it’s one of those weeks where i don’t fold my laundry, passively living out of a basket until it all gets confused and i wash it once again. i wake up at your house, the walls are windows and the sun’s light is harsh on a cold winter morning.
on the walk back we are swift and with our heads down the whole time. i tell you about memories from my childhood. how my mother would have us leave our shoes in the doorway of our bedroom while we napped. when we awoke we’d be left with fruit leathers or stickers in the pockets of our clogs.
to hold a baby:
in my dreams i don’t know how to hold a baby. i am stiff in a body made of fool’s gold. but in the daytime light of an empty bar i am hypnotized by an infant gaze finding it hard to shift my arms out of the cradle they’ve become. for the first time my hips feel like they are in exactly the right place and i am warm with prolific light. my cocoon mind is at ease as he sleeps on my chest.
later i am home alone. i am looking at all my belongings. i feel like a child in my surroundings. i am disappointed to feel so young, i want to take care of something. i decide to draw the bath, read a book in the lukewarm water. the pressure on the tub is hysteria. by the time i step heavy-footed into the ceramic womb i cannot imagine reading a single word. i wonder if this is what it feels like to be a baby.
as of recent i find it so easy to get my work done. like, how could i have ever found it challenging? i find that with this new ease in the banality of everyday life comes a feeling of work to be done, a lack of time. like everything i’m doing is really nothing and what i want to do is everything.
where the world is so forward i find myself slowly dreaming of going back as far as i can’t remember.
