Impressions

Some stream of consciousness poetic prose I wrote the other day... I didn't go back and revise it, other than a few words here and there. It's just an example of how I write.

I remember there was a VHS tape of three animated movies that I used to watch every day. Well they weren't really animated, they were cartoon pictures that faded from one to the next every few seconds and there was a voice narrating it and doing the dialogue. And there was a lazy summertime swamp where the frog lived. He jumped from lily pad to lily pad in bursts, the arcs fading, fading, and then he would go to sleep in the animated summer sadness. There were srawberry desserts and fields of wheat and ships where, when you went to bed in the moonlight, the creaking and rocking beneath your feet, there was a hook for your hat and you put your hat where the hook went. And you put your telescope on the hook for your telescope. And the ship rocked and creaked below and it was a world of animals.

Somehow I remember the frog at his most abstract when he sat and dreamt on a lily pad wearing his sombrero. I don't think it was a sombrero but it seemed like one. And the juxtaposition of the frog and my earliest impressions of whatever "Mexican" was to me, was a jagged sun striped rug thrown over a bandit's shoulder at the entrance of a cave. It was earthy like a dark, athletic and mysterious man smoking tobacco in the 50's and then passing to oblivion. And that's how life fades out, like that crackly "The End" in an old movie. And the orchestra is too full of something undefinable and iredeemable, vomiting weekday afternoons of cracked mirrors in houses people weren't supposed to be in. So sweetly vomiting uncharted dimensions of goodbyes. The scorched tail end of deteriorated film. Everything it meant, breaking into unrealistic triangles.

"Johnny's letters were all I had, and now you've made them dirty."

Being by the sea at night, high up on the gently stacked rocks, watching the waves crash down below, the wind in your face and hair, those little houses off in the distance... it makes you feel so very close to death.

Among the shapely rocks, and emerging and submerged in the ocean, millions of sea lives you never knew at all, but you feel as though you love with an aquatic nighttime sort of love.

The mills and the gardens and the rills are all there in the novels, but that's just what they are, they're merely present. It's so subtle. But they can always be anything.

What was Achille Deveria trying to say? His paintings are beautiful but I can't tell if I'm reading too much into them or not. They could just be adolescent jokes or f**k-yous to society. In which case I would be disappointed that they weren't attempting something much more stimulating, more gorgeously lurid.

Laying down with his eyes closed in the middle of the park. That feeling of the sun beating down in his eyelids and the itch of the grass on his nape. The airplane engines overhead and the ticklish feeling of people walking around him but not quite touching him.

The next morning he walked up the stairs in the business center to use the drinking fountain and the water was so cold, so metallic, it seared through his teeth. The chrome lever of the fountain, the way it clunks gracelessly, like a dresser drawer that was put back into the wrong slot after being taken apart to be moved. Except more clinical; harder to explain.

Reviews

[Mauricio Montoya]

I agree it is more like a story, not bad, keep on writing. Great job.

[.quan.011.]

This kind of sounds like a story then a poem.