My head’s been reeling lately, but I don’t know how to put it down. Seems like this life I’m living is just writing material. That small flicker-the only way I know to describe it-of creativity wants to spark into flame. I seek oxygen, head clearing particles, enablers. This dull shadow winds from the back of my brain into my consciousness until it can no longer be ignored. Perhaps this spark contains the only part of my life I cannot ignore. This part pulls me toward it; I become a mere flutter toward the flame of my creativity, my obnoxious self-absorbed, self-aggrandizement. And, how I hate adjectives usurped by nouns with the use of “ment”. I meant to sound educated, and I only end up tooting my own horn, sounding as pompous as an airbag filled with flour. Lord help me burn out as bright as I’d hoped.
She sits behind her screen; she wonders about the neighbor across the way with his giant canvases and dark sunglasses, chopped in slivers by the blinds. These days she can only muster listlessness, and the aging furniture only offers the certainty of dust motes floating on an unseen current, across the backs of ghosts. The past year has given her the hope of letting go. She knows the best talent learned through living, especially the rough kind of living, is to ignore overwhelming nihilism and move toward a sincerity in being. Sugar coated Carpe Diem. In the words of Donald Hall, “To get old is to lose everything.” To enjoy losing everything is perfection. Obviously, this was my first day of yoga, and it was surprisingly good.
Last night I stayed up, waiting on him to come home. I sat out on the porch swing beneath a damp, measurable blackness and listened to the swamp sounds until I could make out voices. After a while, the shrill calls of tree frogs and cicadas made better sense to me.
I recognize this language; it’s primeval, one we all used to speak.
I watched the moon flowers expose their fragrant faces to a fingernail clipping of moon. The white throats of the flowers summon luna moths from the muggy darkness, promising a taste of bliss. If you could see how the luna moths cling drunkenly to the vines, satiated and bloated with the night’s nectar, you might understand how I need him.
I wanted him to walk up those steps and sit beside me. I wanted him to run his rough hand along my cheek, finding it slick to the touch.
Later, when our bodies are done slithering on one another, I would bring him back out to the porch for a late cigarette. I want to show him how a luna moth can dance when I pin the tip of its wing to a board.
The moth becomes a lime gyroscope. It spins violently. No, exquisitely. I want him to watch the moth grow weary. It circles the pin slowly, dragging limp, heavy wings behind it. And, as soon as we grew tired, we would move back to our bed and curl into a dreamless sleep, abandoning our neon beauty to the screaming night.