Marrow

Was told to write into the gaps, to widen them with some filling so that they no longer feel like missing teeth. Yet all that seems to come about from sitting here are days after and descriptions of flowers that they passed by in their walks together. Think of one person, that isn't who is talking. Think of another, and no longer listen to the gap. Now it's covered in words, in things battered and oiled over for easy sliding. Care for me while I photosynthesise.

Don't know what days begin with suns and which begin with shadows that lengthen, because the doors are shut and they aren't opening for anyone but the fairy of fire alarm sounds. Each day is a new beginning, and I confess I have nothing to write about on this scripture of an evening. I wanted just to press. I found a gap and felt like imprinting it with some sort of code so as to vacuum up its contents days after and be content with having written worth. But this worth will be measured in moments gone, and it is those I cannot fathom how to count, because I look back and see gums receeding, progressing to that state of bleeding where it is no longer worth cauterising. That is a blind state. It is a state when I look back in the powder room of echoes and pretend to pindrop systems and logic onto empty platters. All I get is shrimp, and an empty tube in my cocktail.

Very safely, do I think about the moments that have gone with a layer of gossamer overturned. Over time, and over re-membering, I have sewn images into the fabric so that the background of stars doesn't feel so distant. But oh, I seem to be tampering with reality. No, I'm not, I'm just passing up the opportunity for reality. Memory works by disguise, by hiding itself in a cell and pretending to be the nucleus, even though it has already gone. Whatever I'm chewing on, captured thoughts from belowtimes or cannon ball prosthetics, the words don't feel like mine, and the words I use are really flagging down things that are no longer present.

It's why I call it re-membering (I am taking Bhabha's term without permission). My family is everything and anything, put together how I like it, or don't but do anyway. They are just gaps on the surface of the tree. Memory allows them consistent enough figures, but one's memory can faultify and then what remains are the gaps that are filled anew with otherthings. Hats. Defibrillators. Caterpillars. Words with more than one L.

What I am putting together here, is a dentist's work, a something, but I can see it crumbling between my virtual fingers and puff away in the winds, meaning it's nothing. And yet, I have probably learned something from the doing.