Scarlett Watters

Imagery.  Imagery.  Imagery.  Ruthless imaginative perfunctory absence found in presence of unknowing thought.  I am feeling sad.  I am wasting time.  I am misguided.  I am broken and bent and used.  I am not liking grammar.  I am beyond words.  I am overwhelmed with too much meaning; too much ambiguous meaning.  Too much order.  Too much trying to make order out of disorder.  Too much. too little.  Too . . . I am words.  I am the words that you use.  Am I earth or water or fire?  Am I empty or waning or hungry?  Am I a passive flower?  My hands cupped daffodils, my mouth a clipped rose bud.  Or are my words seeds?  Are they subject to the direction of the wind, the water, a hungry bird?  Will they ever find soil?  Or will they grow into a many branching tree or will they sit in the heart of an apple until the last frost? Or or or. I dreamt of your proposal and I awoke by your alarm.  Tired. Tired. Tired.  I am imageless. I am blind.  I do not exist until I am seen by another, in the presence of another.  I take form.  Liquid form seeping and oozing and meaningless disorder meaningful disorder ambiguous order.  What is femininity?  Is it the seed or the soil?  Which passive act of creation brings life into this world?  My hands the branching veins of a trees roots always reaching reaching absorbing and waiting firmly planted, yet timelessly rooted. Until the next frost.  Until the next raging storm. 

Meaning defies reason.      

Every one of us is here.  We are all where we should be.  The only place we can be at this moment, because the here is relative to the now.  My here is colorful, burnt orange, burnt red, glowing blue, dull turquoise and I am black and white.  My belly is empty.  The air smells pink of flowers on a cold day or the water of a warm perfumed bath.  There are two colored bottles and two white.  They are empty vibrant blue and green and transparent white.  My belly is empty here.  My cup is full.  The clutter is on both sides of the window.  Leaves and life.  The air is also cluttered here.  Sad but hopeful music, the chirping of birds, the hum of warmth and light.  Absinthe Robette.  The cluttered air is chilly.  This is the antithesis.  The chill is a clean state.  The red tree weeps its leaves on the other side of the window.  My own one dry today.  As they should be one might say.  The dry weather is setting in and soon it will need to be wet.  And my here will be there, but I am the only one there.  Every single one of you is here. 

We are born to this Earth and bound to it.  Each is suspended in the atmosphere by our sameness.  Where will we go now?  But we are stuck in the atmosphere like jello.  We all have that pull in our feet.  Vertigo yanking us back to Earth, yet we stay suspended in the air like flies in agar.  Which side of the diorama are we on?  Are we looking in or out?  The price we pay for crystal clear windows is measured in birds. 

Borders of the self.

Words are saturated with lack of meaning and lack of input to qualify the significance of perpendicular lines or perpendicular thoughts from sequential peoples of sequentially similar histories from childhood or a lack of; rather a lack of remembering one’s childhood after several years devoid of reminders. Lines that form the imprint of your feelings grind deep and saturated in your flesh.

 Colored squares play out the past two years like the melody of a familiar neglected song. I am out of breath and at present I am represented by the white square which is worse than any color between because it signifies certainty and uncertainty, beginning and end, purity and death. White is the bipolar color of cultures. 

Cerulean you are calm water in the open wind, cool and deep you present only what you wish to become. no outside force could disturb your serenity. you lean for no body but your own and you could swallow all bodies. i fear your depth in my own that can be found near the bottom, at the bottom. chalky, grey blue are the colors of my secrets never kept found so deep I have forgotten how to search. Seroleen you inhale without exhale you diffuse but refuse to infuse in others. you hide in forgotten words and rain them down on all beyond all comprehension. you hum the river’s song, the ocean’s rhythm. you are water, fluid, beyond body within every body; yet ever-moving. 

I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and I hear the too fast tick tick tick-no tock of a clock I didn’t wind up. It’s never the right time yet it is always the right hour. It last stopped at ten till 7 when my car clock stopped at 5 after 7 only to start and stop again at 11. right now it, my wind up clock, ticks away the midnight hour after 1 am and I think about what kind of writer I will or ever become (became?). I am thinking about eating pie and CREEP and violet. I am thinking about color and my lack of sleep and the surreal life I lead in my head. The surreal life we all lead wandering in our own existence. I am thinking about the scent of Indian incense and wondering how long it takes green pencil lead to wear off. How long would you have to rub? I am thinking about the mouse we haven’t caught living off our crumbs and sucking insulation from the walls.  But mostly I am thinking about sleep. How I FEAR it and the fact that it is inevitable that when I put down my pen, rest my head and turn off my mighty bright that clock will continue to tick tick tick too fast and then my dreams will all be a race against time. A BATTLEGROUND between rhythm and order in a place where time does not exist. I don’t want to bring ordered or even disordered seconds into my world; into my subconscious world. I was hoping to write my self to sleep but it is only keeping me awake. . . that and my mod silver and black wind up clock. I can’t even stop it if I wanted to because the damn thing winds one way.  My roommate is listening to chanting monks. We are creatures of the night we are nocturnal breath. We breathe the night. I hate this clock. THIS HOUSE IS ALIVE.

There is something sacred in admitting that you don't fucking know. 

The unknown is the source of creative power, spirituality, and innner peace.

The inner unknown is the inner divine.  But to deny the known or to deny fact is the highest sin. No social faux pas, no sacreligious belief, no heretic can possibly upset that which is not known.  These things cannot possibly be connected with the unknown--that which is the source of scared creative power. 

When we use creative power we are enlightened for that short moment.  When we embrace the unknown we are at one with all.

Namaste

roses or flowers of a more surreal nature flood the land with ideas of realism a subconscious reality that you only find in strange deep dark orifices of the sand or between your toes where tree roots jump and tingle lustrous visions of merciless desire spiraling into a concentric circle of black and white or black and white holes in the soles of your shoes that reach the outer limits at ten o'clock on Saturday nights or maybe it was midnight that you stayed up to relax your senses by overloading them with stimulation like the twilight zone you cooed in your comfy chair and awed at the disgusting display of morbid human interest, is innate, isn't that what you told me two nights ago? maybe it was three when you accidentally used the exclamation mark and cried out in surprise at least it wasn't a question mark that could have meant far more detrimental signs of maddening mental anguish, your maddening desire to live blatantly yet questioning your own reason  for being blatant, for being so disgustingly mildly blatant that you felt the need to brag about your talent to find your way through the orifices with moist fingers, and no I don't mean that in a sexual way, but I know you will take it that way and make it an ever so blatantly forceful point to imply your indecisive nature to be decisive.

To dim the horizon drink up the green green grass made of sweet mint candies

sugar lips

that make you cry

onion-like tears of emerald teeth

my stomach is tied in a lump

like a lump in your throat, only my slump is in my abdomen and it is like a rock

to dissolve the lump, naturally I ate and now my stomach is like a large bowl with a hole in it: abysmal. the only gaping crater in the moon and I imagine it looks like a large decayed piece of swiss cheese, burning and heavy and full of lead.

Full of something other than what it is

In your self respecting hunger, I expect you to be something more than self. but you only want what you can take from others from the insolence and want of giant corporations and advertisers that breeds greed and uses media, music, art as a money making medium. You would rather have the bag, take the free product and feed the insatiable capitalist appetites than protest against your right to view and enjoy art, theatre, or music in its intended form. But you don't deny them the right to exploit you by refusing their products and subliminal advertising because that would be rude, right? They don't want you to speak out, voice your opinion, refuse their product so that they can indulge in their capitalist cake. Of which you will get no reward, no profit; only sticky hair and a pricey bill all so you can have trendy highlights that will fade over time. 

All this so exclusive corporations can continue to flourish and exploit.

Read in full to get insight to the content of this blog/free-write.

When I was ten we danced like mushrooms, with the cap the mycelium, the stalk and the gills we were each a separate piece that made up the whole we were weird but we were better than everyone because they were all normal when I was ten I loved butterflies and hermit crabs, flowers, secret clubs When I was ten I had everything in front of me and everything behind me.
When I was ten I liked strawberry incense.

I remember apple trees with brilliant blossoms of pink and white in the spring with tears of petals like feathers when it rained

I remember nothing when the sun was out, when little men wrote poetry of oceanic forms and sinister things

I remember the brown and blue of the sky and mud, mud so thick and yet runny purple hues of lost money

I remember dancing butterflies with purple wings of splendor, little known things of much distraction where attraction means more or less depending on what syllables you stress

I remember the cooeing of the morning dove with its smooth surrendering sound which is now replaced by the water of my fish tank and the beep beep beep beep beep beep beep of some truck in the distance backing up probably a dump truck or a lunch truck or a no fun today truck red white and blue shut up truck with no more importance than this pen truck because without me this pen would be dump

still I am the words on this page, not the tools I use

Written June 3, 2003

I never told anyone that the sun is purple at night

hues of red red red burning bright, bright as black as night little known as then and there

where is then and there and when, when maybe will you see that the moon is bright bright bright brighter than the sun when you sneeze your brain out your ears and cry to the collective unconscious to let you go, leave you be, let you be free and on your own

let it free you from your self that is really the collective self compressed into two tiny green green green peas like an emerald in your pupil, the pupil that does not see

the pupil that sees the inverse, inverse of the mind inverse of the collective unconscious wherever or whatever that maybe may be not maybe

like the question when you ask when you don't know, when no one knows, no one but the collective nymph of the forsaken ghetto of the mind, you gave birth to this idea on the dirty bathroom floor of you mind before you shut out your sole, your soul, through the soles of your feet

and for the first time you felt grounded and free and real but not reality because realism is non-existent in the existential floor of the earth, the other side where their feet are your ceiling and you wake up on their heads to the tip top tip top of the earth shaking, swallowing you whole in one big cough, spit, jump when you puke

and it is black black black only you see in inverse and it is white and pure and true and filth.