culaccino
“Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false namings of real events.”
The Earth is spinning; we just can’t see it.
My practice has shifted from gross to subtle. I’m more interested in what isn’t being said aloud or propped up for all to see.
My hosts leave each other aspirational notes tucked in predictable pockets of the living space. I opened a packet of matches this morning, and a small sheaf of paper fell out. Something to give the heart a squeeze when they miss each other in orbit.
My tactile trajectory has tightened: I walk the same path to and from the yoga studio each day. The four corners of my mat are all I need to centre. I am contented in these close quarters.
Formulas provide a root to secure ourselves as we roam. I divulge my deepest secrets to the poets who’ve passed. I wander deeper into the psyche due to my days' anticipated outcome. My discourse is with the dead.
Many have left their impression on me— fruit that flowers regardless of bruise and blemish.
What surfaces from the moments passed is like the scribbles jotted on napkins I discover at the bottom of my purse—remnants of events I repurpose into poetry.
We each reshape the narrative to illustrate the outcome we want to see.
I am beginning to see things for what they are and not as I desire them to be.
I am a fool when in love! I drown myself in the illusion of loving. I get drunk on the sensation of touching and tasting; sips of berry-sweet wine. I long to be intoxicated yet wish to remember every moment. I hope so magnificently; it blurs all boundaries between fantasy and reality.
To be alone and soaked in the scent of loving.
To be desired despite the outcome of ugliness.
To be touched at the juncture of my neck and clavicle.
The simple things I crave before sleep.
Is love like that wet ring left from a glass on a wooden table? I am porous as kindling, discernably hard, baited by fire, yielding to its inhabitants.
My previous experience of intimacy went out like a brilliant red pinwheel: streaking up up up in the sky in spirals of light before bursting. The rupture was painful. There is no shoulder wide enough to absorb the tears of a broken heart. The curtains ripped down to reveal a naked soul on a cold kitchen floor.
The Earth is spinning; we just can’t see it.
I can make sense of a breakup based on what is said, though I’ve learned that what is said represents a fraction of what transpires.
The dream is discernable once you witness the event. In the aftermath of losing someone I courted through the tender space of my soul, I feel a ripening—a tightening around edges I never knew existed. A canyon forms from contact: I see valleys bloom in the corners of my subconscious that were previously bare, like opening a closet to a rack of colourful dresses.
We cannot plan for a party we don’t know is happening.
I am free of the lovers yet full of the rich and wonderful sense impressions that linger in my soul! I send blessing each night to all those I’ve once loved.
We keep spinning around and through each other; we just can’t see it.
Photo, source.
