volta
“The eye is the route of the soul, and the pencil or brush must sincerely and naïvely reproduce what it sees.”
April is scented with buttercups and daffodils. Dandelion puffs float in the current. Wind puffs my skirt and I've spread my arms wide to feel the gale in my armpits. I love being torn. Whipped like a meringue peak. Key lime.
Cherry blossoms decorate the floors though I cannot see them. I close my eyes and imagine the pink and white petals, a little wet, on the asphalt. If I look down where I stand, it is cigarette butts and bird shit. I lust for romance. I am alone with the wind and bitten down hard on this lifeline! I long to be alone to write, write, WRITE! Yet, I languish in the limitations of my mind.
Am I a boring person? My mom used to say so.
Palmfuls of almonds coated with chocolate. The man uses a silver scoop to place the mix in cellophane bags. Sherbert scoops in waffle cones. My hands are sticky. I squeeze too hard and chocolate is smudged in the creases. A palm reader would tell me my future is unclear. Do you prefer pancakes for breakfast? Sweet or savory. I cannot live with those who take their bacon and eggs early in the morning. It upsets my stomach. I have a delicate digestive system. Like a butterfly. I only drink nectar till noon.
Rainboots are unnecessary here and I prance about in suede and leather heels. Watch me; I run fast along the wooden beams toward the boat with the girl in the black bathing suit. Her skin is damp under the scorching sun. She is reading a novel with a blue cover. Her hair is in a ponytail. She looks like me. I pretend I am her as she licks her lips and turns the page. Juicy and longing. Young and agile. We each belong to labels. I've chosen mine. Writer.
Clara says I'm better at not poking people. I've matured. I leave the provocation for my novels. Let the characters kick and scream! I'm too content over here with my coffee in a ceramic cup. It costs too much to be a nuisance. I'd rather muse and conduct little dramas between the people on the page! I recreate the dramas I've lived and is this not the way to end things? Catharsis through creation.
April is cold feet in the morning and blue fluffy slippers. Flannel pajamas and a deep green scarf as I sip hot water with a bit of honey. Throat coat. I scream silently in my sleep. I spit blood into the sink and wonder which part of my is bleeding. I've clawed my way out of too many cells. That dark thing ripples and writhes and I've tried to bait it! It always sees the line before the hook. I'm better at missing my target. I've let go of aiming.
Have you held a gun? I have. I've felt the weight of a pistol against my shoulder and the cold metal on my cheek. I'd been wearing a denim shirt and my hair hung past my shoulders. I felt the kick when I pulled the trigger and nearly dropped the rifle. Recoil; I wish I could work in reverse. I would have never pulled my finger back. I was in the desert with a bunch of men and they offered me a try. A taste of that power.
I spit blood into the black sink and think of how many things I've done that I never wanted to do. I say yes to everything. A deep and throaty purr that welcomes disaster, desire, and despair. If you accept one thing, the contrast is always creeping behind like a shadow you do not always see.
Tease the birds, a man calls to my left. A group tosses seeds at the pigeons and seagulls. At home, they fling fish to the sky and the birds tear them apart with ready beaks. It is a magnificent sight to see that many wings lingering up high. Are we all waiting to be fed? When I look upward, I never see anything different. It's not like the world will change when I close my eyes and open them.
Desire is like a fist that smashes into the pretty pottery. It destroys all designs and disrupts the tempo. I cannot control it. Why bother resisting something so strange? I am at my absolute when imbalanced. Under necessary conditions, I cannot create. I am hungry for something I cannot put in my mouth. I don't want my wishes to come true. I want to keep my hope alive, so I must suffer.
Expectancy keeps me leaning forward. I ask too many questions and don't wait to hear the answer. I'm barely listening to those around me, unless their tracks run deep, past that crunchy outer layer of the snow. The only people I pay any attention to have taken their shovels out. The diggers. If you've punched past the crust and hit clay, call me.
I cannot remember the textures of dreams of last night. He was in them. Waiting. I didn't want him to rely on me and screamed until I puked bile. I expected the pillows to be damp when I woke and they weren't. I rinsed my mouth and scraped my tongue. My throat is swollen and sore. My tongue feels yellow. I am puffy. The bed is soft, wide, and wonderful; it's me that's damp.
Rise and wipe the crumbs from the corners of your eyes. Boil water. Open the curtains. Let the light in. Pink, blue, yellow, orange; draw pictures at the round table until your breath is calm. I am sick of reading about how happy you are! Send me a story. Tell me a tragedy. Life is not all wildflowers and rainbows. Only April carries such a perfumed air of indifference! It simmers on my skin and I long for that fig lotion I used to massage into my feet and thighs.
How far I have wandered and how much I have learned. The softness of the stars poured into each palm. I press my hands over my ears. I only want the universe to tell me its secrets. The birds scream and the children throw stones at them. It is a rough world and I am too ripe with wanting. The rawness of it disarms me! You do not need to point; I am standing in front of you, absorbing every flick and whistle. Here, that woman is pursing her lips like a fish. There, a man makes a circle to draw deeply from a cigarette.
How many people choose death over living?
I choose April. I choose to fling the windows open to the sharp chill of dawn. I choose the scent of baked nuts and broken twigs and damp earth. I choose the girl on the boat reading a book about something she craves. I choose that desire to learn and lean into the mystery of a world someone else created!
April is Clara offering me chocolates on the video call; do you want the dark mint, or can I keep it?
Photo source.
