orenda
“Concentration of energies is what makes a tree flower. Not bigger, not faster, not taking up more space. Rather, less space. Density. Pressure in hard places. Often, in the dark. Relentlessly.”
The sum of every small idea begins with a spark. A silent dream. Whispers from the subconscious. Wet bedding and slippery hair. A phone call from the owl who looks backward. The screen is blurry with feathers. This is the space where eyesight doesn’t matter.
If you start a dialogue with someone, know that you are entering a conversation midway that they are already having.
My sister was the first person to take my hand in a tight spot.
My sparklers are dull. Dim. Decant. Devastated. I feel deflated.
I started digging a well without knowing its purpose. To hold water? To hide? For solitude? For silence? I seek solace in tight spaces. It reminds me of my sister. I burrow to meet the little voice that used to ask me questions. Prompts to unfold. Direction. Discussion. Dialogue.
I have no one to speak with about the silence enveloping my skin. It settles like the owl- quiet wings and sharply beaked. A head that rolls backward to see what cannot be spied through the periphery. There are no lines here, only spirals.
There is no dialogue, just my whispers as I recognize my voice in the tunnel. Echo. At least it’s me. It’s too crowded everywhere else.
Barcelona beaches. Bumping. Bustling. Bravado. Blighted.
Airbrushed.
Skin appears very different under the sunlight.
I’m writing from the dark corner on the long grey couch. I prefer the dark. A crack of sun spreads in through the window. The white wooden shutters are open though I’ve kept the air out. Sealed the lock tight. I light incense. I cannot bear the sound or scents of the alleyway. Cat piss and toasted cheese.
What’s for lunch, please?
My mother used to make us grilled cheese sandwiches. I liked mine with a poached egg on top and tomato soup. My sister would pull hers apart and drag the cheese from the bread with her sharp front teeth. Incisors. Precision. Indecision.
She was the decisive one.
Rebel.
The word looms ahead as I walk the beige tunnels with plants and laundry waving from windowsills. I’m listening to Doulas Brooks. The Siva Sutras. Art blossoms on the concrete. Pink and green graffiti. Women with orange breasts and yellow areoles. A girl with a blue tongue and four fingers spinning. A gold halo.
I walk in a line between the motorcycles, Douglas whispers in my ear on low, so I can hear the purr of the bikes before they pounce behind me.
Shiva is a rebel; I hear from the plastic speaker as I look up. Do I feel the rain? No, someone waters a plant, and beside them in black and silver is the same word in my ear with a bunch of green slashes like confetti around the word.
REBEL is its own world.
Photo source.
