To write builds a dead world to mirror
what is familiar is likewhys what
you may habituate to
the world you made of a view
you think you own the
world but only the
self made problematic. Call it so and
it answers. I call you
Joshua. You answer as
I. I am an I too, apparently
to you I am Stephanie, but you
don’t call. There’s no why
to know. Knowing there’s no why
there’s only the world familiar to you
without me. The understanding in asking why
is you know there will not be answer
because there isn’t one already.
This is the reason behind why
your 4 year old harasses you
with why, she knows
you could kill your world with it. Too, she knows
why is because, and it’s not
because you said so. Everything is because it is
everything is all because why
this fit of hers appears childish to you because you think
she is. Without asking, she’s cooperative
with wonder. In essence, she’s it.
You say she is Sophie.
Say it, Sophie. Sophie. See here, look. You’re Sophie. I’m Daddy.
No, you’re Sophie.
Yes, good girl.
Sophie is a good girl.
Yes, you are.
No, I’m a boy.
You’re a bad boy!
No no no NO!
She runs until she knows she’s out of the range of his game*. She doesn’t take Sophie.
Her father sees Sophie run
in his head. That’s where Sophie is. The nameless does not fit in the world
of the named. The 4 year old body runs through the house
perceiving as much of the nameless
before the nameless is separated, as she will be into things, many things, all of them, too many to name. So many that Sophie will forget some she’s supposed to know
as a good girl who answers as if she is certain
she is Sophie. She may die trying to be this good girl named Sophie. Other Sophie’s have.
*The force of his insistence builds walls around a form that’s supposed to be her, and this form feels them contract. Too, she feels her sense of the Self contract and reflexively flees.
There’s no feeling in an answer, maybe behind, maybe in front, between the words, the space between thoughts, before an answer, you feel the feeling you have it. You think the feeling you hold on to it. You love the feeling so much, you give it all your attention, but the feeling does not have arms, either to hold your attention or defend itself with. So it goes. I felt it. I had it. It went through me. I put everything in it. I put it up this nose and smell my hands, on that feeling. I wear it like glasses I wear it out. It doesn’t break or crumble like old cake, it is gone as if it never was. As if it never was, it wasn’t. If it were, where was it again? It flushed my face. I had a handle on it then my hands tingled like charged. I felt a renewed sense of purpose, I touched your face, wanting to connect you with the feeling. I had you both close, the most was possible. I should have cut off my hand and given it to my other hand. I described it to you, your curiosity, your demand, has a habit of deadening wonder, its sense, its nonsense, your nerve, what nerve, my nerve cells, condemned to inhabit me, they can’t be trusted, unfree, but I was, I will to, take moments back for myself with your very tool, I evoke what I felt, but I feel the familiar, immediately, this immediacy collapses under the weight of my past here, passed, but I’ve made a work of its narration that will never be finished, not even when I die, as I cannot write “the end” when I’m dead and if I could, I’ve been unable to write every thing accurately as it has come, a fool’s gold of a life. I feel the discrepancies as guilt. I have not bothered with how I got here, how I got from A to B is difficult enough to write, though now it seems so easy, the residue of my want, red handed pen holding it will not run but out of ink. The scenes anticipated to direct, a fly frozen in the ice cube of my bourbon, the water left over undrinkable in its tastelessness, the memory of its previous forms palpable to my tonguing.