DeviantArt
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
I am under seige. And as usual when my own reality is threatened, I squeeze myself into the smallest space possible. I am writing this from my wardrobe, probebly a few days before it’ll get to my blog. there’s a peice of paper bluetacked to the wall here, with a poem on it, ‘love after love’ it must have been years ago i put it here, but i know now why i had to keep it, so i could find it today. and it’s such a comfort to me. i feel as if everything inside of me is changing, and i don’t know who i’ll be when it’s over, like a belated or second puberty. sat in the bath with my knees pulled into my chest, thinking how funny my feet look under the water, i do my best not to look at my body, because it’s not mine, and i can’t understand how it got here. i’m down the rabbit hole now. i’m picking up speed. darkness light darkness. jars.
i’ve been too busy or too annoyed in the past two weeks or so, to really sit down and get lost in anything. but every month, without fail, bizarre magazine have enlightened me to something fabulous. issue 115 was no exception.
so if you’re not familiar with the publication, or just have’t gotten round to buying it yet, i feel i must introduce you to the wonderful ray ceasar. who’s interview pulled my heart out of my chest backwards, roasted it, and stuffed it back in again. not to mention his work, ha. i’ve never felt such an empathy with someone i’ve only read about, really, it’s strange.
after speaking about being born a dog, playing with dolls on his window sill, and working as a case-photographer at a children’s hospital, he moves on to the all important business of souls, which is the part that ‘got me.’
“my world and my soul exist in a big old mansion on the edge of the sea, and every picture is a room in that old place. the salt of that sea preserves me and each wave is a dream of what lies below the ocean.”
this struck a chord with me, i have always believed, without question, that my mind, and my soul is a house with many tiny rooms, stuffed with books and childhood toys, props from the films that have moved me, porcelain dolls of all the people that have changed my life and the people i don’t want to forget, dusty vinyl records, bulging boxes of photographs and stuffed animals. and whenever the world that exists around mine, the real, becomes to much to handle, i can escape to that place. walking the candle lit corridors, padding bare-foot across the creaking floor boards, peeking through each painted door to find a room where i can stay a while till the storm outside is through. even though the wind rattles my roof tiles and blows a few doors open that should be kept shut, even though the rain drips in through the odd crack in my ceiling, my house will never fall down. not ever.
tell me i’m mad if you’d like. but i like writing here. once i get my thoughts in order ‘on paper’, it begins to put them right inside my own head. you see?
