I wouldn't know how to describe a painting or a sonata, but I can tell
someone how I feel, though they rarely know what I mean. Words fail me often,
but nobody notices. They aren't listening anyway. One person knows me.
When I talk to him I feel like a knife in a drawer, because my words have power.
The possible damage would be irreparable.
He and I are like a house falling apart. Our sidewalk is askew and our
mailbox is missing. It is painted pink and yellow. We love it, it's unique. Last
night I stomped my feet through the floorboards because I wanted to feel my toes
in the earth. I pushed my hands through the ceiling and kicked down the walls. I
know he wonders why I do things like that. I just wanted to let some air in. I
said, 'Look hon, now we can see the stars.'
He brushed off the debris and put
me to bed. He won't sleep tonight.
His thoughts stay up with the moon trying to exercise the demons in his
mind. Too intelligent, too spiritual for his own peace. A shaman, unstuck in
time. A stroke of genius and a slap in the face of this world. Always restless,
searching for answers. Impulsive and inspired, writing down his thoughts.
Funny stories about Elvis and his followers, the Elvi, or dirty poetry. Painting
his visions on sheets that hang from the eaves or painting me with psychedelic
designs. It doesn't matter which. All of it makes me want him more.
Some things I say to him are like sour notes played too often. I'm out of
tune. He always sings along. Our waltz is better than most, I suppose. We
know the steps by heart. The world moves...