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The window is being disassembled right before my eyes. I pass another hothouse summer, in here, under glass. I am waiting for the orchids to bloom. They show small signs of the next cycle, the leaves show a willingness to burst into action. I remember how the flowers wilted and fell. I also remember when they were flowering, lit by the flame of the electric candles. At sunset there is an emergency which echoes through the mountains. The mountains are pressed against the sky, they look like they want to disappear into the dusky orange glow. I want to disappear too and be a little less human.
##Friday August 11, 2023
The hot bodies press together in communion. It feels like a bad seduction. A happy reunion of the senses takes place. I almost sometimes can see a place where I can belong. The machine spits out paper filled with auto-generated poetry. Is it good poetry? (Why are there children here?) Are we supposed to come sort of reconciliation? (Will I ever find love?) I am entranced by the spectacle, by the noise, someone sets off a firework and aims to tangle it in my hair, someone else lights up and expects me to inhale. I find myself both wanting to lose myself in the crowd and wanting to disappear altogether.
Life creates little scenes in which to be occupied, to fill the time. The curtain is half-opened. I always knew I was leaving that door open, it really wasn’t a surprise. I’m bad with names so I stare. I find memory to be fractured, I find the reality to be bittersweet. I’m supposed to be lost in a reverie, but the details of the fantasy keep confusing me. What am I supposed to dream of now? What am I supposed to feel? I go a little further into myself, I remember all the places I used to hide, they are still there, still breathing. I’m just trying to arrive to some sort of understanding.
I am sinking down. The world is sinking down. The grasses grow taller. I could lay by the banks forever, watching the sunset, caught in the golden hour. I allow myself to get carried off, to lower the walls, to knock the house down. I don’t want a home anyway. I just want the city to be overtaken by flowers. I am supposed to get a ticket to the Dream-o-rama tonight. I find the supermarket lacking in an accurate sheet cake for this particular occasion. The pastels and candy colors try to paint a scene that resonates. I sink down, as the sun sinks down. The night thins in the drink I soak it in, I find myself drifting off, I find far off words to surround and wrap around my spinning head. Tonight I can find the stars; they are fizzing in the glass.
Another day in the Garden: I meet an angel named Catharsis. I am presented with a peach and am instructed to take a bite and to invest more in the mandala. I do as I’m told, and pretend it was me who was manipulating the maze, who placed the minotaur in his reliable center. He paces back and forth and expects me to be the one to wave the flag of surrender. I see the cards I am dealt and perceive a winning hand, unbeatable. And beyond the immediate, the bestial, lies the Biblical, and I harvest from the olive trees, I tend to my flock and I look for him and wait for him.
This is the grandest haunted house I’ve ever wandered. There is a hall which never ends filled with rows upon rows of gumball machines and mattresses. All glowing in the darkness. What am I to make of the beds, tossing and turning? This feels like some sort of museum. I am the only spectator. I know that if I turn the right corner I will end up in an Egyptian tomb. I am sorry for ever awakening the dead, for trying to awaken spirits who were completely content wandering across the skies. There are too many ghosts haunting my unconscious world to go back to the way things were.
I’m still very bad with the name. I take your name and I spit on it and roll it into something I can swallow. The intention of the lanterns is to see life in red. I want everything to be seen in some sort of romantic light. If we could be Alone Together in the red booth where Elvis would sit, staring into each other’s eyes as we got absolutely blasted on exotic cocktails that bleed in the gentlest drifts of lavender and blue…I know we could arrive to some sort of mutual intent. To the sea my heart still clings.
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