1. To Walk.
Where each step is the parting of a heavy invisible curtain. The fabric wraps around you as water splits apart at the fish into almond shapes; (a diagram of a fish, with arrows curved around its side, pointing outward) There are spirals in its wake and spirals from these curtains whose movements affect me when I am behind you; where I am moved. The weight of this rolls over my body, raising goose bumps; messing up my hair with static. So much of static's magical properties bewilder us as children: send me flashes of light via electric sparks; sticking balloons to the wall. Movement as beauty; action as a source. - 2. To Stand Still. Then there is to become thin, evaporated. As the world moves through you, maintaning your shape, as water escapes a balloon with pinhole punctures. A billion tiny holes between our atoms. Pressure at the seams; cleaning grease off the pans with hot water, turned on high. In these tidal waves, every bit of sand is thrust from your pores, and it may feel so empty. You must be empty to float. But you must be heavy to stand. Some days you float: you can sleep on waterbeds, stare at the sky, hear the cry of seabirds, and laugh. Others, you hold your place. No breath, surrounded; turning blue, lungs, wanting to burst instead your chest. But if the salt does not burn your eyes, you will see light broken apart by waves to reveal itself in all three dimensions. - 3. To Drink. We can contain it in bottles, poured into cups to be sipped at leisure, never knowing what it is to be dehydrated- to be dry. From supermarkets we can make choices, we can pretend that nature is as kind as we are. In Las Vegas, there are ice cubes, and lemons, and flushing toilets. Could we ever drink like this? That the cups may be filled endlessly, we can drink endlessly, but who would drown in a glass of water? I would. I need a deluge. To overflow from my own mouth, down my shirt, in a cross between drunkenness and coma, let me be so full that I become soaked. - 4. To Pour. I am opening my hands to whatever this God may be. Or is it just you, again? Whichever. It is our job to pour, and not to dry. How else can they wash thier faces? How could I splash my eyes to open them? When this is the world, can you keep it inside, a lake without tributaries? Are we so terrified of Mosquitos? The stagnant lake, let the dams burst, let it move over into rivers, into this gaping gash of a sea between us. Let it cycle through, into rain, and be replenished. Then, let us have some solitude, until the thaw. - 5. To Freeze. Moments stop and become an eternity, for the instant. You can study it in tiny chunks, let it thaw, and carve yourself another one to stare at: sometimes, carved into swans. What do we let go? I am shaking with it sometimes. The blood is always blue. Navigation is treacherous, to swim is hostile. The world as solid, impenetrable. There is only futility in our need for heat, then: It could feel, Would any warmth we find will melt us; icicles down the nose, eyebrows white, eyes cracked, and staring. Where to put these terrible icebergs? How to transport them from these huts at the bottom of this frozen sea? We chip away at ourselves until the sun is a razor, until our body can bear to be touched without hearing a crack, or having black ice skin turn red from cracking. What do we keep? The most perfect parts. We can drink ourselves, sometimes. We must: It is all that surrounds us. There's no way not to drown, but to drown. - -e. -e. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
