a glittering container of crystal and mottled mirrors. an exquisite dome built around me. i spin in circles and you show me how to dance until you drop my hand and smile before walking away. just leave. i - must - get - out. what can i use to smash through? you take me by the hand once more and we dance in circles across the mirrored floor.
my great, great aunt wore canary diamonds that were said to be the size of gull's eggs. they decorated her hand like an ostentatious Christmas tree. she had an antique birdcage carved from ivory (or was it a doll's house?) that had been in the family for generations. she would rise before first light and be seated for breakfast by five o'clock sharp - never being late for morning mass. each day she would descend the grand staircase in her black silks and fine lace and float into the mahogany dining room. the long table was set as though for a banquet and her seat was at the far end. they served her bloody rare steak and grated raw carrots with a squeeze of lemon juice. these quirks only manifested after the tragic death of her daughter. "one of those mysterious fevers," my mother would recount. she had wanted to be a nun but had been forbidden that life. the death was God's punishment. my large family is peppered with eccentric widows of means. "the widows were the lucky ones in those days, many of the females had ended in asylums." discarded by greedy husbands and nefarious uncles. my mother was made to visit them. she never talked about it, aside to say it happened. before her death, she promised my mother the hand carved ivory birdcage (or dollhouse). my mother knew she would never see it. this always made me quietly outraged, believing she had suffered a great injustice. her feelings however, are quite different. something far more valuable had been gained in the form stories she could tell to me.
i balanced my notebook precariously on the edge of the tub. the day did not have enough hours - i do not believe in multi-tasking. do one job at a time and do it well. by my own standards, bath time was not gaining my full attention. i left my body to soak and wash itself. i had been late to everything that day. late for my morning walk. late to eat breakfast. late to turn on the washing machine and boil the kettle for tea. inspiration, unfortunately, keeps to his own time. like an unreliable lover who is known for cancelling engagements. you can sit and wait patiently but he will never arrive as planned. it's only ever when you're busy and your mind is occupied elsewhere - that is when he'll arrive and frantically ring on your doorbell. He's here. Drop everything.
are we zombies until caffeine? am i at least? my mind, it wonders and i start to think of a wandering mind. what would that look like, floating around? i imagine it contained, but why? that wet, spongy thing making soft, sloppy sounds. it requires a vessel - a jar perhaps. not unbound. not free. i ponder, would it be different to be judged by brains alone? no body. no face. no shapely skull. no encased mass. what would we appraise? by size, or weight? would it determine a lover's pick, or who they vote as president? the friends we make, the jobs we take, and even maybe the coffee we drink.
how can one succeed when you look in the mirror and like not what you see? is there no rest for those who run after that which is less? if i could remove the part that does lack what would become of a heart that turned black? and is there a way to turn back the clock and somehow regain that which is lost?
the house it burns around me, the carpets and the walls. the curtains fall and crumple, and melt upon the floor. the smoke it swirls around me, and quickly fills my lungs. but i forget to notice and remain within the room. i stand arranging flowers to make the room look nice. the house it is still burning, the pain cuts like a knife. i feel the heat envelop and burn against my skin. but i must arrange these flowers, to them i am akin.
perceiving a lake in the distance obscured within a knotted forest. the path, at first, appeared quite hidden and the lake beyond my clasp. so profound were those waters - the glass surface glistened and shone, but underneath was murky, i faltered: what hidden bodies would i unearth? the sylvan setting seemed hospitable and concealed my lake from view. my arms they bled from wading branches and following the path i knew. determined was i to swim those waters, pushing until i could break through.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 