Day Eleven of Thirty Days of Writing

Art by Kat Fossell

The organizational patterns of animals fascinated him. I am involved in missing each and every particle of a being I’ve seen dead. When the breakdown of language begins, what realm do we find ourselves in?

Is it more pure to be beast, or did the mind already overtake all the simple I loved as a child? When I left her house for the last time,
 I began to sob. An easy sentence to type but does anyone know what I mean?

Have you sobbed like the breaths you were drawing were your last? Have you seen the white light behind your eyelids?

Is this too much breaking of the fourth wall? Who built these walls anyway? Are you alone right now, when you read these words, and do the noises around you sometimes frighten you?

Does your chest constrict suddenly, and then, you remember again to — The oak tree looked so solemn, cast in grey. The plank swing was taken down. My grandfather had cut the rope with his rough hands. I remember feeling them for the first time when he held them around my tiny fingers, teaching me the swaying motion of the arms necessary for putting a little white ball into a hole in the ground. I had a feeling that night I was supposed to have forgotten all of this.

The only home known was sold to an old woman
who was also alone.

She asked if she could keep the white couch. We said yes. A great white ate me in your dream last night; the beasts are always hungry but not yet ghosts. 
Make it beautiful. Make the world. 
There’s something you’d actually want to be, with every speck of dust included.

This is the call, the voice on the other end 
asks me, “What have you done for the rest of them?” Talking to myself

in an elevator,
the couple beside me leaves as quietly as possible. 
Their rings match and I scratch at the burn,
 seared into my right wrist like a comet failing
 or else succeeding in its fate. Does the comet love what it cannot control? 
Draw a shape in pencil and then try to erase it.

You can cover something up, but its always there, underneath every breath. Under the soles of the shoes that walk over it. The sidewalk was the color of the skin of my grandmother. The crack in the windshield was the dividing line. The trenches were dug years ago, and we’ve been wearing our uniforms waiting for the contest to be judged.

Give me a girl and a guitar and the screeching sound of discord. What color were the sonatas of Andrea Gabrieli when they so shook you? Who were you in that life you wrote, so long before the etching of a through-line was completed? I can recycle these words as good as the next, but having anything to say, is a different matter altogether.

Today the shadow of the roof fell onto the wall, creating a perfect little stage. I thought of him, and all the phenomena he will never see. If I were big enough, I could have made a puppet of myself. I’m still trying. This is like those hastily scratched words in the back of my French book when I was seventeen. Clarity escapes so we throw strawberries at the walls and trace the outlines with chalk. She’d drawn an octopus and I loved and hated its bubbled stubby tentacles.

I have a delusion sometimes where I believe if I concentrate hard enough, I can store all these images for him, and play them out my eyes like a projector. When I die will I have wrinkles? When I die will I have been more than this little body?

Oh my god echoes from up the stairs, and just after, a siren starts up. The firehouse down the street as old as the one my grandfather lived in for all those years. The single light in the alley burns all night for the family of raccoons and the stray cat with white boots. I’m trying to get it all- each fleeting image- is it enough? Is it enough to convince you that we too can be good?

I opened the knife and never closed it. The electric toothbrush keeps malfunctioning — vibrating all alone on the surface of the sink which we keep brushing hairs off of. It reminds me that once, someone touched one of those to my clitoris. It started as a joke but wasn’t really. I remember someone saying once, “You should ask your lover to involve ice cubes in the summer time.” I was in an alleyway then, smoking.

When I try to read aloud I get shy and my voice gets all quiet. Just like when I am asked to sing in front of other people. The piano keys became my fingers in the late afternoon and the floor opened up and the ground fell away and the ceiling stayed pure and white, and I thought of the night in the bathtub. 
Its nostalgia all over again. We haven’t even made it to the fall. He sends me a song called magnets and I am lost in the past after asking you again in my telepathy to stay with me in the present. Like when you enter a room and I leave it. It’s a frenzy I contrive with too much caffeine and tobacco. I miss my oracle. I miss sleeping as soundly as if there was nothing to miss. I don’t think you would tell me the truth, even though we all deserve it.

When is enough? I’ll keep pouring down the drain until you say it.