Our circumstances are unhappy and we don’t want to live like this. We go to the movies and leave the theater remembering only the movements of the camera. We don’t put the pedal to the floor because we’ve been blue. Every now and then one reminds the other that blue is only one shade away from green and the other folds a remote smile into the pillow corner. The pillows collect private smiles and frowns. We change the sheets and start over.
We watch our lives unhappen from the periphery and experience it as a slow aesthetic pleasure. We concentrate on distractions. We don’t want anything that can’t hang, dripping, from a clothesline. We recount our parents’ childhood stories, with embellishments. We want only to laugh. The point is laughter.
We are feral. No we’re not. Yes we are. We disagree.
Most people you see from some distance. Over a table, across the room. Not him. He is up close instead of across. He has droopy eyes, dusty eyebrows, a twitchy nose, and a nervous mouth, and I need him here, up close, forever, of course. Everyone else is more across, treading blind through synthetic wilderness and elbowing each other in their dreams. Watching them makes me dizzy.
I used to believe in a fourth dimension that was pure shine, but I’ve lost interest. I have nothing to show anybody. Nothing glints in the sunlight.
We are probably fooling ourselves; it’s easy to do up close. I am fine, fooled. He’s up close and I’m not looking over his shoulder. I’m laughing with my eyes closed and my hands out.