Butterflew piebald and wry,
A ship’s skeleton,
Charcoaled ribs with no ghost of a sail,
Heads bowed stern,
As we all pass by.
I dreamt that you were dreaming of me:
We chased and treed the four winds and left them knotted,
Quivering and breathless against the trunk.
You had called to them,
Enticing arms stretched, inviting sly fingers rubbed like lips,
An enbowed beak,
And down they had slid.
I laughed and you cried; then we set them free.
Ellie stands in line.
She reaches into The Pocket of Secrets. All jeans have one, and although someone once told her that it was for keys or coins, she has always known that it was for small treasures. She uses hers to transport the unusual pebbles she finds. When the jeans are washed, she leaves telephone numbers and memos inside, rolled tight like a carrier-pigeon’s charge. Hot-legged from the dryer, she unfurls the scrolled messages like pirate maps, the edges worn and the ink faded but, with luck, the treasure still marked. She has missed many meetings and potential relationships to this testing ground.
Today, The Pocket contains: a plectrum (with a nugget of Blu-Tack cuddling one side), an origami x-wing crushed beyond all reverse-engineering, and a vague square of folded paper containing her bank details. She shuffles an index finger around, stew-swirling the contents and further damaging the x-wing (unknown to her, a tiny paper R2 is now lodged, bleating, under her nail) and fish-hooks the plectrum to the light. We think… yes, it’s the Blu-Tack she’s after, scraping a pea into her hand; a palmed pearl.
The queue edges forward, a laconic worm-ripple. Ellie extends a leg and traces an arc in front of her with a big-toe-stretch, yet remains in place. This annoys the people behind her, but we can tell that she is used to this – there is a space created that must be filled, but remains empty. Is she crazy? they think. Why isn’t she filling the zone? The empty area agitates the rear-queuers, as if someone might leap into the bank, balaclava-clad, and steal that lacuna, the place that is theirs, that is promised to them.
A robot proclaims: ” Cashier number four please” and the queue shuffles forward.
Ellie glides along. To leave a two-person-shaped gap might cause some violence, society is not yet ready for such a direct absurdity. But she has won one. One region. One locale. She steels her back to the pressing rear-queuer behind… she protects that emptiness from the strabismic limping of these drones.
“Cashier number two please” intones the lady-bot.
Ellie approaches, the back of a ‘paying-in’ slip already defaced, the Blu-Tack pea readied in her right hand like a sling-shot, we know that eventually, she will palm-knead it onto the cashier’s window, but what has she written? Can you see?
Here, Ellie leaves the house. Note the paused half-turn on the sill: face bowed, reflective; eyes tight and white-knuckled like sharp fists as she reviews The List of Forgotten Things. Confident, she shuts the door and makes two broad strides towards the gate before an abstract arrest sends her back inside, to emerge minutes later with an umbrella that, after a scouring of the local sky, is left lying inutile and limply pathetic against the porch wall.
In the street: Ellie walks delicately with a spread, lingering tread, long of stride and bent knee as if stepping over obstacles unseen. As if the street is a slippery kitchen lino, stretched and strewn with the toys of imaginary children. Further along she spies a dog-shit piled high, crusted and pat-a-caked like a christmas pudding, a shiny six-pence inside.
Ellie is going to The Bank .
Click that link, yank that tag, follow the crumbs to another exercise in mutual congratubation: “Wonderful how you love the way you beautiful way you words the feelings the words that love the way… as ever!”
Hoy llamé a, casa abandonada.
If you’ll like me, I’ll like you, and agree to review the potpourri of mental debris that you spew with a gentle praise, sentimental and undue.
My moniker, caressed with a mouse whisker briskly depressed will confess my address: check my shit, press it. (quicker!)
I plunge my beak in, for some sneak peekin':
Never an ill word heard.
Never a critique to speak of.
Never mind that it is drivel or makes no sense, like Elliott’s clever pretense, a collusion of narcissism keeps us riding the vanity manatee, splashing through the saccharine waves, protecting the Emperor from the elements.
De las paredes brotan arañas.