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Mar. 20th, 2016 01:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proximoceptionIn the dream things were not things. All shapes extended back behind themselves till merging in the outer flux and echo. Colors there were speeds, and stillness, slowness only relative in the universal streaming urgent surge. All was transparent, interlapped, but dense - they were not ghosts that wandered in each other. Each altered each but stayed some shape it was.
Waking, I thought that's all there was to say. Infinite potential hardly mattered, given the patterns of my days, though it unsettled something in me to know there was a place for such a thing.
Dreaming, I let my fingers drift among the shapes, forgetting which was which, until the whole spread of the known became that of my hand. And yet I still could touch. I just touched more.
Awake I abandoned relationships behind me like beads from one's necklace in the crawl from a motorcycle crash.
Asleep there was a glance across my length, like a shy finger alighting between eye and nose to silence some noise of expression during love. It persisted across the nights, became the slight, the focal margin of some second sort of skin, my only one in that long dissolution.
Here I stopped eating, gave up my home, took up rock-climbing.
There the ribboned depths of each occurrence caught, whipped then wrapped about me, putting substance in that me. Inequalities in that birthing trace of hush mounted into lumps, these met and formed crevasses, those caught new streams of happen. I grew limbs.
But these were not my body in, which was not, but my body out. The body of what wasn't, no, was less me.
I ate ice cream when anything during those weeks. I found the narrowest parlor, like a passage, like a railcar. Door in, the glassed one row of forty flavors, jar of spoons, a young girl paid to smile, the ancient register, door out.
The body out was never still. Please don't misunderstand me. It was almost as much shelf as body. A holder where space was suggestive. What did I lack? Filled with what from where, would I lack what more?
I bicycled. My rule was no street twice. Boxed in, I had to lift the bike and walk. It still felt wrong.
For a while it was arms. They stroked me, choked me, poked me. Or they hung like seaweed off a ledge, thinking like all ocean life is thinking.
I collected jars. Containers. Afternoons I fit them one inside the other, discarding redundant levels. Stopped with a bird's-nest crumpled rubber band in a thimble in a wasabi dish in a measuring cup in a pitcher in an urn in a wicker basket in a sleeping bag in a wheelbarrow in the shell of a car.
There I collected too. I gave my findings to the arms, my indescribables. Soon the arms held too much to be seen, and I wedged novelties in the gaps. The stacks jutted slowly forward and loomed over, as though to intimidate.
In a valley town I made two friends.
Where jags of wall pierced me I did not bleed but reconfigured, like a crystal when a pressure is removed, the object out becoming my new edge. Some edges moved within, became my boundaries there.
We set up a garden pool, using every trick of sending water upwards. This fountain was written up and was nominated for several awards. Now the neighbors accepted that some might exist in the way we were doing.
When did your face appear? Out of arms, tops of trees, ends of rains, nets of chairlegs on tables in night-shuttered restaurants. Out of shadows in weeds in a tropical water. Was there a face all along? Were there nothing but faces?
Waking, I thought that's all there was to say. Infinite potential hardly mattered, given the patterns of my days, though it unsettled something in me to know there was a place for such a thing.
Dreaming, I let my fingers drift among the shapes, forgetting which was which, until the whole spread of the known became that of my hand. And yet I still could touch. I just touched more.
Awake I abandoned relationships behind me like beads from one's necklace in the crawl from a motorcycle crash.
Asleep there was a glance across my length, like a shy finger alighting between eye and nose to silence some noise of expression during love. It persisted across the nights, became the slight, the focal margin of some second sort of skin, my only one in that long dissolution.
Here I stopped eating, gave up my home, took up rock-climbing.
There the ribboned depths of each occurrence caught, whipped then wrapped about me, putting substance in that me. Inequalities in that birthing trace of hush mounted into lumps, these met and formed crevasses, those caught new streams of happen. I grew limbs.
But these were not my body in, which was not, but my body out. The body of what wasn't, no, was less me.
I ate ice cream when anything during those weeks. I found the narrowest parlor, like a passage, like a railcar. Door in, the glassed one row of forty flavors, jar of spoons, a young girl paid to smile, the ancient register, door out.
The body out was never still. Please don't misunderstand me. It was almost as much shelf as body. A holder where space was suggestive. What did I lack? Filled with what from where, would I lack what more?
I bicycled. My rule was no street twice. Boxed in, I had to lift the bike and walk. It still felt wrong.
For a while it was arms. They stroked me, choked me, poked me. Or they hung like seaweed off a ledge, thinking like all ocean life is thinking.
I collected jars. Containers. Afternoons I fit them one inside the other, discarding redundant levels. Stopped with a bird's-nest crumpled rubber band in a thimble in a wasabi dish in a measuring cup in a pitcher in an urn in a wicker basket in a sleeping bag in a wheelbarrow in the shell of a car.
There I collected too. I gave my findings to the arms, my indescribables. Soon the arms held too much to be seen, and I wedged novelties in the gaps. The stacks jutted slowly forward and loomed over, as though to intimidate.
In a valley town I made two friends.
Where jags of wall pierced me I did not bleed but reconfigured, like a crystal when a pressure is removed, the object out becoming my new edge. Some edges moved within, became my boundaries there.
We set up a garden pool, using every trick of sending water upwards. This fountain was written up and was nominated for several awards. Now the neighbors accepted that some might exist in the way we were doing.
When did your face appear? Out of arms, tops of trees, ends of rains, nets of chairlegs on tables in night-shuttered restaurants. Out of shadows in weeds in a tropical water. Was there a face all along? Were there nothing but faces?
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Date: 2016-03-21 07:56 pm (UTC)