comes again across the desert, as it must

[nov. 12, 2010]

his body is covered in stories – intricate and beautiful full-color tattoos – a narrative, and he is trying to explain to me the libretto of an opera, which we are listening to, or singing – and maybe he is a woman, with the body of a man, because certainly his torso is a man’s torso – but the bedroom where the bed is is tucked into a corner of a kitchen, and i keep getting distracted by the movement of the men in the kitchen – particularly one of them who keeps taking my attention from the tattoos, the bare body over mine, the words, the explanations, the stories – just with the look, with the regard… and i chatter at that other person, so that my partner-it-would-appear has to keep re-requesting my attention.

had that kind of sleep with that kind of dreaming where something important is happening and you are looking all around, sort of realizing it, all the symbols and the imagery, all the words and the nature and the metaphors your very own brain gave you for you to decode, smiling slyly the whole time, like: hah. you made this, now you try to figure it out!

magic brain – that gives and does not give the answers, that has and does not have the answers, that makes the code and has the propensity to break it, but does not have, just like that, the key itself…

so that, when i woke up a little, i knew i had to turn over and hold myself in it a little longer – keep seeing the same images over and over, let them press into my eyes and hands…

i had the kind of sleep with that kind of waking where the body says: i am still recovering, give me more. and so i went to the bathroom to relieve the pressure of the morning & then got back into bed where the sheets were still warm & reset the alarm and turned off the lamp & took that recovery slow like syrupy liquid medicine to unroll through my whole body, touching everything, touching me everywhere.

i am starting to feel something inside myself – particularly at night – that is like prayer. maybe it is the result of feeling alone, but still feeling like there is something, someone i can and do appeal to, in the quietest moment, before i close my eyes, sometimes between sentences at the end of my night-time writing… someone, something i can and do appeal to, i can and do appeal to. it is there. i feel it even now, if i give it a little room…

time to go shower, get fresh, get dressed, coffee is filling me up in the joints, in the elbows & jaw particularly…

i am so grateful to have heard from s. this morning – a letter. there is some cord to some place, i am still connected.

and i am thinking about my family, and chanukah turns closer and closer to the center of now, we are on a spiral towards it, towards the future, towards the past, the eight days, the miracles, the miracles, the miracles. there were miracles. in the middle of nothing, the fire burned for as long, for as long as it needed to. and i thank god and people for this image today – for this metaphor, for this bit of grace, for knowing that it would happen again – that we would run out of oil again and again and need to remember that what we have will last for as long as it is needed until help comes again across the desert, as it must, to meet us.


About scribblelip

walking down the road with a book of conjugations in my hand.
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