rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Day Fourteen (and Probably Fifteen)

Saturday brought another weird nap. I don't remember exactly when I fell asleep, but it was after nightfall, and then I woke up around half past one again. I hadn't eaten dinner, so even though it felt like I should be eating breakfast I microwaved a ramen bowl, though not a spicy one this time. So I'm not hungry anymore, but I am still disoriented. Minutes crumble into hours. I remain uncertain where I am.

Saturday afternoon I watched the single large cloud I could see in the mostly blue sky slowly evaporate as it drifted overhead. First the part that looked like two curved tails vanished, and then the edges of the main body of the cloud gradually dissolved. In five minutes it was entirely gone, though the blue where it had been took on a vague grayness for a while. Eventually even that was gone. The only significant markings remaining in the sky were two long, fuzzy, crooked lines that had probably begun as vapor trails an now reminded me of journeys gone wrong.

During the evening sleep I had dreams, but only one image from them has remained in my mind. I was reaching down to turn of the faucet in the backyard and hear a loud, slightly raspy click. Looking closely I see a large insect of some kind, and the thought comes to my dream self that this is the creature who has been eating the plant with the long leaves. My ream self is delighted at this solution to the mystery. Realizing on waking that the mystery has not been solved at all make me unaccountably sad.

It is so late now (or so early) that I should just give up the pretense that this is Saturday's journal entry. I'm sure I'll have to sleep more, but I don't know when or how. The sun will be up soon. If I'd had any plans for Sunday they'd have been wrecked by this. But all days come pre-wrecked now, which I suppose I could see as a good thing if I were a glass-half-full sort of person. But I'm more of an oh-my-god-the-glass-is-spontaneously-shattering-in-my-hand type of person. So all I see is wreckage on wreckage, like one oh those serial collisions we used to get on the freeways around here before climate change all but banished winter tule fogs from the Central Valley. As the French say, the more things change the more I want to drink.




Sunday Verse



Ash Wednesday


by Amy Gerstler


Tonight's furious celibate weather —
a long awaited downpour —
frees slugs and earthworms,
lubricated their pathways
and destinations. Streams
sizzle and swell. Someone
is thinking of you without
being aware of it.
He starts up from bed
as if awakened by sirens
or an explosion — but these
are only echoes of sounds
the walls sucked up long ago,
now loosened by lightning.
The wind's blowing the wrong
direction. Rain has made
the air smell like soggy
cardboard and fermented plums.
He listens to the rain drum
and imagines his house washed
from its foundation,

borne like a clumsy boat
through surging floodwaters.
He pictures himself straddling
its pitched roof, rushed north
by the storm, floating for days
wrapped in blankets, holding
a kerosene lamp. Neighbors bob by
and wave. The pleasures of love
are lost on this man. A few
suits in the back of his closet
are so covered with moths
the furry white insects
look like a fabric design.
He finds love full of frustration
and change, a bumpy ride,
not the ideal accord he's been
led to expect. Dozing again,
he dreams all his teeth are loose.
You appear in this dream,
a troublesome image,
walking his dog while having
a good cry, trying to wipe
your nose on the leash. Then
the scene shifts to his family farm
where they make Roquefort cheese —
it's iris-picking time.

Fruit you'd given him when
the two of you were still
speaking sits in a blue bowl
on the nightstand as he snores:
four huge oranges, a red pear,
purple, marble-sized grapes.
He dreams his watch is embedded
in his wrist. Ice forms
on the lettuce in your dark
garden. There's a certain wild
sadness inherent in this season.
The never-said gathers momentum,
like coming thunder. You cannot
have his precious attention.
No fever will break, no peace
be declared. The time is ripe
to walk out, soul intact,
onto the balcony in your nightgown,
get wet and soak up the thrilling
silence... but you're not ready yet.

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