like wet clothes. Faces gathering over her twitching body, all wearing the same flaccid apprehension. Or perhaps she gave up before all of this happened, off some bridge with rocks in her pockets. Not so poetic when such things happen outside of books and films. The flesh distorted and refracted by water, dead fishy eyes looking nowhere. Everything coming loose, coming apart, disentanglement. Then spat out by the current or fished up in some net half-ingested. No. I prefer her in a ditch somewhere decaying in solitary dignity. An elephant’s demise. There is always room for more in the ground. Always a place for the bones, their coldness sheer and bright like a white dwarf. That, I can love. In absentia.
Somewhere in my room a spider is busy spinning his web. Behind one of the roman blinds, most like. I imagine it touching itself too, comfortable in the filtered fluorescence, tiny hairy legs restless over the belly, giving shape to its internal geometry. Yes, geometry: for a company to dine on. All that fabric from within. Hunger is inevitable. All that fabric. How does it know when to stop; release itself from the machinery?