cartref
“I’m very sure of myself - what I do and what I like.”
It starts where it ends. The body does not understand its impermanence until the moment of dissolution. In pain, you are most acutely alive. In the moments of my brief and acute suffering, I felt bonded to every item in my conscious effort. I recognized the bed that bound me by wrist and arm as soft and spreading. I wanted to be put out. Blanket me! I shrieked, though only my ancestors heard me. Phrases of belonging are never worth uttering to those who will not listen. I speak in simple and straightforward to the people I can see. Help me is always misunderstood.
In my dream, I am stronger than being. I wear a red dress that sticks to my body like wet petals to a birch tree. Jane Birkin talks about her belly bulge, and I muse over this madness while addressing my visage in the opal mirror. Hello, skin. I say between clenched teeth. I turn to one side, my nose and nipple poking outwards. A woman with dark hair slips into the room and we are mushed together. It’s a bathroom, for I feel the facet digging into my back and the woman peeps low to pee in the toilet.
The bracelets don’t go with what you’re wearing. Hide them.
She leans over and taps my left wrist twice. Not gently.
I look down at her as she looks away. Her pubis hair is dark as her dress. She is a curtain of chocolate wafers and I something like a jalapeño.
She rises to rinse and takes my hips to direct me sideways.
Put the bracelets in this—the woman presents a white vial with a flat lid. She opens it and then I see cotton balls. The woman pulls a few out and sets them on the sink basin.
Put them in here, and then put the cotton on top.
What color are your eyes? I ask, but the woman turns around and slides out the door. It clicks quietly behind her, announcing the infinite departure.
I follow her command and place the adornments in the vial. My mouth is red like my dress. I feel naked with my arms bare. Someone knocks on the door four times and I flush the toilet to be discreet. Performing has always come directly to me and I rinse my hands under the cold water and flick them to the floor. I leave the tiny stall and walk to the party, where I see a cat on the carpeted stairs.
Why can’t we all curl up in the corridors like felines? If humans had more of a lackadaisical effort, we would not be as cruel to each other. I perch on the stairs and slip my shoes off, scurrying next to the cat. I lean my head on the banister and close my eyes.
There are so many people at this event and I want to go home. I have to stay in my red dress for twelve minutes. I feel the time in my body; my belly aches and the floor is cold against my thighs. The cat creeps up against my chest and switches its tail in my mouth.
The things I avoid appear eventually, wearing costumes so I cannot recognize the trick. A man and woman with blue hair approach me. They look handsome and as they surmount the stairwell, I know them to be my ex. They walk up to me and continue to stand so they are taller. More powerful in their presence. Their clothing is black and white, he in gold cufflinks and she in gold shoes.
You need to leave. Now.
Put Foccacia down.
Hearing its name, the cat peeks outward. Ice and glacier, its eyes are so bright they cast a glow in all directions.
You are not welcome here.
Put Foccacia down.
The woman moves to take the cat and it bears its small angular teeth. I move to stand, but the shoes are too tight and I cannot do anything but press my back to the wall and tip my chin upwards.
Cut my throat and pour my blood as your wine. I want to say something bold as my too-tight dress though nothing comes up from my insides to the room. More often than not, I have nothing to say.
The man looks sad, the woman almost gleeful. She laughs and he sighs. They look away in opposite directions and then back at me.
It is never worth the effort to fix what has been broken. Kintsukuroi is the Japanese art of fusing broken ceramics back together with lacquer-dusted gold. The effect is striking. The gold seam is a river that shines and sparkles. It is languid and detached; this ability to let go and accept things as they are. Forgiveness must move as fluid. Imperfect.
I am riddled with misgivings and ripe with flaws. My failures poke out like my elbows, a bit awkward and sore when provoked. I ask many questions and don’t care for the answers. I commit to things before I’ve assessed what I’m committing to and often change my mind mid-course if my heart feels something contrary to what my conscious self decided. The red dress is a clashing trifle in the room of slate and marble. It is irksome to lovers and costly in work. I should have hidden the dress and kept the dark bracelets. The woman knew this; it was a test.
My past lovers lean down to me and take my hands. They carry a crudeness in their eyes though their body language presents a softer pattern. The performance is the key to containing intense emotions. They’ll act how they want to feel until the sensations become real. Though, the pipes will need to be plunged once the well stops producing water.
The man looks at me, not kindly; he smirks somewhat as they each clasp a bare wrist. It burns as they turn the skin. My lap hisses. The cat, the cat, the cat! It keeps its eyes closed. Damn it for not looking! Must I do everything? My pelvis is hot and the little creature digs its claws into my thighs. The rupture sends me leaping upwards. I am tall and alone on the step as the cat scurries away and the woman and man lean back and look up at me.
I have said everything I need to say to you. Whatever you must say, do it now, because once I leave, you will not have another chance.
As I align my body with my wisdom, my shoulders decant and the cat opens its eyes. The room buzzes in its halo, a pale blue light showing my forlorn lovers' waxen figures.
In the silence, no one speaks. The map of pressure points blur; what was planned is cast into the cauldron of sadness and forever stands still as the breath my suitors hold in their lungs.
Let it go; I want to say, exhale.
I am ill-equipped to teach in silly shoes. Silence presents a guide the recipient can dress as they see fit and my heart thunders into the painful progression of discord illuminated by the wordlessness in the stairwell.
My palms are presented with no gifts. I have nothing to carry with me as I walk up the stairs.
I’m going.
They watch me with doleful eyes, their luminescence dimming as I carefully crawl up the stairs as the cat.
Rose-colored walls greet me as I peep and spread myself wide. The binds are gone; I can move my arms and legs. I wave at the bare wooden floorboards that warm my feet and touch the succulent stems spilling from the wooden dresser.
Are dreams any more shocking than what we witness in the waking world?
Photo source.
