She awoke in soft focus- all static, white noise and a flickering screen of writhing memories convulsing before her. Abuzz with their vile death rattles, she stays in bed and stares at the movement of the garden. The unusually hospitable gusts of these first days of summer romantically lull the boughs of the trees and tenderly finger the tips of their limbs and leaves with the restrained intimacy of new lovers. In these gestures of their genteel courtship she sees his playful yet heavy gait. He has had no presence there and still it all speaks only of him.
What time does your muse come knocking at your door, naked and amorous and wanting only you? Is it five in the morning with dawn in her hair? Or, long after all but you have slipped beneath their covers? Maybe it is two in the afternoon and you’ve finished lunching when your mind is languorous and more tactile? What of it anyway? The hope of inspiration is as absurd an idea as expecting a dandelion to grant a wish.
I like the idea that small objects can be lost, only to find their own lives in the secret and the forgotten. When they reappear and trigger a nostalgic rush it is quickly followed by a temporal sigh. Time has passed and this thing is at once, an old friend and a slap from a stranger.
I think of sharks when I try to follow the movement of my mind, or maybe a lighthouse beacon - often something nautical but always orbital.
I am floating in violent weather. I watch helplessly as the sharks circle. I know they are there. I catch glimpses of fins and gleaming sharp grins, and every once in a while they whisper to me and gently tug at my flailing limbs. I wait. I wait for my inevitable predation and absorbption. But, they maintain their persistent circling, and so I must continue vacillating in the break of the waves.