stream of underconsciousness

____You were
myself in another species, brute
blue, a bolt of lightning, maybe God.

Now all has been made plain
between us, the weights are equal, though the sky
tilts, and the sun

with a splash I do not hear breaks into
the dark. We are one at last. Assembled here
out of earth, water, air

to a love feast. You lie open
before me. I am ready.
Begin.

____from The Crab Feast, David Malouf


http://revolutionstartsathome.tumblr.com/ by L U C A


did you remember to pray? i scratch the back of my neck. unable to respond. does driving with my hands really tight around the steering wheel count?, i think it should, it feels like a prayer. i have no words left to respond with. no words at all. i'd like to give you a tulip, that would be the perfect response. soft. beautiful. silent. something that breathes even when i'm gone. a little bulb of happiness, like your lips. a silken miniature heart for you.

i am significantly affected. apart from i'm thin like a junkie and i look at myself in the mirror and cannot make sense of it, i am... drawn to silence. quiet. i like to sit in the sun, with eyes squinting, contemplating nothing. perfectly content- i find quiet corners and comfortable chairs, and drip like soapy car-wash water down the gutter till i do. and i read. i stare at my hands. i just listen. i am baffled by intensity, cannot make sense of it. where have you been?, we never see you anymore! i nod, here and there my friends. here and there. you look sad, are you sad?, we've never seen you soo... quiet! i nod, quite the contrary. contentment is a silent word. a solitary word. requires nothing but sand in shoes and clouds in hair. it does not understand 'being late'. it does not understand 'perming my hair' and '21st birthday' and 'football grand-final' and 'boyfriends and girlfriends'.

but did you remember to pray? and if that is a question i wonder if looking at the colours of people's eyes, really absorbing them counts. (to some extent i hate that life is a chemical-relay race. it gets really loud sometimes, and i'm suddenly late for every(nothing), and i start freaking that it's Thursday and i'm wearing a blue-shirt (oh no) and my green-pen's almost run out (end of the world) and i pass the baton to another hit, and go find a quiet place to sit to contemplate the nature of silence. silence is a vast vast, dynamic, endless thing. soo engaging. absorbing. you can swim in it. 2 x 5mg and all the bones and weeds of my silence are suddenly... there are angels locked in my closet, bones and weeds are beautiful hands, and, she looks back at me and her eyes are butterflies.


*___*___*

and do you dance? but for this the little-boy had no response. 'what about savannahs?' he thought to say, 'if you excuse me for not dancing, maybe instead we can make a rainbow the colours of the savannah'. she would probably not know what he meant. so in his head he thought: the gossamer of dandelions, scattered across the field like uncertain cloud-kisses; matte-gold from long reeds and weeds; hardened-dry brown from a single tree-trunk, gnarly as the joints of old men's fingertips; in the distance, on the horizon, the hue of timelessness; birds of paradise and their brazen, demanding stabs of colour...

there are not soo many birds anymore. and it bothers me sometimes that i don't see flowers or mushrooms growing naturally out of the ground. and is anybody actually in the mood for love?, because i'm happier with just... the smell of women, and touching their arms from time to time during conversations, and hugs hello and goodbye, and kissing on the beach.

[why can't i say anything that i mean?]


*___*___*

MINI-POEM

Yesteryear's sailors, our haphazard youth-
starsailors in airless stratospheres,
too far to fall if we weren't already.

& breached moonlight's mirror reflection, butterknife glare,
starlight's vulnerable plea,
failing our too-heavy responsibility to silence.


*___*___*

but the last thing to say is that, despite Thursday being nothing, meaning nothing. and despite my planet's being a tiny speck of illuminated dust floating in my grandparent's always dusty guest-room, the everything deaf-mute-universe with its always-silence and its nothing-but emptiness, despite that, despite_that:
___that universe is expanding. i imgine it at its frontier, a zillion tiny mouths biting darkness and silence and deaf-mute-nothing-but-emptiness further and further abroad into whatever else there is. like a thin membrane, the limit of all the nothing in the entire universe slowly expanding, eating other physics and digesting other periodic-tables and staring nebula-eyed and smiling sun-strokes into the growing future, and increasing its domain- its realm of spirituality. the all embracing inhalation. come, come into the lungs of this my universe, where we have an incomplete equation for gravity and love is its own exception to every rule. my universe is dust and gas and i have contributed nothing but a little black mouth, with dry lips.

the universe needs me to help expand its borders.
i am happy to help.


*___*___*

Alexithymia: a state of deficiency in understanding, processing, or describing emotions.


*___*___*

words come in and out of focus. my ability and inclination to use them varies. sometimes things are the colour of pomegranites, and i think of Akka. and its walls. and its busy markets where i felt claustrophobic. and pomegranite juice. i think of Shanghai. i think where my doppelganger is and if he likes it there. sometimes things are clear like geometry exercises from high-school textbooks. webs. tangents and chords and parallelograms. but there are the palm trees that line this street driving home- and at night, sometimes they are too dark to be seen. and the earth changes from night to day like a Giant stuck in an uncomfortable conversation shifting her weight from foot to foot, smiling with difficulty all the water on the earth towards and away her white-teethed moon.

words. and emotions too. emotions have boxes now. i can touch them and see them, like apples. here there is a pear. here a toothbrush. i finger them, and am curious. but they are not mine. nor do i understand what benefit they have. when i listen to my music loud, and it thumps and screeches and invokes that smiling, fanged rebellion in my capillary beds and muscle fibres, i feel my skin go cold as a snake. i see with my eyes everything red. delicious possibility. dangerous perhaps. somewhere inside the robot there is a leak. and if you put your mouth to it beautiful girl, we will burn something together-
___but then it's gone.

and i am sitting on a chair.
reading. underlining things with a green pen.
and i cannot tell time. or answer my phone when it rings.

how wonderful to be absorbed into walls and Thursdays at last.
i could not be more happy.
(the sweetest mandarin i have ever put back into the fruitbowl)