obscurely suspended

Now, somehow and immediately, I encounter a freedom I haven’t felt for 542 days. One year five months and some change. I haven’t known Seattle without the pretense of the University of Washington to protect me from the flood. From the neighborhood warfare of Fremont, Ballard, holding on strong to their personalities, and the chemical changes occuring under the bedrock of Capital Hill. Of the algal blooms in Green Lake and Lake Washington sprayed down with millennial pesticides in order to prevent the eating up of all the oxygen, like a plate of cookies at the banquet when no one is looking. Gobbled up. The time at U.W. for me. All the distractions – the sunny days when I felt like hiding in my cave.

—- later —–

It is after 1 am now and I tried to sleep but I could not because I became too focused on my heart beat. Thinking about the shape of the generator in my chest – it’s motions – it’s geology. Wondering if I have done anything good to my heart today other than walk briskly up a large set of stairs (at least 60 steep steps) drink water with mint, rosemary, and cucumber infused in it, and eat two medium slices of watermelon. Otherwise I had too much sodium and caffeine, a beer in the afternoon when the shame of my lack of musical exploration was erased itself in a holy light. A growing inability to teach grammar to children. Their little hearts. My currently flattened knee cap on the ridgeline of the mattress. A strange electronic humming coming from outside sometimes amidst revelry, the voices of the graduates or the friends of graduates and no I will not be invited to their graduation parties – I am hiding my head under a blanket and wondering about the rate of falling stars, the pressure of tidal blood patterns in the outskirts of my bodies coves and cornices, the architecturally crossed metaphor of the body-as-cathedral and the skeleton-as-a-shoreline and the heart-as-a-pump filling the hot air balloon of my brain with the life giving air carrying blood, the endocrine valleys of symbiotic exhalation, a body in decayed state of awareness, because I have been too and so transfixed on elements outside of it – the blossoming trees, the traffic jams, the great borderless shadows of moving objects in the summer evening sideswiped sunlight. Here I cannot sleep because I think I will screw the morning into a wall to hold an empty picture frame and lack the decency to go out and buy spakel or something to fill in the holes. Bring the screwed into unseen depth back to anonymity.

I am transitioning anonymously. I am feeling grander earlier than I felt after I had the summer ale. I had no reason to go to a cafe other than cultural involvement. I see regulars. Regulars see me. No bridges are erected with my name on them.

There could have been boxes, I gathered, from the monumental freight elevator, the back room storage facility of a heartless building, of old bridges paved over but sometimes revealed because people dropped pianos. Thinking of the buildings in Amsterdam with the hooks over the top windows because the stair cases are too small and narrow to fit any reasonable furniture. They have to be pulleyed up or out through the window. An embarrassingly public affair if you spill the ivories in the cobblestone streets.

I am thinking too hard about the slowing pace of my heart – the angle of a certain jawline, imaging it underscoring a smirk while dancing in a fluid, flexible way, brightest blonde frizz spazzing out around her flails and fury – a mixture of careful appraisal and wild abandonment is characteristic of her inability to be read by me. Does it sound like an accurate account of anyone? what does my heart have to say about this?


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