If you lie your head close to ground and press your cheek against the soil, bury your hair in the must and muldering leaves and deepening mulch, where the skitter of crawlies sleep under hard winter, your hands splayed loosely on the crumbly ground; bits of roots and pebbly chunks and brown brown brown falling sifting lightly on caressing fingers-- you let the world fall away, and the earth curve around you; to sleep in the soil and let it hold your hips and hug your waist and curl into the warm bosom of sleeping earth.
Bells&whistles, the world is like today. The office
lamps are like circular halos of prison cells
, each workmate
scuttled and tied to his screen and desk, the halogen lamp above a tight noose around his neck. We barely leave our lightcells
, little circles
of industry lit up -- from above, far above, does Wall Street
light up in a solar flare
? You want to leave, the hours count down like the steady pulse of an oncoming migraine - you feel it approaching like the lights of a subway train
chugging and screeching in the distance, the streets blur into automatic memory, a leg forward, a foot down, time marches on, and you wake up; suddenly outside your door, home.
The earth comforts you in its emptiness. It's not too cold today, you strip down to shorts and sweater and sit on the unlit steps, savouring the dark. Who else loves you but the earth? This landscape sings to you only when blind, a music only you can see - the sound of fish swimming in the windless night, the moon blossoms behind a wavering mirror, skimming clouds on a night drive and when you dig your toes into the moist darkness (spongy and damp, with a hint of death), you can't help but feel grateful -- this simplicity, a generousity of soft earth.
Sometimes i think what i dream of in life is just oblivion
. No bells, no whistles. no colours or lights or fanciful monsters, just the I and the earth in a dreamless embrace. We can lie there in the dark
, curled in the womb of the dark-dark
with our eyes closed in dark
and double down for the darkness to take dirt from our bodies into forever night. I used to be so scared of the dark, because darkness meant sleeping. To sleep is to dream, and Ido too much dreaming. I live more than half my life in dreams -- did you know, today i glimpsed another future? A rolodex of interfaces, each as thin as a memo and easy as written hand; shuffled into decks and stacks for personal perusal. datamania, datamemo, data in memoriam
if I whisper will my soul escape from my parted lips like a flicker of incense or a burn of candlight glow? Catch it back in your hands, each fragile lumen-year
I am so tired I feel like i could bleed out of my pores if my bones didn't hold myself into place. Backbone, that's what I need. A spine
. The gothicness of bones that holds you into structure: limbs like arcades
, from toe to knee to groin, then spanning to encompass nave of the pelvis. Up the gallery
, the vaulted ribcage with buttress of floating bones, into the chambers a transept of an echoing heart that booms and transpires all oxygen in quire. A song. Inhale, exhale. The bells & whistles of your body, you know intimately, the necessities of keeping you alive
. To give your body to another is to give into their own darkness, a yielding oblivion of openings: the ears, the nose, the mouth, the vulva, the anus. openings and closing. Each opening is also an exit
out - a bullet through the ears, two fingers on the nostrils, a drug-poison in the mouth, a penis in the vagina, a spear up the anus like a pig on a spit. Choose your pick.