The Necessity of Sharp-Nosed Gentleness and the Depths of a Fake Sea

(My late morning)

It's 9:30 am.

I find myself in the pose and rough dress of Schiele's  reclining woman with green stockings.  Minus green, plus black, without the shoes and what would be under-leg typing.

(pause)

Everyone wants their secrets.

Everyone wants their love.

I've never understood frivolous lying or opacity in the context of loved ones.  Lie for protection from danger. Hide things that will get the ones you love taken away by the uniformed, or worse yet, un-uniformed.

But smallness and insecurity?

It's so far from a reasoning I understand.

(pause)

I've been dragging my fingertip across the dust of a memory I am uncertain I want to follow. After all, aren't some things better kept in the past?  That unchanging aquarium of slow movement.

Slow movement.

I think of those tiny sunken treasure chests you find at the bottom of such a glass tank's floor.  That painted-to-look-heavy box of loot resting upon florescent gravel that opens and closes with the push and pull of the water, tempting you to catch glimpses of what's inside. 

Is the view enough to entertain and satisfy while you wait?

Or is it simply and sadly an obvious fool's gold distraction?


(pause)

Characters from my past have been resurfacing. (Insert image of the continuous trail of air bubbles that rise to a small aquarium's surface, here)

It's strange to me what makes them come forth, but I take it as a compliment.  It is nice, after all, to impact people enough that they seek you out. For people to return from their journeys to place your hands into theirs, look you in the eye, and tell you what you have meant to them and what they have seen.

(insert the image of the tiny treasure chest clamping open and closed, again, here.)

Who knows what it's about, ultimately?

Everyone wants their secrets.

Everyone wants their love.


-k.

(One-song-soundtrack for the end of this entry is Dirty Gold by Angel Haze)
(photo: Sawfish by Mathieu Aubel)