isobaric wings
All wrapped up. You stand there, enrobed in a cloak so heavy it feels as if the rough material is collected with carpet and bound with bricks of thought. When you walk it swishes slightly, but clunks its stony chunks and weighs shoulders down so much that movement is difficult. The deeply rich burgundy warms my eyes and draws in through each inhalation, ready to flutter through veins. The colour of noise.
In the background his voice buzzes like the clicking and whirring sound traffic of the kitchen while layers of grandiose and textured piano build up. He may only be practicing but is carving and inching out intricate beauty. I lie on the cold slate tiles, with one ear to the floor, trying to envisage the meanings of the words laced in looms by a delicate piano; they seem to transcend linguistic barriers, slicing clean through the layers of plastic prattle and diving straight into the brain with visions of chilled winter roads speckled with ice, and the shivers which accompany its cloudy icicle breath. A road along which one could crushingly crash, if inclined that the incline were less severe.
I turn my head. The silver-grey rectangle carries on, through the night, to the last rites of our silence.
The sound suddenly dies through no fault of its own, the images fade away into a blank black space and i am left lying on the floor, looking up at a dusty, tinny ceiling. The staves, octaves and quavers are all trying to escape from this blank area but their rush causes dents in the metalwork above. Dents which disappear at the drop of a thought. Dents which were perhaps never there, and just a concotion of the brutal.
Physicality slips in slits, gets covered and caked in the dusty muck present in dripdrying rainwater and mud. People ignore. People who don’t ignore create fuss. For fifty seven hyperventilating moments, absurdly abject panic sets in. Brown paper bag applied to mouth. Can’t think. Can’t see. Don’t know why. Don’t know why I’m here. Don’t know why I can’t. Don’t know why i tried. Need sip of lifegiving water and home to bed, to dry soppingly squelchy clothes on radiators, wringing out the stench of rain on skin and tangled in hair, and burn away the cold. Away from being chatteringly soaked. Away from being me.
Lights. Action. Silvered reflections amidst electronic apparatus unknown. Flashes of energy unseen by eyes but felt and mapped and planned by nature. Take me away. Please. I’m asking for a reassurance which may never arrive.
In the haze of events past and the gentle patter of time falling through our eyes, i saw the moment, and for a second, all was serene. The words went away. The music stopped. Atmospheric pressure went on for others, but all that made me flittered away on the wing of an isobar.
Today I dream of that moment; it invades every small thought in every minute of every day. Unspecified time, unspecified location. Event unknown. Situation unknown.
When these events are committed to the papyrus of memories, i wish for your hand to write the first word.
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