Saturday, February 28, 2004
a dead bluebottle at 1:45 a.m is a desolate kind of thing, even if it is a bluebottle. does it rival huddling in the pale clinical stare of a tubelight at 1 a.m, scribbling inside a battered blue notebook with a skinny red marker? no, that isn't desolate. that is the muse setting the mind afire, even if with a soggy whip of brown shoelaces, barefoot on a cold floor. desolate would be an empty road and yellow lamplight and the misty dew-drizzle of the lightest rain. but no, even that could be a moment.perhaps i feel loneliness for the outstretched sparkle of dead wings and metallic glimmer of stilled-not-squashed fly corpse because i killed it. a neat slap with a rolled up copy of the new newsweek, and one more just to make sure. but no, i think in the mind's eye the photographer within is juxtapositioning the brown of the wood and the blue of the body- so small next to the towers of CD cases- and giving it to the poetess, who is carefully snipping the lace-trimmed silences of this time of night-day and framing the image. yes, i suppose i could afford myself sentimentality, however moribund, for a while, if only because i cannot sleep.
i could, because in the quietude of these nighttime shadows i know so intimately, a whisper is enough. as i move through the rippling lightdark, sinuous and liquid, i am creature of myth...of fantasy. a doppelganger of the wakened world, with secrets behind the dark glimmer of iris and feather touch of fingers. and all only because i cannot sleep.
Mina at 2:05 AM
