Yet another morning where the subjects floating in my head are too disparate for one themed post. Trying to knit them into something worth inking out is a challenge in and of itself. So here I sit in the dark of raining pre-dawn and mull over the puddles of thought as though they were the pools in the Wood Between The Worlds and to dive into one is to go down then up again to a new, real place.
Lest I tarry here too long with the contented guinea pig, i’ll dive into that first muddy puddle. This world is Past. A world I hardly remember, because the remembering is too complex. Easier to forget that I ever knew how to drive a car than to remember sailing the tic tac toe backroads of Indiana looking for the curves along the river and listening to the vet begging Ruby to stay home instead of whoring around the bars. This is a dead world with no magic bell to break it open again. So on goes the ring–green or yellow–and it’s back up to the puddles.
The next jump is to a newer world where all my books are in a tiny sandwich of plastics. This is better, i tell myself, because there are no more heavy boxes of yellowing paperbacks to stack in closets and corners. But then…there are no more heavy boxes of yellowing paperbacks. No more opening to see the chronicles of past years piled inside. No more bookmarks from old boarding passes to remind me I read this one on my way home from Grandpa’s funeral or that one during my night shift lunch breaks. I like this new world but the memories here are more prosaic. We don’t need dust mote souveniers when we have instant photos and youtube videos to lie about what happened. They show what things look like, but there isnt that crunch of the madeleine that sweeps you back into that other person.
So now through the puddles to this last place. It is here on a couch under the slope of the roof listening to the rain tap out a song with no melody. Here on the couch where I am hiding from those demons that stalk me. Demon pain, my cruellest pet and the harbinger of demon sleeplessness. They are awful fanged thinsgs that gouge at body and mind. Funny how the rain brings more pain sewn into the clouds and falling between drops yet it soothes to hear it. Soothes to remember that i am mostly water and no different than the bits loosed from the sky. I am trapped here without motion in a body eating herself to jelly but also unbound and falling. And here isalso a boat made of letters and words to send thoughts out from the pain like rain from the sky.
I should turn from here and go outward again past the other pools and the quiet wood to the now where I keep my home.