[20 min with a pen]
Figurines on bookshelves. Collages. Punctuation marks on the stories that sit behind them. 3D manifestations. Spines like highrises. Tiny city.
A typewriter. A postcard on top of the typewriter that I liked too much to send. Little elephants from India – brought back for me by my ex’s mother. A Sherlock Holmes illustration I brought back from London. A Spock figurine. Collage made by a friend that reminds me of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. A story.
A fly with human consciousness. At times I thrash mad to the wall, the dog snaps his teeth. I can’t help but be tempted by the spiderweb. It’s just one strand, maybe I could survive it. It stretches down from the awning to the retaining wall. It drifts up and down, a most beautiful and delicate arch like the curve of the earth when you go to the beach.
I’ve got no hope of anything, not a word out to those higher beings, not a chance they’ll see me for who I am. I’ll be dead within days. I should be thrilled. My only moral imperative is to live until something kills me. I should be relieved.
But I can’t, I can’t. I can’t unlatch my hopes from the impossible. I’m like a tree cut down, lying in a lumberyard and still trying to reach for the sky.