they say jealousy is as deep as the grave

{listening: johnny hollow, die for love}

in truth, my whole book, the whole of Ellis, Underground, is written to Johnny Hollow or nothing at all.

Images of soot powder dancing girls as soft as mandala sand flutter lacy fans

and somewhere

a butterfly

fells a leaning tower.

I found that in chapter 4. I have no idea what it means except I know exactly what it means. That doesn’t mean it belongs. Doesn’t mean it shouldn’t go somewhere else. On the OWW, I’m told not to try so hard. They mean it in the nicest way (it’s a story I’ve heard before) and I want to tell them: there is no other way I know how to form words. That I could write a thousand things about a butterfly wing but am unable to say this: He went to the store to buy milk.

Instead, if I were to say such a thing about going for milk, I would say:

“Outside, rain. Fat, heavy drops and the holes in his socks let the cold in, skin to leather and damp, rubbed straight through to blisters and he limps in response. Ahead, neon-shimmer, blue to yellow, a letter missing and the slurpee machine has never been fixed and it has always been broken and he buys soda instead, sick-sweet and cold and it makes his teeth hurt and his tongue fuzzy and sometimes leaves him with a peculiar pain right between the eyes. But today it’s milk. Ordered, demanded, a phone call in the middle of the afternoon that was all accusing. All, you must go and you have failed and yes, just get the 2%”

That took me 1.5 minutes to write. It’s how many brain works. In ribbons. In bows. The other way takes me hours. A million sundays to pull all the meat off the bone and only keep the good stuff. I think it’s all good stuff.

I drank cupcake wine, and played Amnesia: Dark Descent and listened to Johnny Hollow and wrote 1, 428 words which is the most I’ve written at one time since as far back as I can remember. Part of today was made up of lemons. This is how we make lemonade.