Wednesday, 6 June 2012

That outside world

Four days without internet and already I am giddy, thoughts clattering this way and that like subway trains loathe to pause in their passage. This room is big and good for dancing. No two-bit shuffles here: I am the ballerina and the baton twirler and the marionette.

At Sunday’s market we got the whole globe for a euro because it was broken on its stand but we are smart people and we know the truth is hurtling through space with no top nor bottom. Delirious people, we are reminding each other that we should be outside. It’s so easy to curl and be comfy; my flesh is so soft and tends to horizontal.

But, yet.

Those streets are a blank notebook waiting for a fountain pen to scratch a three act play. Those streets are mile upon mile of blank tape waiting for a wayward heel to tap the button record. Those streets, these streets, let’s pace eager feet in some direction and see the texts that flap like banners behind and before ourselves.

I take a face between my palms and I yell I’m not old enough to try be quiet and we need to walk because everything else is just so much wet clay. Dump the shopping bags on the floor like abandoned guinea pigs aghast at this new reality.

The door opens and slams and, suddenly, we are standing outside.

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