in an effort to clean up ye olde hard drive, I found this:
You, your arms black, hot as asphalt beneath a three-pronged sun, beat down. Invisible, music in your ears and your head, loud as any drum and the beat, thump and thump and this is the body and you are invisible in all of your black, liquid, see-through vodka and gin and perfume. Your mother in spring, summer, smelling like Anais Anais, and Henry Miller, he loved us all once. He wrote everything down so we would not forget.
The inside of your mouth is made of metal and the sun, three-prong glint and smile, it has edges too and you wanted that, an outside sharp as any well-cared blade. You have three names and God. You never say it out loud anymore, but he’s gone, too. His is a name spelled backward, the stars in your heaven are five-pointed and upside down and they mean nothing, they are your button and your badge and when I look, when we see you there is a story, last page blank and I have a pen and maybe, maybe there is a way to write the words in foreign languages. Maybe there is love and maybe there is forgetting. Could we forget love? Could there be something else. The last paragraph ties it all together and this is storytelling, this is how we bring it back to the start. This is how everything begins.
It was a dark and stormy night; it was about music and slavery. I have two arms. They are not enough, but yours, black as pitch as tar as the inside and grey would be the colour, they are one of the reasons you fear the sun even as she settles in behind a cloud and the wind, the skin your outside a protector burns, goes down to red beneath the black and it is not enough, this coat, this armour, for it melts, just like ice, like snow, and we are cold. We say we prefer the cold, but we are liars.
There is warmth and my hand on the black, it is there I can feel it, above muscle and tendon and flex, release, the liquid you disappear inside the glass and we can no longer feel the ease of our joints – pins and needles rust due to lack of wear and movement. I stretch out my fingers and you, your hands are smaller than mine and yet you could wrap yourself around me, your two arms, and maybe I would disappear then, like stars in the black, gone down to sleep, enveloped by the asphalt, melted down into the road, the way. This is the only way to get; this is the only way we get from here
and the road, sticky tar black on the bottom of our shoes. Hold us there and stuck we wave to each other as if we are each leaving and yet we stay, and the black, I watch your arms, the black fades down to grey beneath the sun, three-pronged sun changes, adds one more and
I have no idea what I was going to do with it, but it is a poem, a story for Lucifer. Apparently. Like most of what I seem to write, it’s an exercise in words more than story. But, I found I didn’t mind reading it.
I spent a few hours yesterday analyzing Character, trying to get into Haven’s head. I know her, but it’s more of a construct, than a person. It was good learning, that was the main problem I had with my Alice story (Ellis, Underground) I had this world, and everything was set within it, but Ellis had no form. She was ghost, smoke. Impossible to hang onto.
This book, Gingerbread (Working Title, sadly!) is teaching me a many thing of this art of writing.
So far, it is at 12, 824 words.