She slid her skirt up to her thighs; and, she let the sun shine directly on her bare legs for the first time since the new year.
Her eyes closed; and, she imagined.
Heating legs of firm, chilled butter which begin melting into decomposition earthwards, below her.
Eventual food for earthworms.
She feels strands of her hair’s tresses pulling away and apart from her, flying from her crown like a dandelion’s spores into the languishing four corners of the world.
The grand finale of winter winds, amidst sun shine, finally blowing her asunder.
A cry heard.
Weather letting her dissolve into everything and await rebirth in the nearing spring.
She will poke her head back out like new-growth into the Great, Wide World, when the seasons shift themselves about her.
Until then, she silently hopes to abide in a makeshift, subterranean respite entombed in nitrogen rich dirt. Dwelling in darkness.
She comes to prefer when night comes at five and not ten o’clock.
The sun proves certain, missing absences exist within her which she already, too-well feels; so, she will enjoy the sun’s final days of not so brightly shining.
Yet, the Star teases her with its cameo appearance today, tickling her extremeties along with her forehead, cheeks, and, ears.
Its heat working in defiance of the howling chill blasting off the Sound.
“You remember me,” states the Sun, caressing. “You remember how I draw your perspiration. Draw forth those colors dormant inside of you.”
“Perhaps, I prefer the transparency that winter gifts my flesh more.”
“Kunst prosa, you love feeling me excite your melanocytes. The experience of pigment changing hue. The closest you’ll come to the plant’s ecstasy of photosynthesis,” the Star hypnotizes. Hypnerotomachia renders me suddenly languid.
“I sense ice in your veins.”
“No shit. And, when your blood is frozen, winter cannot make you any colder.”
“Let me thaw you.”
“You will never thaw me; you will only make me sweat.”
“I will make you high.”
“But, then you will leave me dry.”
“Drink more water, should that be your concern.”
“Not until you make me,” she teases.
She takes off running down the lapping Sound’s shore.
He looked terrifically out of place, dressed like that, here on the trail.
She was a bit irritated at the utter distraction of him.
Yet, he was fascinating.
But, she was trying to take a walk through the woods down to the fish ladder of the old mill creek; and, here was a man in a three piece suit, postured in repose on the sopping bank, as though prostrating before some ancient pagan god.
And, from across the salmon’s spawning pond, she espied that while his necktie was perfectly knotted, the color and pattern of it did not suit his suit.
Not in the slightest.
Off-rack; Tailor made. Beholden; Bespoke
He just sat there. Brutally still, Unnaturally, there in the tall grass.
Loafers in the mud. Simply wearing all the wrong clothes.
She imagines he must be a terrible dancer.
And, she suddenly wants to interrupt him and ask for a dance.
and, my flat smells like the last time I was in your home and you made toast.
Heyoka thinks of Tulpa.
Æ whispers: I miss him, too.
The previous tenant left crystals on the sill of each window and a geode in the cabinet under the sink, along with strange, laminated sheets of paper bearing strings of seemingly arbitrary numbers and strange affirmations written in broken, American English.
I choose to not disturb the relics.
The clock on the stove is incorrect;
yet, it reads 11:11 the moment after I sign the final leaf of a new lease, the landlord leaves, and I find myself alone in this new space of mine.
I walk to buy lightbulbs.
I pass a dog carrying the leash in its own mouth.
And, I feel, simultaneously, not old enough yet too old to please you.
And, though the sun returned this morning, it cannot warm the air.
And, I suddenly feel like a silly girl because I never get cold.
My heater is off.
My windows are open.
The overhead, bedroom fan spins.
Stirring the air.
Swirling the vapour of my exhalations.
I loathe sucking my own exhaust fumes.
An unuttered question yells at me as “the old man upstairs” rambles about and creaks my ceiling, his floor.
I begin fidgeting with my fingers after setting down my pen.
My orchid’s blooms burst open, pridefully, last night.
The cars below do not feel the apparent-wind like us walk-ons do.
A pair passes by me. I hear: “How did those stickers get put on there?”
Orcas, while rarely seen, do swim here in the Sound.
A family passes by me.
“How did those stickers get put on there?” I hear again.
On the bench to my right, a fellow in a cowboy hat is photographed by a slight and pixie-like gal.
She has a camera. A proper, right aperature. She does not repurpose her cell phone for the task. Perhaps it speaks to the value she places upon her subject and the tools required to properly achieve her artistic desired ends.
On the other side of the water is a Townsend of a port. It is filled with salty sea dogs of the best kind. One of the last bastions in the world of expertise and experience re: wooden sailboats.
It was built in a decidedly Victorian style during the late 1800’s. Elaborate stone buildings that would seem more at home in the UK.
It maintains four independent bookstores, all on the main [sic. high] street.
Always a positive sign. Yet, one that I seldom see.
The song of a pied piper.
The voice of reluctant troubadour.
An outburst from a seagull sounded like a car alarm.
Investments were made here with the intent to create a massive, international shipping port. This place was supposed to be what Seattle became, but the railroads did not lay track here as anticipated. They routed through Seattle.
A hazy cover of clouds lingers. There are immense mountains so close by, yet abiding unseen.
I pass two places that I recall having seen in dreams. Deja v/u/iew.
And, it smells like the Gulf of Mexico does. Destin, AL, just next to the Florida’s panhandle.
Salt. Seaweed. It reeks of things always being wet and never drying out.
It is a town of artisans, artifacts, and craftsmen. As it was explained to me: It is a sailor’s paradise because there are only 24 days of “good” sailing weather here.
I consider that type of sailor. Yup, they are the same sea dogs that still build their vessel from wood and not fiberglass.
There are rigger shops every other block. Schooners, sloops, cutters, ketches: the number of sails and the number of masts varies, but they all require a great deal of properly positioned and tightened rope. It becomes a specialty, like navigational skill.
It sings of waves falling down. It hints at waters ceaselessly lapping rocky shores like relentless thoughts and worries carving canyons in the contents of your confidence.
Seagull shit stained rocks and buildings made of stone. Barnacle blooms come into view on the hulls and the buoys during this time of low tide.
I feel the demands of a restless mind clicking out thought and notion like an antique stock ticker. I cipher telegrams regarding the health of your economy.
Waveform and flows rising and ebbing. Coming like crimson tides in the waters of words flooding my mind’s. Aye.
A hum escapes and vibrates from my throat. A quirk. A noise I make unconsciously when roaming in my mind.
Have you ever surprised yourself by hearing your own voice?
I speak mostly through unspoken scrawls. My loudest voice comes from silence when speech is expected. Fishermen hooking attention.
The vocal manifestation of the underlying punctuation is realized through the intervals.
Rests between notes.
How many beats per minute in the measures of the sentences comprising your composition? Moving as do canvas and a pallete knife conjure acrylics into patterns.
All boats must be houseboats when afloat. They are the sustainable sanctums stopping you from dropping into the briney depths.
While it may keep you from taking the plunge immediately, it does grant you access to the deeper and deeper waters, where both stillness and churning are ever present.
Path-carving the sloshing surface.
There are seagulls cackling out “ha-ha-ha” from all around. It sounds much like the blahyadablah of the “hi. how are ya’s,” or like all adults to Charlie Brown.
There are no speed boats here.
Fast and flashy find no quarter.
How am I?
The shopkeep asks.
I know that I am, but how it is that I am, I do not know.
Do you know how you are?
I make. I do, that much I also know to be true.
I smile and say “Oh you know, I’m covering the spread.”
I stop by the independent record shop.
They sell vinyl with a smattering of cassette tapes and other obsolete formats.
They do not sell CD’s. Great curation.
I got the cassettes below for four dollars U.S.
After asking the owner what the price is, I am informed the MD is a mix made years ago by an employee, to be played in the shop. It was given to me for free. The shopkeeper was highly amused at my interest in it.
I mention that seeing three albums by Mott the Hoople made my day.
The shop owner says: started my day with them.
He reaches under the counter and produces the album sleeve for The Hoople.
A sea of faces in hair.
A child eyeballs me on the ferry ride home. Sliding closer and closer to me.
I say: I’m Casey.
S/he says: I didn’t ask you.
I say: I just thought I’d tell you.
Macy then tells me many things very quickly.
S/he worries deeply about the dangers of sharks when s/he takes the ferry, for instance.
S/he stops speaking briefly and stares at me and says: I think my eyelashes are like yours. We have the same eyelashes.