Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Memories of deep yellow, a mustard shade of light.
Some worn, bowed in the middle from repeated walking, steps.
Banister smooth from years of conditioning,
with oil from the hands of strangers.
I grip it when drunk and I feel those stranger's hands holding mine.

The entrance is a mass of hexagonal black and white floor tiling.
The patterns swim in the corners of my eyes.
That night I stood in a garden. I don't remember what I said.
That apartment was one floor with many different levels of landings.
Making it more than one floor.
But, mostly just confusing.

I sat on a couch, between two people that I didn't know.
My skirt tucked neatly underneath me.

And later, we spilled out onto the pavement.
Through a fountain in a center island?
Stumbled back home.

I could pick out nights like these anywhere.
I have no memory for your birthday, for doctors appointments,
for how long it has been since I've cut my too long hair.
I have no memory for bills to pay, for the kettle boiling away on the stove,
for taking pills at this time and then again at that time- I have no memory.

But, you ask me to recreate for you the pattern of the Oriental rug that
that couch sat on and I can close my eyes with a pencil in hand and recreate.

Why is it always the most inconsequential of details that catch me up?
Like a web of mediocre compositions in my brain.

I am hyper bored of digital image collages.
But, at the same time see their relevance and immediacy
as an art form in an ever changing art platform.
And, occasionally, in the uglier ones, see a beauty that I feel a deeper connection to than the connection I feel with other "ugly art".

And I'm always trying to sort out my feelings about ugly art.
In the same way that I'm always trying to sort out my positive feelings for a scene that is a little off.
For a boy who is by all accounts handsome, but has a bird's beak for a nose.

And for all accounts I have felt lately like a bird.
Like the one I saw in the arduously long corridor in the airport in Germany.
Flying this way and that, towards the light of big wide windows only to find out that they are just that.
And then back to my perch on the arrivals board.
Staring with my beady little eyes at all of the people, purposefully walking in their directions to their flights or luggage and then taxi/car and then home
and wondering when I can do the same.
When can I go home.
Why do all of these people have their shit together and I am just a bird with beady little eyes watching and trying to escape but the only route I can see out is a giant fucking pane of reinforced glass.
I am blinded.
When will my bird brain put the pieces together?
When will I find the door?

Where have I been building my nest? Twig by twig?


Well. This certainly got away from me, didn't it.

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