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i think that people like to read about the happenings of people, and that is why this.
the small sphere of golden light around me, so familiar. the slender laptop, so graceful. it reminds me of peering over shoulders on airplanes: the screen savers, the laptop backgrounds, all the personal accouterments, fantastic sprays and swirls as their music plays through earphones. sealed.
but here, this is my space. wooden desk. the flanking shelves severely rising. disorder - always. papers and a teacup. the bluegreen glass mug, fogged as seaglass, that i drink wine in.
i am thinking of theater, of my friend. of the straightforward sexuality of her friends. she performs. huge and little at the same time, she bears her firm small frame with enormity. with hilarity. pursed red lips she wore, a flouncing french maid's duds. we hung out at the bar. a palpable body, a physical presence. that's what the room was. i could have had my hands on everyone.
now - the room, expanding from a small round golden sphere - my solitude, that solitude of the human condition, irrevocable. the warm physical things that accompany it. a chair. a carpet. such simple things.
so this is my evening, to share with you - simplicity, a small room with a table and a potted plant, flowered - a friend living with us while she perform for two months, talking on her phone to her husband in her bedroom, the tones soft as low thunder. a balcony overlooking the city.
that is this.
i can't see the way in the dimness.
how the wind strikes up: the band
struggles in a moment with just noise,
then settles on a howl. Insistent
burr unending, vibrates through the heart.
the wind eats my hair. a fugitive damp
begins. light scatters. all is clear.
then a murmur: a clap: imprinted
is I. stopped by a sound. stunned.
thunder is the way the world goes:
never in the moment of the light
but trembling away and out, and fading.
i am stuck on this idea of you.
how still and straight you are, how searing.
how you rotate through my world.
now bright
now dark
now bright
now dark.
i am pinned against the sea by this you.
searchlight in the dimness, finding,
prowling. describing. these are your eyes
now bright
now dark
now bright
now dark.
i am found by your stare, blazing you.
but you are blind and see no me,
it is i who see me by the light of you
now bright
now dark
now bright
now dark.
What cigarette do you smoke, Doctor?
the long open door... it wavers, and beckons.
i tremble in the heat. steam swells and billows. i am naked but dry, skin prickling as vapor rolls over it.
a light spills from behind me and suffuses the narrow corridor, the shining and obscured tiles. but the door is dark.
all this pale fog, shivering and dreamlike - these intangibles. they daze me and smudge the way.