Friday, 5 July 2013

this may not sound like much

I'm not going to say that if you get the words right then everything else will follow. But. If you get the words down, then at least you will have footholds. Footholds may not sound like much but you come to realize what they are when you start looking for a ground and start falling. Falling may not sound so bad but this is coming from someone who has never broken their neck on the floor. Breaking your neck may not sound like the end, but it's hard to stare wistlessly into the distance when the bones made to support you are limping. Well, you ask, laughing and brushing the hair from your eyes, who ever needed to stare into the distance? Well, you say, I have no need of words or footholds or ground or gazes. You pick up a stuffed giraffe that has clearly been adored through the ages and rub its soft flannel cheek on your own. You pick up a cigarette butt and rest it on your bottom lip so it points at the moon, but the moon has yet to rise, so you just stand in the desert cursing your mother and the day you were born.

Everything keeps expiring. The milk the jobs the invitations the days. Everything is fickle and out of place. I am jumpy at the desk like the desk is a trampoline. Oh, I want to leap on a trampoline. I have never found anything in life as fun as arse over tits over head heels heart. Blindfold my eyes and make me write you a story about the moon and a turnpike and jumping jacks. Blindfold my heart. Let it be unable to see where it's going, try that out for a change. Let me be unable to walk. I am not averse to a sledgehammer to the knees, just as I am not averse to leaping into situations that gnaw at my cartilage and snap at my sinews. I will wait by the window for a breeze and when it comes I will strap these crepe paper wings to my back and try not to be surprised when it turns out they are ripped by a gust from the north.

It may look differently, you may see the bike grease on my knuckles and the fold in my brow and you may surmise that I am just a broken kettle waiting to whistle, getting hotter by the moment, quivering on the hob, somehow bereft of voices. It may look differently but that is because you are the kind of sailor who spent the afternoons in the crow's nest playing dot to dot with the picture books, because you never believed in augurs. I smile a crepe paper smile back into your eyes but the truth it that we need some kind of navigation if this ship is ever going to reach the shore. Aha, you say, as if this is all the stumbled knees you have been waiting for. Aha, but whoever spoke of reaching the shore, Ms Mermaid, who promised that land is better than sea? 

And I know you are right and it's nothing to do with mooring, it's nothing to do with aching not to be adrift. All the truth is and all the things I have are that I want to send a crow in a straight line and listen out for how many hours it takes for the cawing to stop. I want to tie rocks to the ankles of bears and fling them overboard. I want to be all the things every mother warned of. Snapping danger like gum beneath my tongue.

No comments:

Post a Comment