valentine's day...
In her resting state her memories travel. She will be reading or writing or talking and realise that her mind is travelling to where he is, and that she can prevent herself from talking to him for days but she is still travelling to him through unfamiliar surroundings. She is looking above her, around her, seeing a colour palette that is different to the colour palette of the city she occupies. She sees leaves that are a different green. She realises that she is under a bridge; lost, trusting that someone else knows the way. She is in-between there and here. She hates it. She’d forget that journey if she could.
march03...
In front of me is a net of lights that shine, making all of the kilometres of space between us look like a plate of glass that reflects the stars, or undulating inky water logged nothing, with holes in it that let in points of illumination. Caught in the net are thousands of voices, talking, laughing, lying, singing, screaming, sighing, groaning, gasping. And you are out there somewhere in my city, with your own grumble added to the throng.
You are probably striding about in streets full of people, where the lights turn the sky blue after dark, where the sky isn't so inky because the lights bunch together there, as if for warmth. A sea of people and possibilities is churning before me and I search for only you. You, a buoy or a predator.
I am standing on a hill, where the light is sparse. I am looking backwards. My feet are in grubby shoes, scuffing on gravel. Where I am standing, the ground is still and silent. But I feel as if a wave of water is shifting the sands beneath my toes.
You are probably striding about in streets full of people, where the lights turn the sky blue after dark, where the sky isn't so inky because the lights bunch together there, as if for warmth. A sea of people and possibilities is churning before me and I search for only you. You, a buoy or a predator.
I am standing on a hill, where the light is sparse. I am looking backwards. My feet are in grubby shoes, scuffing on gravel. Where I am standing, the ground is still and silent. But I feel as if a wave of water is shifting the sands beneath my toes.
december 08...
There’s a small room. Cluttered like mine. White walls, red bedspread. Yesterday’s glass of water is on the bedside table, last night’s dinner dishes on the floor. The wardrobe doors are left open, photos are tacked up, the mirrors are spotty.
When he’s not there, she imagines him in it; watching her drink tea, and listen to her music, do her hair in the morning, smearing lipstick. She has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She isn’t able to predict his answers very well. She can really only dream up the best way to tell her stories, a way that will make her memorable to him. She imagines opening her door for him, hastily clearing a space on an ugly chair, gathering arms full of second-hand books and tights and unused diaries. She imagines him sprawling in the chair, not taking up as much physical space as he should. She tries to imagine his mental tally of the room’s shortcomings. His reaction to the books on her floor, his perusal of the things she gathers around her. She imagines him thinking; “no, not her. Not this one.”
The only place he really inhabits in her life is the space she clears for him, with apprehension. He may or may not sit in the cleared space. She tells herself this sternly by lamplight.
But then she whispers imaginary things to him when she turns the light off, again she has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She imagines his answers, strokes hair from his forehead, imagines what he’d look like underneath her sheets with his head on her pillow. Then she wakes up in a different place.
There is another small room that’s cluttered like hers. Yesterday’s glass of water on the bedside table. The wardrobe doors are open, there are little circles of paint peeled off the walls, where pictures have been tacked up then ripped down. The mirrors have spots. The bed is unmade, the books are not put back on the shelves. Here, the same imaginings take place, in an imaginary room after the light is turned off.
When he’s not there, she imagines him in it; watching her drink tea, and listen to her music, do her hair in the morning, smearing lipstick. She has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She isn’t able to predict his answers very well. She can really only dream up the best way to tell her stories, a way that will make her memorable to him. She imagines opening her door for him, hastily clearing a space on an ugly chair, gathering arms full of second-hand books and tights and unused diaries. She imagines him sprawling in the chair, not taking up as much physical space as he should. She tries to imagine his mental tally of the room’s shortcomings. His reaction to the books on her floor, his perusal of the things she gathers around her. She imagines him thinking; “no, not her. Not this one.”
The only place he really inhabits in her life is the space she clears for him, with apprehension. He may or may not sit in the cleared space. She tells herself this sternly by lamplight.
But then she whispers imaginary things to him when she turns the light off, again she has imaginary conversations with him in her head. She imagines his answers, strokes hair from his forehead, imagines what he’d look like underneath her sheets with his head on her pillow. Then she wakes up in a different place.
There is another small room that’s cluttered like hers. Yesterday’s glass of water on the bedside table. The wardrobe doors are open, there are little circles of paint peeled off the walls, where pictures have been tacked up then ripped down. The mirrors have spots. The bed is unmade, the books are not put back on the shelves. Here, the same imaginings take place, in an imaginary room after the light is turned off.
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