Sleepwalking Versaille / by D.M. Jerman

...in this moment I am swollen like a tear... 

I rip the poster from the doorway. The show has come and gone. It went well. I managed to unlock a part of myself to do it. It is the best it could be, and I have passed one test and now, hopefully oddly, there will be others.

There is a man whom I see on the street in stark contrast to the beautiful people. He is not homeless or drunk, but in fact comfortably dressed in clean clothes. He drinks a cup of coffee when he isn't using a broom or sitting for a moment. He is very crippled. He is most likely someone's uncle. He has few teeth, but a big smile.

I didn't know what to make of him at first, and now I know he is safe, and someone is looking out for him.

 I am restless with the feeling that the day has already run away with everything and everyone important. The hazy light and cool air seems to put everyone into a motion capture. The fresh blue morning aliasing me and my collected intentions out to the coffee shop to write. I'd been threading to camp here some day and people watch until something better pulls me away. 

That day is today.

I'm reading a book so short and good that I will probably finish it in one pass.

Here there is a cappuccino and croissant and soft music and three female baristas who laugh and twitter on, and I think about flirting and my husband from the late night previous. His brown eyes sparkling with exhaustion in the bedside lamplight.

The bus arrives out the window to the right. It deposits and retrieves, and workers make their connections. There is a rush, then a lull, then a rush again. Waves.

Some of them have no way of knowing how love will transform their lives.

Perhaps this random summer day will afford them some idea.

I feel soft today. Adequately spent. Carbon-burnt as a sparkler. I'd almost wish the hours to rush and come to the place for alcohol and music again. I want to pass the time in the shade and still make a new friend.

The last tatters of croissant sit on my plate like badly arranged art. I don't wait very long to put down the pen when I can't think of something else to say.

And then I have a memory. The nature of their odd occurrence is a delightful mystery. I relish the recollections of the girl with the Peter-pan tattoo across her back. And a girl at the show last night who, in the edge-less shadows looked like an old friend. That familiar ramp, also new every time. A fresh topography of a one-piece collection leading to the next. A scent, a color, an emotion. The rising flavor sweetening or spurring the day, however briefly.

Striking polyphanous bells that triangulate an emotional position. Into a season of grateful existence.

I begin by taking the shortcut thru the park to get home. I write while walking. I begin by looking for things discarded by others which might be useful to me. I begin by trying to be open and gentle. The sun both invites and threatens this. In my life, the old and almost irreplaceable thing is preferred to the new and untainted. I could walk hours, or just sit in the garden and think of nothing where the birds bicker and jostle the tall greenery, and the sun is about to rise completely over the rear gate and suck up all the dew thru its straws of rays that will keep burning and searching.

I begin by taking the long way around.