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Note To Self

 

Notice a door on an invisible wall then open the door, walk through. On the other side is another world where you are not totally sane.

 

Shut the door. Go all the way in and stand there in the open.

 

Feel exposed in the most unattractive way possible, that’s to say naked in a parking lot kicking thoughtlessly at the air.

 

An uneasy crowd gathers around you. Be there, in the middle of all those people, without language or anything that can explain away your body. Stop faking.

 

Notice how everyone is of the same mind that is trying with language to take apart whatever it is they think they see. See, at this moment, that you cannot be taken apart. See how this makes everyone uncomfortable.

 

Think about that. Discover your brain.

 

*

 

Your brain, that is like a house. Your parents are in the next room. Your sister is on the sofa. And you are still small enough to wiggle into the crawl space where it is impossible to figure out where you are.

 

Think of the crawl space that is your brain. Pull at the loose insulation in the center of your eyeball. Recall the cold dust coagulating between the door and a cable box. Bear in mind the drips of water from the ceiling to the floor. You don’t know how small you are but you know there is always too much of your body.

 

Judgment is constant. It is living into four walls and a ceiling. It is continuing in the narrative of crawl space. The electrical wire is hooked from the cable box to your eyes to the very old reason you are the way you are, your arms wrapped around the neck of immense quiet.

 

Silence has hurt you.

 

I wish there was a language drawn up from the feeling of a rug being pulled from beneath your feet. I wish you could comprehend into the face of hideous loss. I wish I could tell you what happens when you die.

 

But you know. How can you not know? You curl up and try to become every kind of five by five foot space — so restricted in your thinking.

 

*

 

How about you forget thinking. Come back to indescribability in the parking lot. How about you touch your foot to bewilderment. Walk barefoot over it. Feel it split between your toes and into the same wrong emotions you’ve had your whole life.

 

Thoughts are just thoughts, they can be anything you want them to be. Let’s make them a bird or a peach or a tornado siren. I’ve learned there is no imagination in despair.

 

Now don’t move, stay perfectly still. Everything is beginning and the beginning is easy enough when you welcome mystery back into your shoulder blades. Draw silence into a simple circle. Make it uncomplicated.

 

Divide it in half and then in half again and into another shape that fits nicely inside your imagination. The world will come back to you. You will know it when it happens. It will be too hard for you to explain.




Ginna Luck