Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Stripe to strip


I was supposed to post this entry this morning, but as usual, events have a way of getting ahead of me.


Take for example last night, when I fell asleep after dinner and woke up two hours after. During these hours of zombie-like insomnia, coffee usually has the opposite effect on me. So I drank a cup.


But instead of lulling me to dreams, my bedside beverage planted my feet on the parquet. Forcing me to sit up.


Watched horror movies while trying to finish a new necklace (also in red and blue). The Exorcism of Emily Rose followed by The Haunting right through the witching hour.


When I couldn’t add any more beads, I though caffeine had finished its business. But as I lay on my bed, I thought to do something better.


I revisited a poetry series I started two years ago (I think). Suddenly, the dried husks of my thoughts became hollow reeds. Verse once again played through me as through a woodwind.


Translated in English, the poetry set would read “Body of Light”. It started with stanzas about the eyes and cheeks, before proceeding to metaphors you could hardly hear, much less speak.


I thought the series would never end, proceeding from forehead then the neck. But then, as I rounded up that last line, it was as if I was running out of breath.


Was it out of relief? Or did a new voice, a new poem, want to be heard?


On another day of course. Then as I woke up this morning, I wrote something short about chairs, referencing an article in Fantastic Man about Max Lamb: 

“Yes, there will be time indeed for a room of chairs. For a table between two to plate down stories between friends over cups of coffee. For six and more surrounding a feast shared over laughter. For a solitary stool or seat to steady us in the midst  of inevitable darkness. Never with arms strapped with leather. Always a humble bench to line company. There will be a time for rest from the din of crowds. A time to assemble chairs around a bed in celebration.”


I had no idea that, arriving at work, I would discover that a famous comedian/dramatist had killed himself via asphyxiation. 

Was he overwhelmed by the darkness? Did he think there were no more songs to sing?


Ah, the double-sided face of theatre. The pain and ecstasy of knowing both joy and despair. 


The honesty and intimacy of our fixations.


I offer no answers, of course. Even to any of my own rhetorical questions.


I can only cross my arms and hope to survive whatever cold may come my way.


To peek through the gaps of darkness.


As through alternating stripes. The endless rows of days.


What can we do but to celebrate each?


Sweater, Gap
Polo shirt, Michael Bastian x Uniqlo
Trousers, G2000
Belt, A.P.C.
Beanie, thrifted
Shoes, thrifted

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