echoes in sand

Sunday the 13th of November, 2005

She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.

Several cameras

Wednesday the ninth of November, 2005

What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I'm boring like that. I don't rise to your expectations. And I'm flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don't get and didn't see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren't who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I'm looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you're with me, I'm looking away when we're together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That's how we know each other.
Together let's go on an expedition. We'll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.

Worn through

Saturday, the 4th of November

Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.

Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.