I was looking at a cardinal yesterday, beautiful red, watching the rain fall down the lines and clumps of its feathers its body rounded and the water was delicate like liquid cotton and I thought he was beautiful and so dignified. How embarrassing to be human.
The novel takes on new forms and ideas with passing weeks and I sew them together (no wonder my fingers are blistered!) and feel relaxed because I finally smell spring, lithe life-full, the healthy scent of dirt and now yellow flowers are spotted on the side of the road and I have patience because if the buds can survive their winter mine will eventually pass and I will stand with my bright blossoms the only grace against a background of trash.
(punctuation is unnecessary, words are flowing like strands of streams all over each other).
There was something so human about watching the blood-bird and when I am called back to New York I can't imagine sitting anywhere but in the claustrophobia of mountains with my lover and my bones and my insanity, my insanity like a song. New York has forgotten its artists and its witchcraft and the drumming of feet on its cement sometimes does not feel as heavy as the silence at 3 am, my mind cracked open like an egg, blood and words rushing against the lobes like currents. I was given to the city during winter sitting in his apartment in his shirt and underwear and sweat, reading the paper and watching the snow fall onto the roof next door but it was not as lovely as this rabbit fur rain and his furniture has been moved, a young family lives there -- I hope their children sit where my thighs were, keeping the snow company.
The words call me back. They drown me past all emotion to the very bottom, to the true dark where I find oxygen in the sea-salt cold, my throat expanding and contracting, language losing its construction like the unzipping deoxyribonucleics so that with angel eyes I can see all of time, exactly what I came from.
