11 January 2008
Limbo
)Published on January 11th, 2008 @ 03:15:13 pm, using 417 words, 65 views
This came to me just as I had decided to experiment with fiction during a bout of inscrutable, overwhelming sadness that has since abated, and left in its wake a clearer, less elaborate perspective.
Her voice is fenced and gated. There’s the question of wrong and right, which she understands – understands full well. There’s the question of past versus future. And then there’s the question mark residing right inside that fist-like muscle of hers. Wedged (pretending it’s nestled) between wrong and right, past and future. An inoperable residence. It could just as easily have been the question between north and south, back and forth, night and day. But it’s humanity in the present continuous she has to contend with. It is very much past versus future, right versus wrong. A spot center stage and no prior rehearsal. Dusk, at a standstill. Neither night nor day. Neither back nor forth. Neither north nor south. That place. That hand she’s been dealt. Limbo. Neither here nor there. A hand met with a sigh instead of another willing to shake it. Perverse question mark that curls itself up top to bottom like an eager-to-please student – that wretched, genderless combination of sexy and obsequious. That combination that gets under your skin and makes it crawl.
So many questions dressed up for the evening, made up and made over, only to be stood up by answers. As an immediate reaction there’s a closing of eyes and placing of forehead on cupped hand. The hand slightly curved to receive the forehead which in turn rests there indefinitely in appreciation.
Sigh.
Silence.
In the morning, the wind blows and the birds chirp under her net, this side of her door, within her fence and gate. Air and sound thankfully know no bounds. Birds, in their invariably hyper state, whether big or small, whether free or in cages. The wind either fueling their flight or constantly reminding them of what they’ve been robbed of. In the morning everything feels more solid. The cages, the doors, the gates, the fences and the hope that in being solid they’ll prove easier to open.
That fist-like muscle of hers and its wormy question mark, ready to explore – any fruit this morning is likely to bear.
Damien Rice - Grey Room/9
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
Fiction, limbo, present, future, right, wrong, voice, bounds, questions, answers
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