querencia
“The artist can create inside himself the perfect replica of his own intentions.”
I am staying here, lapping up the ghosts of a past I tried to discard like the knatty robe I left in Vancouver. I must move beyond the moment to see it for what it is. Isn’t it true that we do not know the full meaning until the impression has formed? When I press my thumb into the container of icing, I don’t know my digit's shape until it's removed. I cannot see what it is up close. I cannot see when I’m part of the performance. The subject makes the object.
Or is it the other way around?
Birds call from the rains outside my window. It’s barely the length of my arm, and so high I must peer outwards on tiptoes from my bed. The lack of airflow plugs me up. I am the leaf-clogged gutters. Fall is my favourite season. Late Summer. Of beetles and katydids. Worms. Yellow and orange squash. Apples with aromatic flesh. Artichoke and eggplant. Confucius vegetables. I taught a woman yoga three times a week who wouldn’t eat chickpeas or cauliflower. Her personality was as acid as the skin of mushrooms and heirloom tomatoes. Her body was taut and unresponsive.
I look for the underlying symbolism when my muscles tense. My neck hurts, so I must be disconnected from my intuition. The gateway to the center. The passage that connects the head to the heart.
Heartsease. Disease. Mistress. Johnny-Jump-Up.
When my mother wasn’t looking, I would pick the violas and press them between leaves of paper in my favourite books. The Prince Caspian. I was five.
The eyes are most sensitive to the morning beams. Rising with the light activates the suprachiasmatic nucleus, the pacemaker of the cicada rhythm. Look into the sun, darling. See the colours. Purple and blue are cooling. Red and gold are debilitating. Those who sleep late miss the window of vulnerability that awakens the wisdom of the inner being. We rise and fall to the thunder. Heartbeat. Sun bleed. The nucleus of cornea and fire. I cannot get away from myself; I can never see myself.
Like the painting of the lover's embrace wrapped in white cloth.
My contact lenses rip and my eyes itch. It’s the fake air circulating above the fake floorboards. I lost a shard of plastic under the sleeve of my left eyelid. It’s still there or smuggled its way out without my knowing. The leopard-print pouches carry the items I need. Matches. Glue. Facemask. Phone charger. Sunblock for my lips in a small brown vial. I puff up under pressure. Discus was my least favourite sport in cross-country. I’d hide in the slip of forrest on the outer rim of the field and the dark-haired gym coach always found me. Stephanie, she’d stride; it's your turn.
Slipping into a heavy, cable knit sweater never felt so sweet. Like pulling the pit from its cherry and holding the weight on your tongue. Spit it out! It’s delicious.
Photo source.
