Hard floor, harsh light, naked body.
Cold ‘is’ the absence of heat and as such is a type of sub-condition. A little can feel nice on a humid, summer day and a lot can feel overwhelmingly lethal. But cold ‘is’ just a sensation. Neurons and brain reactions reacting to a lack of warmth. A lack of thermal energy and lack of activity from billions of atoms. The mind can freeze the body while the uncold, not warm sunlight watches in indifferent contempt. Andie knew a lot about sensations and enough about the cold. She strove to hold the power of sensation. Most people would of course notice the sharp rebuke of pain, but the cold skin of the knife found an eager audience in Andie as well, refreshing the hot hand of satisfied stabbing that gripped her. The human sucked in the iron tainted air that tufted up red globs of tulle, eyes closed, and surveyed her nervous system. How do you feel? Pain. Cold. Pain. Pain. Ridiculous, incredible, crippling pain. Relief. Death. The physical, fake feelings of pain and cold, she’d felt before. They were common symptoms of the human condition. Disease? They were some of the first be checked off. It had been cold at her father’s funeral. Corpse cold. Cold enough that, had the body been functioning, the brain-soldiers whizzing back and forth ordering the heart to do its bidding, the man would have stung.
Pain was a more difficult collectible to come by. Especially mint condition, rarely used, circa the beginning of time, pain. Painful pain was a novel ideal to young Andie. She would settle not for toe stubs or surface punctures.
Instead, a genius plan.
Two weeks, or fourteen days, or an innumerable lapse in time was all it took for the unnamed man to notice the lonely, lanky girl traipsing unattended. The setting; the place in town the mothers wagged fingers about and the business, ballooned men shuffled quickly past, heads down. There he forcibly shoved his own pain into her most sensitive spot. The swing-set stared back at Andie, sympathizing futilely. It’s kind gaze was unneeded. She had studied enough about calm to feign it. Target attained. The superficial pain of the ripping was what Andie wanted. Emotional injury: just a small present from the bearded, sneering cesspool of sexual smells.
No thanks was given. Check.
Andie’s mother did not know about pain. Prozac, the woman’s bottled saviour, allowed her to maintain a comatose, safe existence at 512 East Wisteria, preserved in the modest home she kept a shrine to her husband’s belongings. I suppose that was an experience too. Andie hated visiting her mother’s remains but the memorial home encouraged her pursuits of the conquest of human feel. Her father’s pictures, with their own variation, smiles, laughing or forced, showcased some of her earliest observations. Andie’s list began with her father. The over sized book had no bearing on her future decisions but the patent pages of varying, spherical yellow faces was an ironic choice for Daddy to read. “I’m happy” said Harold. “I’m sad” said Sue. The words, missing their connotations, their chemical, filed information sheets at this point, were reflected on the caricatured faces of Sue and Harold and Grumpy George and Bored Bob. And on the face of her father. Father. Daddy’s name when he was mad or sad or tired or sick, as he often was towards the end of his experience. Even at the youngest age of Andie’s memory span, the girl would search the pink pores of dad’s face for the true emotion he was experiencing, as he listed all the others. It was the robotic speech when he stole Harold’s words or the comical expression he stepped into when Sue’s complaint became his own. The give aways. Andie learned to read.
In ‘time’, father became as interminably unhappy as the ever-sad, immortal pages of her youth. Andie waved solemnly as she passed another emotion. The joy of collecting was consolation. The worry ate her stomach lining. Children always know when something of immense value is happening. Mothers and fretters should be aware that the young always have to fight the tense air the hardest. No need for shielding because they know. And so it was no surprise to Andie when the iconic scene occurred.
Mother, already full of her first half bottle of pills, sat her daughter down just like the moving emotions of the didactic silver screen. Of course it was different, slightly, in an obnoxious real way. And of course it wasn’t real. The camera pans away now as the two broken hearts collapse together in the illusion that they are alive and that their husband, their father is dead. Another illusion; like the cold.
Anyways, Andie inhales. Slow, deep, and sweet. Perpetually listing. Lisping. The smoke satisfies the empty hide and she waits for another vision to replace that of the green-gross shag. Ew, puky, disgusting carpet and majestic, colossal ships to carry her away. The musk of the smoke settled and snuggled around a homely, white picket existence but the sweet twinge that courted her nostrils promised more. The narcotics reached the small, cellular bubbles of her phantom center.
Now she kisses sweetly. Happy emotions are emotions the same. And love was a particularly double sided one, making it attractive, alluring. Dangerous! Andie almost abandoned the path for the false sensations and matter of his. He “was” Daniel. He made her feel at some points, real. Actually alive. Sometimes when the lovers lay together, Andie would imagine that the fingers, slowly dragging the nerve endings of her dust-composed forehead, were really there. She would make believe that the beautiful portrait of carbon atoms adeptly mastered by some overseeing puppeteer was a thing, not tangible, but ethereal and meaningful and immortal.
What a wild imagination!
What a crazy ideal poor Andie treasured.
Andie hearts Daniel. Check.
Andie hates Daniel too for tempting her falsehoods so fully. Check.
In the final months, Daniel and Andie shared a delusion housed in a small green army tent of the complete wilderness of Who-knows-where. The subtraction act they performed of all distracting items; TV, books, and abundant food, served only to make their bodies a greater absorption. Their tangible feelings heightened as their mental suppositions disposed. Every night they bathed in a lake where the water ‘is’ freezing.
She’s jumping in; jumping from thought to thought. The smoke lifts her, carries her body, pointing out a destination thought but snatching her away as she delicately reaches. Weed isn’t the emotion but the high presented her many.
Check, check, check.
The first few times, the welcomed intruder punched tears from her eyes with his sweet pretense. The last few times, she laughed quietly and increasingly, eliciting blank stares from walls around her. The times in between, she sat silently, eyes half closed, feeling.
The week before The Cold, she hadn’t inhaled. Andie wanted clarity. For all its wealth and knowledge of emotion, the drug was inhospitable to pain of physical kind.
Absence of emotion. Check.
The knife, deep in the rubber material, caressed the alluring nerves, sensitive to touch. The end. The life there was in death was found. Wild, wild incredible feeling. Then nothing.
Too bad Andie forgot.
The joy of marriage, pain of child bear, the nostalgia of old age.
She would have enjoyed the simultaneous break down of the false world at the onslaught of old age. Andie had forgotten all these emotions for the emotion that came.
Strange stranger stirring
Of this height.
Is he true
Or am I
The circus carcass remnants bright
wheeling pendants of mysticism
the clear night light.
Drowning druids with skepticism.
Deity druids draw strength and paint
it upon the etched canvas.
From models and disease of weak
The Intellectual yawns and says
"Pick up the knife
of envy and strife,
the earth will inherit the meek".
And the dirt deepens, beauty exhausted
as we lay in our pined for throne.
And our pores are seeped in
by the clay desired
and finally the end of the drone.
The end of envy
no longer to kill
to feel the thrill of life.
The end of life,
no longer to die
to end the monotonous light.
I'm sitting in my bath.
Edna sat here with Ophelia and you.
And I sit here with Sylvia.
Born from here and baptized here and returned to here.
As if this were our birthright.
The liquid thought bleeds others together.
No end or beginning to either or I.
It holds us together.
Or falls us apart.
Ceramic womb and tomb.
We live and scream and bath again.
To be clean. To question.
To be us and Edna and Sylvia and you and I.
To be born and to be baptized and to return again.
Taylor the Torn Turnip transforms terrible teaspoons of taken tears to tools for tapering tall.
Take time to think of Taylor the Torn Turnip's abili-T.
Coveted role glistens
And in a tidy, suburban corner
To the poor, misunderstood, self envious victim.
Wails and trails of tears supply
Gaseous, driving fuel
To the Conciet's mind's eye.
You may not come to this party of pity.
Bubbly bottles of pain shan't be split by the fifty.
Luxurious complaints velvet drape the heart.
The sought after part.
For ecstasy is thine who chooses to cry.
And woe is thee who wishes to die.
Spherous circles streamed
Valued for their glisten; like jewels.
And no one to listen.
I'm jealous of everything.
Mutant manifestations turn my eye green.
I wish I was he.
I wish I was she who now wishes to be me.
And speaking of green-
Check out the other side of that fence.
After birth to be buried back again.
Informidable enclosures fall
only so they may rise times ten.
Always a scar however.
Where the prior separation disection.
Already I feel the big frustration
Covering again the raw split-second opening.
Already I feel the regret, tiring
or crushing my heart or hope,
the two now different.
Uncrawl over the wall to rock comfortably in inexpression?
Forward march, stretch, reassemble.
Count casualities as casualities cringe.
And count the fallen of the opposing men.
I'm sorry for my stabs and ripples.
Apology they came without reason.
And I cry as we retreat to the neighboring homely cocoons.