See the *** denotation of where draft 1 ends and 2 begins, if you’ve already read the first half.
They’re showing up again. Half-crescents lending themselves to godly things, then bending back to hell. I don’t mind either stature. Just as long as it keeps appearing, in one field, out the other, as I lay back, answer things, questions, to the bedposts.
327 post-it notes later, the bed-frame skirts itself in tid-bits. Fragments along the wood-grain; still-bodied image or bone, but nothing fits. No sentences are made. So I stick. One note for the morning; one for the minute before the sun dipped below the maple, causing red to crush the dust-mites in the hall; one for the wandering memory of an ex that straddled itself on the mantel while I brushed my teeth; one for the impulse to bruise the shoulder, hanging about on the ceiling; and, numerous repetitions for the thought of knees behind skirts, for wine under the carpet, gathering themselves like twigs for a thatch over my head. A patch. Cause for celebration or a stumble.
Moving into this note, another. Under the ground, the stirs are inevitable. If the telephone rings, my feet pace anxiously. Nothing has stopped the canary-voice, and nothing will. Last night, under the bed of post-it notes, the half-crescents shone their way through, like the plastic stars I stuck on the ceiling, but daintier and perhaps only in my imagination. Nothing cares for nothing if you can’t show it to another and say “look, what I see exists between us.” No, nothing cares for nothing unless the idea of it is tangible.
So the post-it notes are proof. Losing the mind? Left the kettle on. The bubbles in the bath are multiplying themselves over the other, under the other. Perhaps I haven’t clipped my nails. The train schedule has changed and Lord knows if I’d make it on time. Excuses, like these, ring.
Understand, leaving aside the bed-post, the stars stuck on the ceiling, the splintering images, the stirs limit themselves to no geography. Once on a voyage, the crescents, half mad and half gregarious, understand where your state of mind is. Understand when to let go and when to follow. Have a drink.
Caught me in the middle of my forehead. The canary-voice rings until I count to seven. Sometimes seven and a half, or as long as it takes to walk the corridor to the office.
You have one new message. Received at 4:32 PM. BEEP.
…Hi, um, I called three times last week and you never answered. So, um, haven’t heard from you in a while…let me know how you’re doing. If you are still interested in gardening advice, let me know. I, um, have some books on horticulture and I could come over and…Oh, someone’s beeping in. Call me.
Stuck on the banister, a stray post-it note. Something about geraniums. Geranium platypetalum, blue, often, or purple. 422 species. Which leads to a note about 422, or: CDXXII. The birth of Saint Genevieve in the year 422.
The crescents manifest like air-balloons and the corridor seems to harbor them the most at this time of day. And now it’s winter, the light is blood-stained now, a watered down orange more like, glinting through the blinds. Blind.
Tomorrow is the 3rd of January. Feast day of St Genevieve, born in the year 422. 422 Geranium species. The message was left at 4:32. Links. Have a drink.
Bodies can move through without one knowing it. Memories leave a string-path in the brain and in the air. Last night, while digging through the discount bin of frozen foods at the grocery store, a light came on. Not traditional, not florescent with the sound of classic 80’s in the background, but an opening up. And crescents fill themselves on these moments. Made the note on my dash, later, in the parking lot that the total rang up to 42 dollars and 20 cents. 42.2. Thereby, foretelling these afternoon events. Now, a drink.
As the canary-voice sings again.
You have one new message. Received at 5:50 PM. BEEP.
Charlie…hey buddy, haven’t spoken to you since you left the plant…a couple of the guys are gonna grab some drinks later tonight…be good to hear from ya, buddy.