Something I Wrote Once.

Don't feel so hot today. So I found something I wrote once and rewrote it. Sometimes that makes me feel better.




Up the Stairs, Left Right Right.

I had a center room once, no windows, just a door to an unlit hallway. I was never so happily terrified as when I lived in it, quietly, lightlessly.

Did you hear of that French cave diver woman? She lived underground for months and months, and when she came out she found she just couldn't live here under the sun anymore. She had changed. So she went back. Her last note told her husband she loved him horribly.

I’ve never seen the note, but I imagine the words as written in darkness, too large, skimming recklessly off the page, without direction but not lost.

Your rhythm changes without the sun. The goddamned sun tells you when to set your clock, when to sleep and eat. But in the dark, the soundless dark, you find your own rhythm, the rhythm of yourself, unconstrained by time and light. A new pattern, but not new. When you come out, you see what you once were, what you must again become.

The goddamned sun is out today, and I wanted the dark, and that made me think of that room. Also when I think of that room, I have a half-lost recollection of a secret panel. I put things behind it, things I have forgotten, things I never thought I could forget.

And oh yes, in another room, a lighted room, a wall of taped-up papers, words dripping across them sideways in a wild hand...
several wild hands...
wild and dark.