written/non-written things by me (from 2005-2008)

Friday, May 11, 2007

Buried Somethings

, originally uploaded by gofeetgo.

Last night I had an intense dream in which I was rubbing my belly and the flesh was viscous and rubbery and I could pull it like taffy high above my body. When I released the skin it slowly settled back into regular form. I patted my stomach and felt around to my lower back, around my kidneys. Pressed into my skin and felt two pool ball sized masses. And in my dream I believed that I had discovered the source of my illness, which ever illness I believed I had in the dream. I felt relieved and tremendously excited at the discovery. When I woke up I patted around my back, but they were not there. I felt disappointed and my non-dream inner narrative told me that I haven't found it yet, but its there.

Then I came to the computer and typed this. Its about no one in particular, that is to say I do not recognize myself in there. I truly wonder why I wrote it. I think its a moral.

When she was younger and childishly hopeful she believed that if she collected enough of them she would have a gallery in her room big enough to impress someone special. And at this age making a spetacular impression with someone special was confusingly conflated with the love that she observed elsewhere, with elsepeople . And some how, after years, and with the mundaniety of acquiring them day in day out, grew a depreciation of them as what the originally were. And she no longer spoke of them lovingly and their attainment came with no stories told with passion like they once were. And eventually someone special came along and she led them in and showed them and spoke anticlimactically and matter-of-factly of their existence in the corner of her room. And thusly they looked upon them as an oddity and an obsession; and they permitted the thought, though their relationship was new, that her collection was actually a sadness. And being not so much "unimpressed" as so much as they were unsettled she failed to see this person as the special person that they actually were. And she never thought of it, but a long thin unraveling thread lay loose along a dank tunnel. And if perhaps she followed the trail of the limp string she might eventually recover what was tethered to the end. But she hesitated at the opening. Hesitated and assessed with her hand the bowl of air in her stomach. It was always there. And in an anxious moment she always assessed in this way. She wondered if she was fearful of anything. This thought pivoted her toward the corner of the room where they were. And she noticed the end of string and realized she had had it all these years. And it was buried.

My name is Hannah Pierce-Carlson