Friday, November 30, 2012
That loan sister came out of the crawl space with a cramp in her side like a piece of chocolate. She claims that no one ignores her anymore. Her original use is to be unnoticed. She gets all this attention and she isn't up to it. She was made for extreme neglect; wandering eyes looking off to the cobwebs where the daddy long legs holds a search party for struggling prey. And there are eddies of particles shimmering in the air, dust angels lost amid the empty space between everything we make up of ourselves. Her personality feels threatened by all the questions. Are your eyes where they need to be? Do your arms make noise? Have your hips continued to baffle? She knew Madrid was a place to go, anywhere was, really. She knew she could get married and hear her husband whisper bridey bridey bridey in her ear as she fell over a cake. But it was not meant for her. Her hands twitch and contort: thoughts rolling like eyes through her head. Get me get me get me out of this hospitality. So she wanders away from the house she came out from under. She leaves things behind; her flesh and bone, her biography of Abraham Lincoln, her previous volition to maintain a callous existence. In front of her lies a haunted jungle, all verdant and stupid with yipping nothing dark and dense. Behind her is what she thought was a biography of Abraham Lincoln. Wrong, it is a biography of Gertrude Stein. And she slips into that humid terror like a dress and wakes up in a stranger's house. There are glow sticks scattered about the floor like oily teeth on Halloween. As she sits up in delight, stars erupt before her eyes; neon ghosts are making everything work for her.