Word fishing

I am trying to pin something down here...

Green--dark green
Fresh snapped fire; I mean branches. Birch branches.
But there's fire there, somewhere. Sharpsharpsharp
There is a beak in that tree, wedged between the dark sinews--dark brown. Sienna. Root brown. That's it--roots.
Rootsdarkcracksnap
The semicircle of a nail that is belly up, then belly down, then up again--I would call it the moon, but it is dark and green, too.
It is yellow at the edges, at the tips, in the folds of the grass sprigs that push up from behind the ears, ear, just the one ear.
I must clarify--it is not a dark green at all, but a very vivid, bright (but not light) green that has been shadowed. Shaded. The distance between the color and its shadow can be felt and tasted. This difference is noticed.
I cannot but curl my fingers to this color, this smell of a color, this roughsharproughburn texture of a smell that, still, is escaping words so easily but sits and lingers so definitively.
The brown is like that of a beer bottle--translucent, but still dark, still shadowed in its own way by the warmcoldwheaten contents of it's glass belly.

I am all out of words, but I have not even touched it yet, not with any of them. This is fascinating. This is alluring. This is half-maddening. I am closing my eyes.

Secrets

I really enjoyed my classes today. Even math. Which is weyurd. Though I wasn't in a very good head-place at the time for them. I've made a mess of my desk. But that's alright--pencil comes off that thing like nothing.

It is a secret because it cannot be said plainly; it sticks between my gums like sugar and seeds and resists. If I do say something plainly, it is not the same as the secret, as that-which-I-meant-to-say. A secret can be said. Said? Transferred; expressed. But it is such a careful business. Which isn't to say difficult--it is sometimes difficult, sometimes breathlessly easy. I am still trying to figure out why this disparity exists.

I will tell you a secret:

You remind me of Kevvos.

Why is this a secret? It is no terribly significant thing in itself. There are several unspoken things about it. Who am I speaking to? Who is Kevvos? I know who; I know who. What is it of you that reminds me of Kevvos? I know. What is the significance of your resemblance to Kevvos? That...that I'm not entirely sure of yet. But I know enough of it to know that it is significant, and in such a way that I should not say plainly who you are and who Kevvos is--what Kevvos is. I know this is a dangerous parallel to draw, and so I am careful about it. But I will, I must, and I do, because it is such a lovely one, too.


Now, that didn't get us very far. Let's try again with another secret:

I've begun closing my eyes in class.

Why is this a secret? I have left off a clause, or an entire sentence that, nonetheless, echoes after in my mind--the why. I know why. It is because-
But that is not something I can say. Why is that not something I can say? I know I want to say it, because that sentence has been trailing my thoughts every day. I think I even wrote it in my notebook. But at the same time, I am overprotective of them, of this secret--I want to keep it behind my teeth. I want to savor it. If I speak it, you will say something; you will taste it, judge it, and spit it into a bucket without swallowing, without taking it into you and getting a bit dizzy off it, as I do. It will not mean to you what it does to me; not when you ask so plainly as that. So I will preempt you, and tell you--but tell you on my own terms, as a secret. As a story. I will fuck with you, says the author, but only because I want you to see, as close as you can, how this fucks with me.

Why tell? Why retell? Because it is a means of reliving, to an extent. Of reminding. I am remembering through Kevvos, through closed eyes, and finally, through letting these small, concentrated sentences slip. And there is a way to get lost in remembering. But there is also a way to find one's way back through remembering--and by back, I mean anywhere. I mean movement. Moving. Too much, and you're spinning in your head, lost; but just enough, and the world is yours.



One more secret:

I am nervous.

I have

an extremely poor sense of object permanence.

It is a sort of buzzingfillingbuzzing
moving on to other things, but always filling each
still buzzing like a bullet in a bee's hide
cigarette butt to the ribs
it goes two steps before me and stays six after
I am drawing quick, dark shapes
also buzzing
filling pages
filling faces
buzzing quick and 'round my throat
hanging thick around my throat
pulling quick around m-

Skins

"She'll want to take the sun between her teeth and smother it under her tongue: there's more night to be had, and it's not time for morning; no, there's more night to be had, and she's determined to take every dark ounce of it before the sun burns her mouth and she'll at last sleep while the other wakes and walks with the sun on its head like a big bright bug" (Tilus, 168)

I will not say that I am two different people, because I am not; but I possess two different skins, or rather, I possess one skin, and if the far edges of each side were to be compared, one would find them quite different. And there is always so much slack between them that one side gets curled up and the pattern is hardly ever seen.

I am very much in love with shadows
That is to say, a part of me is.

And so it only makes sense that that part of me that likes shadows will follow them when they come out, right? And even if it is such a small thing that is attached to shadows--just a nail clipped on to the very edge of one side of the skin. if the nail reaches for the shadows, it pulls the rest of the skin with it, those patterns that are closest and most similar to it, but perhaps, if it is enticed enough, or must reach far enough, it will take some of the pattern from the other side as well--the patterns are not distinct, but from each end, gradually change ten times over before they push into each other quite perfectly. There is no line to be drawn between the one and the other.
Eitherwho, the point of this being--if there is something that is drawn to shadows, it will be drawn out by shadows. It does not replace, it does not clamp down or kill what was there before. It probably wouldn't even get so far if the other side weren't pleasantly tired, and thus inclined to hand the baton over and take a nap. When I am awake at night, a part of me is sleeping; when I am awake during the day, a part of me is still sleeping. Different part now, though; a different edge of my skin has turned. I am a turncoat. But there are shadows in the day and lights at night, always--and so there are always parts and corners of the sleeping pattern untucked and still awake. Again, the transition between the pattern is not a clear, clean one; if it was, the skin would not be able to hold itself together, and would hardly be useful in that form. But this way, this...this works lovely fine. I may wrap myself in one side more than another for a time, but I am both. I think I may even take more pleasure in one than the other; but still, I am both. It makes me love more; hate more; feel more; sleep more; stay awake moar. The two patterns trade stories and talk when they meet and switch off in the middle, somewhere at the nape of my neck--that is where stories meet; that is where, between nights and days, I am sewn up, right along the seams of my escaping shadow.

The atrocious pokemon

You remind me of a gyarados
with your eyes half closed and
your lips half curled.
I don't know why, but it makes me think of
black on blue, which makes me
think of gyarados, naturally.

Ok, so this connection makes no sense.
But I liek it.
So there.

Thbbt.

Unassisted Flight of Dogs

My head is fixed like a skipping track on the image of a mouth without words.
I should be doing math homework, or, at the very least, writing something half productive--but I have no words when I'm thinking of mouths without words. There is speaking, still; always speakingmumblingmoving. But there are no words; words as in units, words as things to be defined. I have escaped the sharp of definition, just this once, just for now, at least, and I will enjoy it to the ends of my fingertips. And I don't know how to do math homework when I can't even look my fingers in the eyes; they're thinking of wordless mouths, too.

I laugh after I lie--I'm very bad at lying.
I laugh when I am uncomfortable.
I laugh when I am too comfortable--when I realize I am running away with something.

I am a soaring dog; I don't know what is seen of me, but there is more; there are imperfections in my flight, ragged-tipped pinions and some other things and such--again, I'm terribly distracted from words tonight. But that does not alter or extinguish the fact that, for a moment, I may be very close to what is seen of me: a soaring dog with no tangible means of flight. No definition; I will not define. I often want to, but for some reason, that inclination is now pressing its belly low against the dirt. It is sleeping. It sleeps at night; I do not. I do not have to. I do not want to. I will not say that I am two different people at night and day--I do not think anyone is that cleanly divisible. But I am very fond of shadows, and the part of me that is fond of shadows is easily lured out by them--and the other, which has spent a whole day doing math homework and all such fussy business, is all to happy to sleep and let the other press against its wordless shadows.

Fern

I think I curled my fingers.
I didn't mean to curl my fingers.
I wanted to curl my fingers.
I liked curling my fingers.
I hope you didn't notice me curling my fingers.
I don't even know if I curled my fingers.

I am a fern at your back.

I have been carefully constructed for the purpose of suspense--sulfur lipped burning down to blackened fingertips--that is, I am made for it; not necessarily to survive it.


There is a sentence I cannot keep from replaying in my head. I do not know if it has a serious bone (word?) in its body, but it's fucking me up. Bad. I don't think it was supposed to have meaning out of context, but fuck, it does. Did you know it would? You couldn't. Nobody could. But I'll say it now: I've got a mean history with those words. I've written stories (well, almost written stories) about those words.
Fuckfuckfuck.
I can't even remember how it was said. I have a shitty memory, and I hate forgetting things like this. But I know it was said, because now I'm fucked, and that's the only explanation for it--it must have been said.

Hm.

I think something is off. But I can't put my finger on it, and I think I don't give a fuck. I have never been so comfortable. I have never found such pleasure in nearnesses.

I have never been this person before. That is to say, I have always been this person, but never in full. Only in potential; always in potential.

And yes, this is ending on a gush-about-loving-my-friends note. It just...it feels so comfortable. I can make faces. I can move. And I am moved against.

luff.