00:18: It’s over –
the rain stopped, finally.
The night’s gotten too cold,
she shivers (it must be
aspen season already).
off water drops that
have collected beneath
the folds of her
many, many eyes.
The water drips down and
she breathes a sigh of
relief – a night breeze,
soft and sweet and a little bitter.
I think, it’s really over.
00:19: Clang –
broken glass or
No, it was the moon.
She fell off the sky.
She fell to pieces:
how beautifully they glimmer
as they drift in
a tiny puddle of dirt –
what an odd wishing well.
I light a cigarette
and make a wish.
00:20: Smoke fills the kitchen –
I don’t open a window.
I just don’t know how
to let go of things.
I let it fill the empty space
he left behind (along
with an empty promise:
revenant like a ghost or
maybe just a nightmare);
all the emptiness
of the walls, the sockets,
blue and quiet
00:21: Clang –
louder this time, almost violent.
I feel a breath
in my neck, a cough:
sour and stale.
I blink, splinters in my
shivering hands (it must be
aspen season already):
Your promise – it lies in pieces and
finally, I can even see it:
Tiny holes in the dark like
fresh cuts that won’t stop bleeding.
I) January, 8 – in prose…
The New Year (capitalized, to show it’s genuine importance!) is already a week old by now and therefore slowly taking off all the holiday make-up and fancy clothing – a very un-magical moment. It’s always a moment that leaves me missing things: all the Christmas lights, the smell of cinnamon and the anticipation in the air. Because, of course, by that time I’ve already pushed aside the rush and grumpiness of the few days before Christmas, along with the exhaustion of the let’s-visit-the-entire-family-and-all-of-our-friends-in-less-than-24-hours-marathon (while, year after year, thinking: how sweet it would be to catch a ride on Santa’s sleigh). However, what is even worse is the feeling when there’s someone you can’t visit, for whatever reason. Then, the missing hits in early – an even less magical feeling. The least magical I can imagine.
This Christmas season, the missing did hit me quite early, it just snuck up on me behind my back and suddenly there it was, rearing its ugly head out of a pile of Christmas wrappings. It’s been living with me ever since. I don’t mean to complain, I’ve been wanting a roommate since I moved into a new apartment last summer (but I’d really prefer someone less sneaky, Santa must have gotten me wrong there…) leaving behind three roommates (a school, a city, a country) in the process – coming back to what I’d left behind a year earlier to find that I couldn’t have it all back, not the way it was. Of course, you never can – but, of course, you always hope.
I think, it might have been already then, that this idiotic thing moved in with me, hiding in my luggage – the little parasite. Or maybe, I brought it with me from my holiday visit to one of my beloved roommates a few days ago. Anyhow, I’m planning to kick it out soon. I think, it has to go with the decorations and the last bits of candy (ha! I ate the last cookie this morning!). It’s really a poor replacement for all I’ve left behind.
II) January, 8 – in poetry…
I know: it comes like breathing – unconsciously and delicate.
An inflating and deflating, rhythmical, in four-four time almost:
Say, is it dancing, can you feel your heart dancing?
You know, it’s the dance of death, or at least
the dance of coma – a deep delusional sleep:
you’re only imagining things, always.
It’s tiring, truly exhausting – and there’s nothing that can be done.
I’m afraid it’s not a mood, it doesn’t come and go like seasons do.
It’s a state, it’s something chronic – the diagnosis?
Well, it’s not yearning, it’s less dramatic; nothing emotional, I think.
It’s quiet like falling snow and just as cold and it
also muffles all the noise coming in from the world outside:
You must be missing
III), January, 8 – in song (thank you, Miss Madeline Ava)…
I have a confession to make.
I am a terrible materialist. There, I said it. I really can’t help it.
This realization didn’t actually strike me when all the glossy ads for toys, perfumes, jewelry and other fancy whatnots started popping up all over the place. Honestly, they don’t appeal to me at all – besides: I can never tell just what product is advertised by several semi-naked people giving me a possibly sexy/mysterious/earnest look. (You tell me. Please?) It wasn’t the beginning of the holiday season that got me. It was the beginning of a season, though – winter.
Here’s what happened: I’ve been digging up favorite scarves and sweaters from the depths of my closet (since it’s winter officially – whatever objections the actual weather might have to the meteorology here). Rummaging through all the wool and the occasional tassel, I found myself having sentimental feelings for the one or other… piece of clothing.
Okay. Possibly, it started even earlier than this: My favorite pair of jeans has been showing (severe) signs of weakness around the knees – which in turn has triggered me displaying severe signs of distress all in all. I hate parting with my favorite pair of jeans because first, I hate jeans shopping. I never find a pair that fits when I’m really in need of one – because semi-naked is never an option for me (I never advertise for anything anyway). Second, I grow sisterhood-of-the-traveling-pants-attached to my jeans. That is SUPER-attached. I wear them until they – quite literally – fall apart. Which is always somewhat awkward when the falling apart happens in public, but oh well: we all get our 15 minutes of fame, right Andy?
But back to the wool and tassels: I don’t have sentimental feelings for each piece of clothing I own. I don’t name them (yet). It’s that some pieces remind me of a person. Or of the place I got them at. Or the time when I bought them. (They’re little time-machines.) It’s that wearing that one sweater, that one scarf or my favorite jeans is like flipping through the pages of a diary. Which, for me, is awfully convenient because I’m terribly inconsistent when it comes to actually writing a diary. (This blog is probably the closest I have ever gotten and will ever get to it.)
So strictly speaking, I’m a memorabiliaist. Or possibly a mnemonicist. There, I said it. I still can’t help it.