The morning wakes to her voice, like sweet scented wind whistled through the lips of a tropical canopy. Birds gather at her window (barred), wings flapping like a million men running on dry underbrush. The rain inside drips like the pounding of silent piano keys (drumming fingers on wood). Gunshots suddenly (lightening) puncture through the canopy somewhere (men run frantically now).
She has collected her songs in a jar, to sing some other day.
The scarf hanging behind the door flickers in my peripheral vision. It isn’t cold out. The scarf has been hanging there from several winters ago, faded and dusty now, partially moth-eaten.
No face emerges from behind the door. The door does not budge. Yet it seems as though the scarf has become an effervescent vapour that moves to drafts of air blowing through the door’s woody fingerprints, but the air is stagnant
The baby-tongue of my lantern’s flame stands, twitching only slightly. My shadow on the wall is a malformed apparition and the moon cannot be seen from my window. The scarf still flickers in my peripheral vision and I expect you to walk through that door.
“Leave living to those who know how to do it.”
Cleaning out your home after you passed, I finally understood.
The screen comes in and out of focus. There are patterns reflected on it from today’s pale sunlight. It will rain today, heavily.
She begins her day like any other – with the brown slop-substitute for food. Out the door now, in the car, she goes over what she must accomplish during the day. There are several emails to reply to, mostly from Rob, her editor. She writes slogans for a living; things like Coca cola’s “Open Happiness”. Though not for a multinational company, and not for half as much money as the person who wrote that (slop).
Rob emailed her about a meeting with a big client of their’s – some new office supply company. She wonders if her life could get any more mundane than it is now and concludes that it is possible. Upon further inspection (though), she cant see how.
The clock’s cubic orange numbering tells her she’s on time, punctual, as professionals are supposed to be. She has been debating turning on the radio like she usually does. There is something peaceful about this town in winter.
Brush in black water. Green swirls of pain transcend from her pink fingertips. She strokes the canvas again, once tenderly, once with rage like the black water she cleans with. Thick oil paint hides delicate rips in canvas. The paint is red now.
She paints dripping rain-water, waterfalls on stairways. She paints in water-washed floors, and a bright window that makes the inside glitter. Brush in black water again. She treads water.
The painting is left to dry, infront of the bright window that makes it glitter. The painting is left to fade, in the piercing sunlight. The painting it left to peel, crinkle to powder and be washed away in flowing crystals.
The rips in canvas are bare.
Clouds hang in the air like saddness, post-rain. Moisture, sweat and synthetic esters fuse to a fragrance she remembers from long ago (in a garden with a sprinkler and a dog and a little dead fish to bury).
She shuffles her feet to the shower.
(We are gathered here today…)
Unzip. Unbutton.
(to honour the short life…)
Untie and brush.
(of Flappy the Fish…)
Undress.
(She was a joyful fish…)
Stand.
(with a heart full of love…)
Fidget.
(She led a full life…)
Scratch.
(and made our lives full…)
Draw water.
(…May she rest and peace…)
Whats done and said does not matter.
(…as she lived in it…)
Its always a happy-ever-after.
Maybe its time to switch perfumes.
Its raining inside.
She doesnt carry an umbrella anymore. Gray clouds make up for wallpaper and ceiling decor. Miniature lightening bolts strike corners in each room. There is always light. The floor she walks on is flooded. Her toes numb and blue from the cold. She used to wear warmer clothes when it began. Plumbers were called, heaters were installed. They couldnt fix anything.
She went to bed that night, drenched. Droplets fell on her, rain ceasing to drizzle as she slept. The water soaked through her blanket, clothes, hair. But her skin didnt wrinkle and the food didnt spoil. Water rolled off tables and papers as if it were nothing. It flowed from under doors, around the legs of chairs, but the wood didnt swell. The rain inside kept noise away. All she heard from then were her feet splish-splashing as she treaded, the tup-tup-tup of drops somewhere, the rush of a waterfall as it flowed down the stairs and the endless pelting of raindrops as they fell from the ceiling.
Then she came to love the rain.
She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, standing in a halo of light. A neatly stacked selection of identical, transparent containers displays itself, of which she picks one, opens it and examines the contents. A brownish sludge of what once must have been food is all that is left inside. She snaps the lid back on and stows it away, picking another container and doing the same. After scrutinizing the contents of five boxes, she reaches the sixth. From the sixth container, she empties three tablespoons of the distasteful brown soup and warms up her meal in the microwave. The darkness outside causes a partial reflection of her image to form in the kitchen window. She stares intently at herself – past herself – as she brings half-filled spoons of leftover broth to her lips.
After having eaten and washed, she puts the lone pink bowl she has been eating from back in its individual cupboard and leaves.
The bathroom door is closed and firmly locked. She keeps her eyes off the mirror and on her hands as she washes. Soapy foam slides off to reveal blue-green veins that snake like seaweed from her wrists to her fingers. She washes her face, dries herself, steals a glance at the mirror and thus begins her daily, unfaltering routine to nothing.
 | vics on More on my readings of Adrienn… |
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