Oct
5: Tonight a honeybee in winter, deep, deep, curled inside this cell,
this frozen cell made of, of what? I don’t have the science for
it, the words, maybe saliva and then something; something is mixed
inside the body and formed: a perfect octagon. Sometimes my wings feel
like dry leaves tumbling in the wind. So brittle. This disconnection, a
few inches distant, whispering. Where is the hive? I can’t hear
its breathing. Alone in a community is truly alone. Out there is
Sweden, outside a hole in a thicket near an underpass. I dream of
sleet, snow, rain, fog. Short days, long nights. Very long nights. They
sting.
Oct 11: Hard rain, and a soft song on the radio.
Oct
19: My fingers, the way they tap-tap-tap. The way my knee hops when I
cross my legs. My ankle flexes. I’ve got this thing inside, this
energy. I want to do everything now, this very second. My fingers
tingle. My breasts. My lungs are too small for the breaths I take. I
can’t explain. I have a thousand letters to open, letters
I’ve been waiting for, am excited for, but then this few minutes
to read them. And the unread? As if never written. How many thoughts
will I never give in reply? A friend of mine says he despises the
library: it stinks of death to him, all the books he will never
open. How many kisses will I decline? How many empty stages stand
silent? My chest hurts with all of this, this fluttering pressure. Or
is it scratching? I’ve got this animal inside, and I am scared,
overwhelmed, because what if it ends, all of me ends, before I identify
this animal, before I understand how to use it, what it’s here
for, what it means; before I let this animal run free?
Nov
14: I do not want to call it dreaming. More a dull thrashing, as
alcohol dreams are never vibrant, never telling, or even remembered.
Only a soreness of the body, as if after swimming, or sex. Only a wedge
of puffiness, shadowy half moons beneath my eyes. Only a stirring of
self disgust—with no known cause! Only an effect. Alcohol dreams
are wasted dreams. One afternoon I awake wedged between a toilet and a
dripping wall. I have on my clothing and a damp parka; my body sweated
dry. And then a small wound in the shape of a question mark in the
center of my left palm. All of this, and the strange words “Mice
in the flour! Mice in the flour!”—they fill my head, all
morning, yet I recall nothing.
Nov 18: Spongy ticking in my ears. Recurring? Roll of the rain.
Nov
20: Birds. So many varieties of birds. There is a method of holding a
bird in hand. You must press; cradle the feathers with an exact
pressure. Apply too little, and it will flinch, peck, flail, twist from
your fingers, and fly away. A bird’s bones are hollow. Its organs
are light and tiny, as needed for flight. Its heart doesn’t so
much beat, as hums. Apply too much pressure, and it explodes.
Dec
23: They do not please me, my dreams, but I tell them. They are true. A
field of children doing the hop-run-hop they do, their voices sparkling
out. And then they leap up, higher, twist and change, into butterflies,
thousand upon thousand butterflies. Worms, shimmering worms, with
wings. They eat the grasses with open mouths. They eat the flowers.
They eat the root and the thorn and the blue from the sky. They eat
time, which I mean as everything. They smell of black pepper and
rotting peach. Pulp and grab and smash and cry and cabbage green
juices—they smother me. I fall consumed. I feel a tapping on my
shoulder. A drop of rain? The lid of the sky cracks into nine distinct
sections. A glazed darkness rushes down, a mass of spots, edges,
things. It isn’t rain. It is butterflies.
Dec 26: I dream a man walks into my bedroom, ties me to a chair, and then leaves me alone, untouched.
