I walk into a beautiful building where everything seems, or is, gift-wrapped. The walls are pink and luscious moldings arch from the walls into the ceiling. They become the ceiling. The floor is extra shiny, a wood you would expect people to dance on. There is a woman behind a desk. I walked in here, knowing I was going to be taken care of. She asks me, in that tone of voice, "Is there anything I can help you with? Yes..help you...anything...we understand...yes..." Aside from hearing her, I don't even acknowledge her. I barely think about acknowledging her, but she doesn't run after me like I'm....
I went away, and when I went away I went to a place called L & J farms. The letter might not have been J, definitely L though. I was dropping off a friend's wife, but she looked very different. I realized I would do things for her, but she never paid me. Was she supposed to pay me and forgot? Why would she pay me to do these things? Why did I do these things for her? I picked her up and dropped her off at this beautiful stretch of wooden apartments. She called it a personage. I kept on saying, "This is a beautiful chain of apartments," and she interrupted me, correcting me, "a personage. It's a personage."
They were low, almost that purple colored wood. Ivy was draped over all of them. They were in the forest with a big circular driveway in front. You could see slices of living rooms lit. She said something assuredly like, "It should be good." but her assurance was the theater of a deep fear pushing her lips to say things to coax herself to feel, or seem okay, things such as "It should be good." She was clearly not happy and felt rushed as she stepped out of the car. And she was splitting up, or I wondered, or wondering was knowing, she was splitting up with her husband.
I leave, and as I drive away, I looked at a giant white sign, hanging off a very tall wooden beam. The sign for what this place was was hanging on the beam. As I drive away from it, the sign waps against the wind. I look back trying to see what the sign says but it is blinded by sun now in the angle it is swinging. Or I see it, and I love what it says, but I instantly forget what it says. It says L & R Ranch, "And the son he gives his seeds," It was a quote from Jesus.
I see two deer on the left side of the road. I stop my car on the right side. They are in a world of dandelion light, very soft and sincere. I see the two deer are hunched over listening intently to a small brown bunny who is telling them something very important, maybe sad because the bunny's eyes are watering and the faces of the deer are mutely mirroring this. Their faces are not made for the sadness the bunny's face is made for. The faces of deer--the faces they make are ones upon hearing something you say or a sudden sound, look at you, but they are looking far away from you. The frozen face. When you know they are not there and they think what just happened is being solved other than there.
I want to take the bunny home with me, but I knew it wouldn't be good. I asked myself, "Could I cuddle with a bunny? Do they smell good? Do they smell bad? Do they not scratch? Do they scratch? The deer turned into other animals in front of the bunny. And suddenly I was with two little girls. The youngest one was the most aggressive, the most outwardly active, "the leader" but there were three sisters. The middle one kept on encouraging the youngest one to continue her efforts. They had English accents. We were in a building that was some kind of birth center, but it was so industrial. and we were trying to find a person closest to her moment of birth. So we were trying to find the sign, or figure, which one of the vague names we looked at overhead, was the ward closest to the moment where one was just being born, not where one had sat around for a while.
The youngest one, the agressor, was scrolling through a catalogue, and she kept on not finding the name. Did she know what the name was of this child whom she had to see closest to her birth, or was she scrolling through all of the names to help her brain remember her name? She kept on giving up on her search and the middle child kept on saying, in her English accent, "No. You're doing it. You are great. Keep on going."
I was driving them now. I was looking at them buckled in their seatbelts in the back of the car. The little agressor was looking down, or looking out the window and looking angry, and the middle child was kind of biting her lip, twirling her hair, looking up. A woman was saying how the middle child encourages the little one, how she worships the little one, and why did the little one need her encouragement. Why does she give up on herself? Then a woman walks, and she looks like the other woman, who just spoke, who I think is the mother but I can't see the mother, maybe I am the mother.
The woman is beautiful with long black hair in braids, and green eyes. I think she is Australian.
She is walking in a field of strong wind. The sun is setting, or it is a grey morning. She is giving a speech of why she is at the point she now is, it had to do with being a single woman, the importance, a need, that only could be fuflfilled by saying that she was single. My dad was watching her through the television, but then he was just staring at a wall, then he was standing behind me, and he grunted, "mmm," in affirmation of her words. He asked me, "Are you going to be that way, like her?" And I said, "I don't know," and I looked up and I lifted up my arms, but I didn't lift them, I only thought of lifting them and I felt a newspaper on a wet sidewalk on a sunny morning lifted up by a wind and I was outside of the earth watching that newspaper fly out of it "Like her, or with a lover?" It was a giant question that sloped down from two lines and came to a point.
Then I went back to the original building I could now see was called, "The Isin-Fromin Foundation." I went there because I was with two other girls, and they kept on missing the place I had to drop them off at. "but you're not giving me the information," I said, slowly, as if I didn't care that we continued to miss the place by the simple fact that I was never told where to go. They were really spaced-out. Then, I go to Isin-Fromin. The woman behind the desk performs the same hello. The giant foyer is more crowded now. I see two little girls whispering to each other. The room has more of the spirit of being of a school.
I walk into a giant bathroom and an old, tan, wrinkled, dry grey haired homeless woman talks at me. She wont let me get away from her, but she talks at me, not looking me in the eye. She needs me to hear her, but she talks like I'm not there. Then another man jumps up from his toilet, holding a newspaper, and says, "Oh, Bard! You went to Bard? Give me a hug."
I don't respond to him, and each of them do not respond to my not responding, which is eerily empty. What are we to each other then but lent presences for either you or I to hear ourselves better through the resonance of the close and similar acoustic human body?
I am trying to go to the bathroom, but see that I can't because of the talking of these people that won't let me go, so I leave. I ask, "Why am I surrounded by these retarded people?" "Am I retarded?" "Could I be retarded if I could ask this question?" The thought dissolves into itself. Is that it's only life, acting as if it refers to a world other than itself, but referring to nothing outside of itself, meaning the moment I interpret what is behind the thought and the interpreting make me able to hear it before it dissolves. It feels dreary. How did I find this place? Do they know I am not retarded? Do they think I am? Again, am I?
Did they come to me out of the innocuous fuselage which was the unconscious habit of my insides asking again what continued to come? How could I ask for others now, others who I didn't feel were asking to be healed. Were there others?