May 3, 2006
Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?
I have this faint memory of a phone call and a sinking feeling. Of suspicion and fear. And impatience and resentment. I remember arguing about bottles of wine and who they belonged to. I remember not really being angry about the wine. The wine was a scapegoat. It lives out in the desert now. Never to return.
You come into a person's life where you come in. There's no changing it. You know them when you know them, where they are and when they are. You know what there is. And when more is added, and when more is stripped away, you continue to know the shadow of what was there. Paper doll fashions leave their silhouettes. You learn the absence of the image better than the presence of it. The absence persists.
Even longing begets focus. Even the kind that promotes flailing and frenzy. But this other thing. It's like a problem with my eyes. I can't seem to just look at one thing for even a second. I am everywhere and all over the place. And all the while, I'm nowhere. I ceased to exist some time ago. No matter how much space I take up.
Died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.
posted by Mary Forrest at 12:48 AM | Back to Monoblog