The Green in Black

I look for the green tinge in the black paint. When it isn’t there, I know my eyes have adjusted, finally. I feel my hind legs straighten almost all the way, which is supposed to be a sign of something. Then there is the fur that comes out in clumps whenever I touch the skin underneath. Could the energy of it rupture something as sibling as these quick moments woven into one another?

*

The bonds between cells which the plant material releases are wet paint, never had a chance to harden, crushed beneath a stride.

*

There is no healing. Not for anyone in this world. The work of healing is distraction, an occupation like any other, towards an empty eventual fall, a failing, there is no healing, not from anything. There is the moment of being passed through by life, and there is chemistry, and there is the no-longer.

*

I reach into your solar plexus all the way up to my elbow, and I hear the gushing, when my arm comes out it is coated with mud, and the touch of the world dries the mud so quickly it pinches my skin like tiny slaps before it crackles and flakes off, dusting my feet.

*

So little in the grain of the table is free from association with the things I own as a girl, these thighs, the striation in the skin goes both ways, up-down-left-right, and then some associative, diagonal nonsense.

*

My teapot is somewhat green, my cup is black. There are other colours and tints in all of this, like silver and white, but those don’t blend in with previously written words.

*

I think of the fact that I’ve never liked drinking from straws, or sucking at those water bottles that come with nubs. I’ve not been fed by breasts that way, I’ve been fed by rubber, and I’ve had enough, I think, of all this sucking.

I’m hungry, not for the difficult pull that constricts the throat and makes eyes bulge, but for the wide gulp of liquid tumbling in, the flow inward, unconstricted, a fall the size of an apple, into the mouth open as a well.

*

I don’t close my eyes during daylight hours. There is too much that could be missed, and I still haven’t earned my passport to life, after all I have spent years not really partaking, feeling so separate that I was convinced I would never die. Now every beam is something to be soaked up, something to be put aside for later use. As you can tell, I still postpone, but at least I consider the world something to be partaken in, in whatever way I can.

*

Money can be thrown at objects and it places them into your hand, it’s like magic. Food can be put into the mouth, then ferried into the stomach, and from there into the blood. It’s amazing. I can drink and speak and hear and see. I don’t know what to do with any of what I take on, but I’ll take it, who am I to say no?

*

I leave the day with armfuls of objects and words and pictures and thoughts, and I arrange them around my body every night in bed just in case I don’t wake up, and this is my way of saving my family and friends the effort to decide what to put in my grave.

*

We are Egyptian still, never got over that side of ourselves, and we still surround our dead with things, and I surround myself to pretend I live, just like the dead wear sheets and makeup, because it is spooky to look at them with their bones so slack in their faces, looking loose like the earth that calls them home to it.

Old Writing

I’m working on old writing, which, like old money, accumulates, only unlike old money the something it accumulates is not value but problems.
Every time I read over an old story, one I set aside on the advice of writing tutors and writing guides, I see more things that make it imperfect, its plot line faint or jumbled, its characters distant or lacking padding. Sometimes, it’s the voice that needs work, sometimes it’s the dialogue, or the underlying urgency needs to be fleshed out.

Either way, beating down the door to their laid after several months, sometimes years, old stories rarely reveal themselves as ripened, easy treasure. They always appear a little rickety, a shack with promise but otherwise in disrepair. True potential, no matter how many drafts in, always requires deeper thinking, yet more engagement, and another layer of paint, another structural redo. If they are to be valuable, the work needs to be done; thus, work lies between me and their submission to a magazine.

And right now, that work feels too demanding. It is easier to spend my time on work that provides more immediate gratification, such as teaching, and teaching prep, or research. Work that reaches outward rather than inward, that deals with people and their very immediate needs, rather than with a dark and dusty tangle of abstract concerns I seem to have forgotten how to unravel. Hopefully, more energy and focus for writing will manifest in the future.

But, hopefully, more energy and focus for writing will manifest in the future. There are deadlines to meet, and part of me. despite all of my whining and digging of heels, misses the process.

Eighteen

The moment you see a man in a suit and he does things a man in a suit wouldn’t do, you reconnect with the idea of humanity, which in itself is simply the joy of being surprised, of not being confirmed in one’s hardened beliefs.

It is sad that this is what it takes, but also delightful that it happens so often when you look for it.