Miracling

July 11, 2010 § Leave a comment

I did not intend to become the soul that people reference while pressing their sticky palms on shop windows, or while leaning out of car gesturing to inanimate objects, or pointing at some winged building afar.

How can something that has no relation to me remind someone of me? And yet every morning: ‘a flamingo, there was a flamingo and it reminded me of you.’ Or ‘we looked up, and there was this cloud in the shape of an abandoned lighthouse, and it reminded me to call you.’ Or ‘I found a hole in the panelling where a knot had come loose, you know, like when you press your finger on the black bits and it falls into the hollow beyond. And then I remembered you.’

When I saw this house beside the forest I remembered the miracle, and I understood. It’s a bitten-off connection, it means nothing and everything. Strangely, three days later, the miracle returned and I accepted that this word was used to take back meaning, not to explain. Our evening, my invention, your haphazard dreaming.

Really, I only drank with you because you had a pretty name, and I liked watching it appear on my phone again and again. And while cutting out shards of paper and slivers of another for my wretched collage, I realised we are none of us as ‘nice’ as we would like. I mean, I try to be good, but that’s a very different state of being. And perhaps I repeatedly mask all of this and make myself the victim because I wonder what the hell I would be if I were not…the victim. Fear of finding out what I really am capable of? Hitting some happy balance between kneeling and walking?

How do I patch a hole that existed before I did? Even, before I was my idea of myself, or my mother’s. The sun burns on and the hole creeps further open, the great sore sphere of things.

I remember only our conversation of weeding a garden which we ‘allow’ to grow, oh damn our human pitiful conception of control. The sun is laughing down upon us. The storms have washed the sign that swings in the wind and sings ‘it is midnight in the garden’ to the backing bass of sighing trees- still we learn next to nothing. If being bored to bedlam was bound to happen, the garden too was bound to be tamed, like a tired tiger bowing to big-top terror.

Everything grows in a riotous rush of green, and in one 4×4 metre patch of earth, I play god with clarkia and watering cans. It helps me understand.

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