15 October 2012

Morning, about three weeks ago, Italy

It is just me wondering about irrigation at this time in the morning. How can this damp ground explain itself?

It must have been E who left an overturned tumbler of wine out here in this patch. The sun has made it viscous and blood-like. I pour the drops out onto the cracked land and think of Bible landscapes full of ritual and miracle and life coming from nothing. Distant train sounds like locust swarms.

I check on my trees. I pretend they are mine. I have not yet learned how to surrender my possessive urges. Anagrams. Figs black and withered in rings around the tree, telling time and age. Some small, hard and green, waiting for rhythm. Some, very few, purple and ready - but ultimately lacking heart. I stand in the kitchen and peel the skin, I tear it open and study the inside for as long as I can stand, I eat it up, eyes closed, back to all doors, remembering the sound of cars on the roadside and being invisible and knowing how to use it. Not about meaning. Never anymore about that – experience. The first part of the day. Silence, water, silence again.

A wasp and two giant ants delving into the decapitated head of a silky silver anchovy. Raw on the white plate, twelve fishes, iridescent, sleek as cars in traffic jam sunshine stretching back for miles. Metaphors metaphors. Always a crutch, never exact, never right.

I trap an ant under my mug and immediately let it go. Someone, perhaps the only person I’ve ever hated, did that once and I swore I’d never do it. He caught the ant in the dip in the base of his wine glass and dragged it across the table cloth. The ant died and smeared all over the white paper covering and the man talked and talked and wouldn’t shut up.

Strange sleepiness and pain contributing to this arrangement of thoughts. Still something I can’t understand. Hate hate love and hate again. Sleeping back to back, gorging on hot skin, thin white sheets, green lights.

Things dissipate as people wake up. I am still hated and loved. Other consciousnesses bustle and rise. Mine flips and starts and stalls. Anchovy head still shiny but eaten from inside. Looks the same but feels all different. Others eat up your insides. The wasp curled right into its neck, precise and nasty, knowing the value of what it had. I feel for scavengers though. There is something in that. Being lazy though I’ll never really know or try to find out what. Bed beckons but my thighs are hot and I want eggs. I want a perfect spreadable yolk and a slow morning fuck.

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