Thinking again about surfaces

I think about surfaces, about contact with familiar things, like animals, fur, hair and skin. Actions of stroking, of suffocating affection, and I remember poor old Lenny from of Mice and Men. I think of childhood stories because I don’t read anymore. I suppose I see too many words everywhere, lots of hard information, its can all be very overwhelming. I like children’s stories and they like me  we like to imagine.

I think about surfaces again, and I think because I want to feel. This time the surfaces are cold and scaly like the side of a fish that slides down my cheek. Chilling sounds resonate inside me leaving eerie echoing vibrations running up and around my spine. They enter into my lungs like a speckling frost that takes grip and does not want to leave.

 

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Glue I swallow and there is glue. All the way down. It sits between my heart lungs and liver. Most of it, the largest most consistent quantity sits just bellow my breasts. In the middle where that hard chest bone ends and my stomach begins, high up there is a huge lurking sticky dollop of glue. As it dries wedged there, it becomes uncomfotable so I keep feeding it. I feel quite nauseas because of it. No, I don’t think of getting it out. I wouldn’t know how on earth to do that.

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Recently this thing whatever I might call whatever this thing is, has been clawing at my neck mostly from the front, its paws are soft upon the outside like a white rabbit. That kind of fairytale soft. Wonderful.

 

something like your interiority

It whispers and smells almost as though, it is bleeding from your nose, running. A thin liquid. dripping. from your nostrils saturating the soft hairs beneath, before it runs over your lips attempting to reenter through your mouth. Every time you lift your hand to dab it, to catch the next drip, there is another, and another. So your caught in a trap now and you may as well let it run  even though you might suffocate after an hour or so.

 

Held

It stings and it bites around my ribs pulling outwards my flesh. Widening my chest he grabs at my heart holding it still. He warms his hands with it. It hurts with great pleasure. The music stops. I am aware I am not breathing. Hanging, held in a moment in a sling, he holds me tight as all passes by me and around me at such a speed it seems, as if it were still. I question whether there are wheels on the bottom of this window. 100 cows, 1,000 fields, 6 churches go past. Hay barrels, hedges and trees come in and out of focus. I reach for the water I see down below, the soft drops of water that sit on the stones, I scratch my hand as it bristles down through the brambles. I ache for my reach to find touch…In the abrasion I notice a change in the current. I stop. I search for a smell and recall breathing. It is warm around my face, a heat plays close upon my lips and around my neck but still, there is no breathing, nor is there blood and neither even a graze to my hand. All surfaces I realize, are lost, vanishing over and over drifting by as though they were never there at all. What if I move now, will it make a difference?

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Passing train

This is not a dream

This is not a dream but a kind of reduced environment of elements, which signal to parts of your imagination. Things that you once knew and now see again before you in a different light, from a different angle. This is not a riddle and I don’t play games I just place things so that you can see. Rarely do I remove things and sometimes I don’t move anything at all. I make gestures instead like when I was over there. Sometimes I use both arms and point two ways with my legs, which can be confusing, but I don’t lie. I promise you that.

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Horror is a genre

What you see in these images is what was captured, unaltered. Im trying to show you so you can see too.

They are real images of real things, how can I put it any other way?

In some places the sizes are lost, made smaller, the dimensions change, and so you move differently from I and I stand here and you there and  from all angles there are new dangers, new possibilities of seeing what I saw,just in and from a different place.

I wonder if for you the surface, the tactility is lost? Im not sure thats what Im trying to get at, or hold on to anymore, at least not just that. It always slips away like your hands as they pass me, and everyone else in the street. I question with nothing to hold on to, if I can get through? And I’m unsure if I can go around.  To get to the other side. To reach what is beyond the surface. On the other side of the screen.

The light settles of on my skin. As I look down I notice the hairs standing erect upon my arm, like soldiers lined up and waiting. I see all the details, the cuts, the faint freckles, the white gelatine hovering pimples of a goose. A shadow, a large weight of black covers me, my head and my entire body bathe in as it passes over and is gone. No longer can I see my skin . Further more, I am no longer sure whether I am in the same place.

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