October 22, 2009

Hours of Waking

Although I started on it before I read it, this piece is pretty obviously influenced by David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress which you should read too. Seriously, David Foster Wallace recommended it. He's the shit. Anyway yeah, there are in total thirteen of these little sections, might put the rest up later but it's a bit long for one blog post. Learned that lesson I think.

(I apologise for the spanish, it's been a while since I studied it)

Hours of Waking

1. My eyelashes flutter split to trickle like moth wings. A church flickers in and out of my windows. Sangre de Dios, siempre lo recuerdo. Diez veces. I worry the shields from my bones. Thighs. Perhaps today I will hatch birds, squeaking and bald. I will feed them with the day’s chorizo and with ashes stirred into water to help them stay alert. My pulse is shaking me out of joint. Pero es mía y no quiero cambiarlo porque es mía. I should collect the water from my roof more to wash away the sweat than to drink. The ceiling is clicking its tongue at me with definite reproach and shaking too but only in my eyes, which are blurred. His weight is still on me. I think my lungs may be aching to escape, they can sense strangers just above close enough to touch. Sometimes I am silent and I can tell they worry but my voice sits in satin safe in a crystal case away from their fingers tipped with droplets of our sweat. I keep it for my own. No soy ruiseñor. I can tell they worry. Perhaps I am selfish, perhaps it should be free for their fingers and hands. Doubtless it is a sin. I am sure I owe them something. One day I will know my place exactly, when I am sheet skinned. Will I seed the tears or be a toothed red heel?

2.   Steam is still clinging to the walls like cobwebs. The smell they say is roast but it coats me more like oil, which only burns. I liked how he held the cup with just two fingers. I saw it before but with glass. Was he so sure it wouldn’t drop and shatter? I wouldn’t have minded if it had. Perhaps it would have splashed over my skin and soaked a patch into a liquid birthmark. Water wouldn’t move it. Some of me is thirsty. Will I wash? If he is still there clinging to my back (I know he is) he might lose grip but oh and the outside lists the names again. Once veces ahora y los gritos son así: cielos y minas, muy viejos. I swear I can feel the slow boiling in my stomach. It will all mix together milky and dilute and then I will grow, and grow, and I will be too heavy to move. Who then will wash my birthmark? If I break our walls and run heavy with need to his door how will it look when I am sheet skinned? Will I seed the tears or be a toothed red heel? If sipping this could slide me into a perfect physical harmony – but no doubt I will see, at the close, that my phrase was meant to feel unfinished. But I feel all through me some red need to be reflected.

3.   No soy ruiseñor. My voice rises, the sun takes its hand, the day winds a smooth white scarf around its shoulders. Oh, I adore these sounds. Would this be cut away? Perhaps. It may, after all, be unnecessary in terms of plot or character. Still I would save it, I would hang the wasted reels in glass on my walls. They would glint, shine.

(my voice would drip, would corrode the floor)

I would let it stay. It would add depth and piece by piece all of me would be dredged from the ocean floors strung on fine wire. I would leave it/but it is not my choice. No doubt I haven’t grasped the intricacies of the piece as a whole. But I could know as I ache to and yes I ache to. When I am sheet skinned, will I seed the tears or be a toothed red heel?

           (my voice has missed the wire, is drowning)

Doce veces y mis orejas son enfadadas. Ahora, la media, pero no cambia nada. Centre of balance, to either side everything must tip (and yet the world I see is level). I should turn my back but then I would find myself alone like corn. Time is running from me. It slides and it flows, so set on escape. I should perhaps try harder to hold it. The corn fields, I am told, keep theirs trapped tight to their thin chests.

4.   14: and that dress was like a little girl’s, I, was like a little girl;

17: perhaps it moved. I won’t (ask won’t) know;

18: I, oh I can split their crossed hearts, whatever my skin I will forever breed want;

9: and am /I/ (their doll of me) which? Will they tell me when I am sheet skinned? Will I seed the tears or be a toothed red heel?

Perhaps I should frame these, although they’re little better than lesions and hardly precious; although it’s true, I would be sad to see them damaged, stained, flaking. I am at my best, I think, reflected in (approximations of) glass eyes.

(sencilla vez ahora, es la una la única la sola y es como-)

My ears are scented with the nails but – how will I sound?

Will they play:

Twisting genius clouds and dead encoded ocean floors?

Or will they play:

Sweat dances they see written on my skin from birth?

Or perhaps:

Smoke coiling through blazing reeds?

(I don’t know how I (should) will sound)

Still – here on sheets I am still, he has pinned me still. Did it move? I won’t (ask won’t) know. Brief stations on a long line but surely he was as taken as I with the magic, the vision. One vision: una vez. Todo empieza con (no, empieza antes de) una. I could drown suspended between the two in nothing. Hay tantos lugares desiertos.

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