Tuesday, 3 September 2013

Spoilt Milk

That girl smells like spoilt milk. That girl listens to records that tell her, being born was your first big mistake. All the passwords that girl uses are cuss words against former lovers who have spurned her. All the messages that girl picks up from the shop are full of instant gratification. That girl stands in the kitchen and dinners on dried onion flakes and jarred anchovies. That girl uses dinner as a verb.

Look at that girl in her slacks and wet hair, trying to build a network from marker pens and day old wine. Look at that girl practicing rollerskating from the desk to the bathroom. Judge everything she does and never worry about your own first mistake.

Listen to music so loud it's impossible to hear the clack of the keys you are typing. Forget about sounds, listen to the beat of your heart and your drum. Look up cigarettes in the Dewey Decimal System. Put the record lid down to protect against dust. Take a month off writing, your fingers will be there when you return. Never stop this, your words are worth more than anything, your imagination is firmer than the beat of your own heart.

Taking advice and scrunching advice into a spit-stained ball.

Saying yes to all the dates.

If your flat is built of windows, like a greenhouse, are you ever allowed to throw the first stone? Are you allowed to walk around in a bra doing fauxyoga stretches while clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and turquoise nail polish in the other? Will the neighbours notice; will the neighbours complain? Do you need me to answer any of these?

By this girl's desk is a list of hieroglyphics that promise she can communicate by means of snakes and fists and stacked knifes. Or daggers. I am sure none of believe that cutlery is suitably ancient.

I was supposed to give up on the dull and give this heart fully to words and mysteries and the inky sweet void.  I asked the i-ching and the i-ching said as soon as I stopped worrying, all the opportunities would fall into my hands.

But who can place their destiny in the hands of wheat? Who can count sticks and take it as gospel? Only the smart, I reckon; possibly not me.

The speakers are all gone to fuss and crackle. The kitchen is avast with fruit flies. The bedroom floor is slippery with cast-aside polyester frocks. Am I happy, you ask, and the answer is yes, probably. I am feeling the inhale and exhale of the universe more and more.

The only thing I don't understand is why it is so hard to remember to take time every day and sit and spew like this. Or the only thing I don't understand is everything.

They told the girl that she would never make anything of herself giving it away for free. They told the girl she should edit everything she put into the world. Her words, her pitch, her face, her attitude. They told her to hold out for the good stuff but the girl was so spellbound by the prospect of anything that she moved her fingers and laughed and started anyway, saying, there will always be tomorrow. There will always be more.

Or even if there isn't, what do you get by holding it all to your chest in the depths of a black soot pit? I would sooner be taken advantage of brutally and without mercy and be left with fingerprint bruises than be bored. I would sooner have every idea stolen than let every idea wither. Ah, tugs on the hair and tugs on the heart, I want to be so many boats coming in and out of the harbour at once.

I want to be everything.

Such as: a red-faced spider monkey, a glass of autumn's first mead, Clara Bow, seventeen pomegranate seeds stored in a virgin's moist cheek, your sister, a chest about to be thrown over the side of a sinking ship (so full of treasure), a filthybroken degenerate, clothesline tied on things, hieroglyphics, a legend, Lorna Garman, the electric forces inside a neon tube, the crackle on a record player, gin fizz, a kiss, myself.

I know, I know, none of this is anything and all of this is nonsense. I am distracted. I smell of spoilt milk, even after the shower, I can taste the degeneracy of sweated slapped evenings on my thighs. Still, there are fishermen who hang a dozen trout on a line and stop to build a soft autumn fire with the ashes of their summer. There are days ahead of us that will be full of beached whales.

Three days into September and I have no idea what the hell is happening, but I am happy to hitch this horse and wait.

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