5:00

I feel grateful to wake beneath the snow, to witness the adornment of nature as it is, with my only involvement being my personality and the necessity of translating material into emotion, into other matter like thought and words and internal images. It is almost night now and while I understand the oncoming evening, through the windows I see a white sky on white snow, all resting on the fingerprints of trees, quiet, full of mercury and hallucinogens. None of it is black like the a summer's eight o'clock, which is chaotic and cruel, the screaming frogs like dying women, the smell of algae on old water, mosquitoes entering the body without permission and leaving marks like burn scars, disease, mouths like needles and cocks. The birds are gone now and I am no longer deafened by the ceaseless sounds of life, and I have had the experience of being the only animal in the forest, watching snow hit dead limbs, my footprints filled within minutes, my body meaning nothing in the ocular throbbing of winter, where the saints have an open view of neoteric humanity, with its stone architecture soaking the light out of the soil. 

I am pulling words out of my cells to keep my fingers warm as December meanders and I just told my lover through a satellite that I feel like this huge, throbbing flesh of wanting, like all of my fucking bones desire. I have to speak to my lover through phones and metal and I expect to cut open my arms and find microchips mixed with the blood and when a man slits my throat there will be a microphone attached to a recording cassette, my voice stolen from another woman, because perhaps I have never known how to speak, God's little marionette. I am sometimes surprised to find that I have a mouth and hands, as if I will wake living in freezing water, made of scales, swimming and eating and having dreams of being human.

It is 5:46 and the room is full of a proper dark, like a genetic 
memory from Poland, brought into my temporal lobe by the snow. I 
feel the woodsmen of my genetics moving through miles without light, stealing pitch resin from spirits in the Puszcza Biała, using witchcraft to protect the cattle from wolves.
  

12:01

"Ask me a question," I said.

"What was the best day of your life?"

"I do not know how to answer that. There have not been good days, but moments: snow, reading with an animal near my thighs, drinking wine and feeling my mind open briefly, watching summer through my lover's apartment window while I am on top of him. This is ridiculous, I know it is, all of these Mozartian examples trying to say something which is a feeling which may be only mine. Romance. The meaning behind flowers.  

Moment:

Noun.

1. A very brief period of time.
2. Importance.

Moment. Money. Monet. 

Monet and his water lilies, whose symbolization depends upon their color, not unlike humans with impasto strokes beneath their skin. 

Orange: hatred.
White: virginity.
Yellow: quixotic.

Universality. Restoration of innocence after death. Large canvases of petals with their smeared bodies on museum walls, acting like mirrors to the pigmented prayers moving between the ribs of the girls in sweaters like air; bones painted like rainbows and kaleidoscopes. 

Born: November 14 1840.
Profession: Painter. Atheist. I one day found myself looking at my beloved wife's dead face and just systematically noting the colours according to an automatic reflex! Clairvoyant, reading the souls of the audience, freeing them from their psychedelic limbs."

"And what does the soul look like?"

"A vampire once told me it is like Bordeaux, but that is only because he is in love with blood. My fingers say my lips, but that is only because I am aware of them touching each other. I heard a man from Asahikawa say it reminded him of winter, but only because he liked to see snow on the maples. The permanence of consciousness is painted red, like scorpions rising from constellations."

"And the flowers in the garden behind Camille, the poppies in Argentuil?"

"Stem cells, cleaning out diseases of the eye and mind."

"But not for Monet?"

"Cataracts are communion wafers, moments of ocular brilliance."

10 : 22

5:41

The weather is colder and I do not mind November and winter and the birthday of my lover because there are birds despite the snow. This month I have understood the words I do have because we have sat alone together at dinner, staring at each other across a candle while the beginning-imagination of January (which shows itself as shaved ice in the rain) moved against the kitchen windows. It was not like having a meal with myself (rather something that I did not want to see) but I watched the words because I like the dark and want to speak to all of the things I should never be attracted to. 

The morning is moving too quickly and I want time with my poor mind that is exhausted, stretching and contracting, and I should have more thoughts than what kind of flesh is the brain made of but I have those words and they are honest, a different weight of truth, which is like the heaviness behind a conversation. 

5:32

Autumn is too bright, the sky too blue because all things like to shine brighter to compensate for death and why should earth -- who is the beginning of our own life -- be any different, or rather, why should we (whatever we are) be dissimilar.

I do not know if I like exuberance that was born to counterbalance monochromatic animation -- the genuine has always satisfied whatever is left of my soul. I do not eat with my words often enough so they become fingers on plastic, bones and joints in flesh, cold from the jejune autumn. 

I have no intention of being cruel to the seasons but the falling leaves are nature's clock and does Persephone remember her rape as time passes? 

I want to know why the walls of the subway are not stained with ancient Greek murals, why artists do not write lines from the Book of the Dead on STOP signs, why recreations of Egyptian prayers on papyrus are not pasted on shop windows, next to wanted ads. 



I am allowed to rest even if I dream of a different structure to my own body, nervous to see my face when I wake in the morning. I hear the wind blowing and the young girl picking flowers near a cleft in the soil is about to scream. I will cover my eyes when all of the plants die. 

10:38

I can't remember my dreams from two nights and I have slept too late. I woke wanting to write something to you and my first thought: My Mouth is Full of Cavities. I have holes in my bones from wine so I put mercury and silver in them. I have the elements of the earth in my body and I wear them as well, because I am proud of what earth creates; I am satisfied with oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon. I am happy with fur and hands and paint. I am quiet in the company of animals because there is no need with speech when they smell my abdomen for what is beneath my skin which is something besides blood and arteries and veins and the places where sperm and fingers and tongues have died. There is more than acid in my stomach: the lining has graffiti which tells the future and there is a red fox resting in my intestines, chewing my ovaries, which are made out of the horns of bulls.  I think of the nights that I can not remember and I feel that something must have bitten me and now the saliva of god is running through my body, turning my organs into moonstone.

5:48

I wanted to write as soon as I woke, to say something as I have no one to speak to, only living fur to put my hands against and long, useless hours of work. I have ridiculous words that are like stones in my palm and I have to be up before our star because I wanted to tell my lover that I had a dream about them, or that their spirit was with me in every image, sticking its fingerprints into my brain. I watched horror movies before I slept, but my mind was still my mind and it was left with its rolling trees stuck in the dirt, completely untouched. I am sometimes unsure if it is mine as those trees are too large for my age and I almost know that I have a home in the forest given to me by much older women.

I have believed that god's subconscious was a landscape in Russia. I have wanted tea sweetened with cherries and vodka out of a freezer during a snowstorm. I like cherries because they are interesting things that leave marks behind, like injured bodies.

It does not matter because I still woke telling myself to gather strength for life. I love winter because it has bold moments of beauty and imagination in its vacancy and the mind does better in the dark, where in sleep it has the animal's full attention. Good minds wants more than the audience of limbs.

5:26

Dream, October 16, 2013.

My best friend comes to visit me for my birthday and the entire ground is covered in snow (I was born in June). She pulls 60.00 out of her coat pocket and hands it to me -- I am reluctant to take it, but she pushes the money into my palm and closes my fingers. We drive to a nearby town for dinner and I can only see the world through the windshield, the car lights focused to the middle of the road; we are swerving through the yellow lines and the tree branches pushing into my vision are covered in ice. 

At dinner we are playing a game with arrows drawn on paper, although I cannot remember what it was because I was already drunk in my mind from the bottles of wine, blackberry and honey and something pink pouring down my friend's throat, visible through her skin. 

The bill comes to 60.00.

She drives me to my parent's home and I walk past my mother sleeping on the couch. I go to the computer and play a song on repeat, although I have never heard it before; I play it so loudly that the speakers crack and I dance until my bare feet hurt from the hardwood floors. I realize it is 10:40 in the morning and I have not slept. I look at the pines through the kitchen window and watch the snow fall; I panic because I can barely remember the night before, but I calm myself saying that it what happens when you keep pouring glasses of wine.

I go into a bedroom and start dancing to the song again. I only stop when my sister walks through the door because I am embarrassed to have her hear the music. 

12:48

Dream. October 5, 2013.

I wake on a couch and feel an ache in my back. I walk into a bathroom and pull up my shirt in front of a mirror -- I have scars across my shoulders, spine, and ribs, cuts still stitched and crossing over tattoos that I do not have. I search my skin until I am able to find a stab wound and with two fingers I pull the injury open and watch the blood gather in the fabric on the top of my jeans. My back is covered in a white medicine that I remember a Chinese man massaging into my while I rested. I rub some of the medicine into the wound and throw my stained shirt on the floor, falling back asleep on the couch.



I am still in the place where I woke but I needed to feel my dreams roll out of my abdomen before I put my fingers on plastic keys so that you could read my thoughts. I feel myself behind my skull with that weird ache that comes from lack of rest, the muscle-speak where my body folds itself into delusion, thinking that laziness is health. I moved my limbs and through the window I saw a male and female cardinal in what is left of the blackberry bush, swamped in the still green leaves, their feathers plump from the heavy water morning. I watched them search for food and move circularly, natural geometry. I drank coffee. I caught myself in the bedroom mirror, near my dried plants and bleached skulls, looking for scars across my shoulders. 

People used to believe that hares were able to change their sex during March. I have five months before I am allowed to lose myself.

All of this is no different than birds searching for food -- I am searching for the right thought, looking for the correct way to move myself around others. I feel frail because I feel I have used all of my strength to stay alive. Nothing is worse than the desire to love, true love, with its sacrifice and skin peeling, where being an animal loses its romanticism and your self is shown to your self, your osteoporotic mind that is dying because you will not eat, you will not eat, the desire to live is so severe that it is burning through your immateriality, because you are not strong enough to handle your own passion. 

I have no thoughts, just this unyielding, limitless expectation. I am exhausted from being human.

The feastday of St. Francis of Assisi, who preached to the birds, has passed. He was said to give sermons to the little people with their healing, hollow bones, but I feel that they told the saint of the christ in their vocal chords, the color of plumage, eggs, seeds, human hair in nests, and the stories passed down from cranes, who are the first creatures to greet the sun.

To speak to animals is to know all the secrets of god.



Dreams of violence on my shoulders, where the colored appendages were removed, my body filled with heavy, mammalian coal.