Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The draedle spins making cataclysmic facts out of centrifugical force; the thermostat talks to the furnace and a chill leaves your back.
As morning begins to manifest into another day the stories of Margaret in 303c rise out of sleeplessness. She attempts to remember the last dream she had that awakened her giddy with laughter. While swimming in the vagaries of her thoughts her hands punctuate the space within with cut and chop gestures.
Margaret’s emotional mechanism shifts gears and discloses that her finger tips glide across any surface ingesting information.
Skulking her way up the sidewalk, walking with flair, running vertically - using the language of art to stay in balance she throws her head back when she laughs. She runs to make the light and crosses the street starting and stopping to avoid collisions.
People talk about nothing and yet she manages to say nothing - it is not her child she says. The child is perched on her hip and handing the tot over to a dark haired young woman, she exclaims, “Not my child”.
The baby with glorious light, transcendent light, floats up, lighter and faster.
Luminous shafts thrust up into the ultra-violet sky, leaving a trail of blue dust behind the flagging baby.
“If love matters forget about justice”, Margaret cries. “Everything wants to be hip”, she breaks the brittle night, “Even lizards, logs, and lying legislators.
Her black perfume is bitter like diamonds over kneeling men with a penchant for God.
As for Margaret, in the lake of her mind, her eyes and the stars are all existence.