Clouds thick around the edges of his vision, he doesn’t really know why he is running. Thumpthumpthumpthump. His heart and lungs are numb engines, redlined, sweaty. Dodging dark forms, his legs push through a net at his feet. Flash, then thunder shakes the ground. In a moment, his clarity returns. Trees splitting, thick underbrush, and bells. The bells aren’t external. They are inside him, somehow inside his ears and head. His hands are cupped to a hot spot on his stomach.
Rolling, caught, he lands hard against the roots of a tree, and slides down between them as pine needles float above and around him. Flash of red and gold. A cracking sound followed by a succession of snaps and whooshes. The sound is coming from above, close, repeating around him in dampening echoes. Instantly, he is aware of the searing metal rod through his stomach and shoulders. He remembers why he is running.
The smell is Christmas. Evergreen. Blinking lights and so many bells. Cries of excitement. Fire and celebration. He can see his breath, everywhere, like smoke. Face hot, legs like ice, he shivers.
Tipping the bowl of his hands forward, with every breath, he watches them fill with persimmon seeds.
When they tear down the statue,
They damage the pedestal.
The politics of prestige requires
a willing base.
The politics of power prefers a
Either way, the foundation must
I will allow myself that luxury,
the one that begs the blade to close in
much too near, knowing it could
easily enter, almost invited, split the skin
with an unbending silver grin,
dive deep through my ribs, and
knick the artery,
The story on the skin,
is of the nights and lights
I had danced naked against this chance
willing, already spent, when a slip
released clear blood, dried fruit,
and rushed attempts to breathe
The branch I hold follows behind me, a wand, tip furrowing, carving a border between a psychic fete on the left and my footprints on the right
The distant locus of a beginning far behind me along the spine of a snake, the ends of this line never meeting, the shape never closing
I’m not creating an a wall, an egg, or a jail, though shelter, incubation, and incarceration are choices I’ve considered
This is, above all, a choice. The line marks a limit, a declaration, not an endowment from god or human, or a claim to protect by sentry or trap
It is a personal mark, holy to me alone, and no breech is considered heresy except my own
A quick step to the left and a change of hands would find me still ahead of this tail, still dividing my world, but on the opposite side. The world would know no significance. I would.
Before I drew on the earth, there was no side to be on. After, twins here and there were born. Every place became part of a distinction and every move becomes a direction.
Creating in a space without weight
Expands possibilities, however,
While the scale of the project
May be practically limitless,
Its reach expansive,
Its form efficient,
Skin delicate and bones slender,
And its motion nearly effortless,
The restriction is:
Owing its uniqueness to the environment
Of its birth,
What’s built best in zero-G
Must live its entire life
My memories are never in high enough resolution to be more than visual impressions, literally clouded at the edges with moving swatches of color and light in the center. Voices, sounds, and smells are not actually called up, like watching or experiencing a rebroadcast of an episode. Rather, there is an awareness and inherent understanding of it all, re-living without replaying. I’m fairly sure this is how it is supposed to work.
I just “know” the words being spoken, I don’t actually hear them. I think them, and it’s an abstraction. I just “know” the location, the setting, and the emotional temperature. I just “know” the echo of a feeling, and involuntarily connect back to a facsimile of me when it actually happened. The more powerful and more recent the original experience, the higher the engagement of pulse, breath, and skin tightening in the reminiscent moment. With a little focus and attention, actual dialog and trimmed edges of details can be painted back into the frame. The sound of someone’s voice can be approximated to accompany the words. But this is no more than a repainting and an estimate.
And that is the poetry of memory. Always rewriting, and always fading further into the gray. Intimate with everything going on in my brain, my memories change as I change. Diminishing. Never ever correct. Biased and broken, it is as beautiful and magical as a sponge painting. Last year, oil on wood. This year, acrylic on paper. Same subject, but different texture, different vibration.