Image © MiKA MiLK 2019
|by MiKA MiLK||March 1, 2019|
She prayed for some light for the photographs that would become his internet presence.
Her skirt caught burdock as she kneeled down in the deep soaked snow to frame a right angle. The sun came out and smiled down on her. Each burr needle entangled in the fabric felt like the one found in some haystack. How many barns must a man walk down..
To what rarity shall one go—when coming from afar, all this way to see you.
“I really must change my job!” she heard his voice entering through the door. He greeted her with a kiss and got rid of his work clothes, besides his trousers, standing with his back in front of the wood-stove warming today’s muscles spent walking corridors, resting the mind after a short blow from the bong, silent, listening to the wood unfold in crackling fire.
A big black flatscreen on top of the Steinway graced the living-room like Kubrick’s horizontal monolith. May we apes awake.
She told him how she had watched Titanic for about twenty minutes, obviously disturbed by too many commercials needing to be muted. The invasion of our time. What window we give into the moments our eyes cannot be controlled and the surface of what was black and hole, hypnotises us into oblivion. We sigh then, and sink a little further into the softened couch. It has a way of rolling us into curled up ones, that forgot how to fly.
“I think life is really short,” she mumbled, rolling her little non-placebo. His home sweet home sure knew its garden.
“Mr. Gardener!” as she could be singing this: “And here’s to you – Jesus loves you more than you will know…”. He came down with one of his plants from the bathroom, carrying more of his utensils in each finger, plastic containers of some fertilising kind, placed some of them on the wooden floor and the beaten plant in the middle of the table next to the stove where he kept most of his daily tools. “Something is not quite right with this one,” he said.
A new home perhaps, fresh earth, off with the old leaves, may you shine again. Repotting is always an option.
He removed all the dead flies from the windowsill in the bathroom. That was the place he wanted to clear out for her to have a hot bath . She doubted strongly that she’d ever go lie down in there. Their difference was indeed the perception of tidiness. Dust, insect memorials, stacks of paper in random placements, clothes worn and tossed aside, stones, rocks, gems, traces of peeled off bark – allover. Blent.
He sprayed water on his green friends. Blossoming leaves, see – they listen – they embrace – they respond. Wandering like Pacman, chasing buckets and containers, to be refilled, replaced, refound, their positions in the space given in constant rotary and of complete utter randomness of landing.
Their destinations always a current – never secured, the perfect vagabond.
Together they talked of the idea to start a book publishing company . Ever-Read Publishing, suggestion by Mr. Gardener himself. She hadn’t thought of a name yet. What name would she chose?
He knew she collected only one thing – stones that were heart-shaped. What makes a good collection? And what happens when it dissolves? Like her father’s precious vinyl-collection that would secure her a double-pension with discogs sales alone, yet a pretty heartless thought indeed of someone else’s truest treasure, all life-force spent and gathered pricelessness. A truck would be needed just to literally collect it all, pick it up from Maribor in Slovenia. Who does such a thing? How far does one go for the inherited? Her brothers signed out a long time ago, not being interested, not wanting part of what they read as the biggest deception experienced, the absent father. So she remained the only heiress to this life-long passion, the stale cold wall of music, six thousand, each worth the needle and the pain.
He took a shower, then they’d planned to head outside, get some green foods, sit in a moving vehicle, in a box on wheels through the melting ice. The winter’s grey reappearing on asphalt roads, the beaten remains of plants along the way, hanging in there, they do.
Trees being in grace throughout all seasons. Their arms, their fingers, their heads up high and spine deeply cored, in a fine web of roots, connecting them all, their instant family, in nature they speak.
She loved his consciousness of what and how to spend with great care and thought–the resources given from this very Grace.
What reality is this, the one we can’t deny, the one right in front of us – showing us, quite clear, what we’re dealing with?
She sat on the floor typing this into her macbook. The rowing machine had grown into becoming the second lounge table, lower than the wooden chest, it stood diagonal across the room with books stacked on top, the ones he’d bought while they stayed together in Bushwick, Brooklyn. He had filled a whole bag with fine choices of 2nd-hand paperbacks.
There’s a place for everything – she typed at the edge from this table.
People get what they believe or have been convinced of, where the focus was aimed and the breath has been stuck, where the pulse seeks more, the glasses refilled and the wait is a whore. City life, oh clinical station. How many has she tried, like ice-cream flavours, density struck in compact wrap-up. People buy it, they do it all the time, they’ve never known any better. There are ideas – swimming in lakes of can-a-duh (internet) – and now is also the time to make them believe, they too can have ideas and create. Yes, not only be a passive consumer, grow into the unknown sizes of being without understanding their physical surroundings.
Ape awake me.
He would come over to her and blow his bong-inhalation through her lips, into her mouth. Then he took a rest, on the couch. Outside, the wind-chimes played their melody.
Then there’s the time of contrast, like the monolith, an All&Nothing proving its point. The statement that all exists, each human story will be told, as it is, as it happened, and as it will be. There seems to be no higher power to interfere this rule by existence itself – and us, be-living it.
The rain came down heavy and the sound appeared of a beautified soothing embracive Meeresrausch.
And the ocean will hug you, it will sweep you whole, and carry you onboard, overseas, thru’ tides and lows, fill the rims of what one thought one could not, and to let no fear withhold.
“It’s a love story,” was her response to his book. She also had outlined which sentence stood out. It will always be love that we seek out in truth. Our choices derive from its many arms it holds.
You need to know what you want. If you want to write, you write. It doesn’t matter how what when why, just – do it! Write! Therein lies the trust – the passion – that which will change – your focus – your way of navigating your time spent on earth, a planet, a flatscreen, what do we know, we’re here, do it. And have a full-on hot steam bath in-between, it makes your skin soft, your pores will love you, there is indeed more to the haystack of finding your way.
We’ve come a long way with them needles.
It was the magnificence of the needle, that brought the Northerners to the States, way before Columbus. The weaving of things surely never stopped. No wool, no vikings. She was doing her research, about the hands of the women that set them sails. The Old Norse sheep, the secret weapon. The animal. What keeps warmth, defends, endures all rough sea, the bare naked underneath.
He had cleaned out the spare-rooms attached to the lounge. It came undone. The workers had abandoned this project, as they failed all skills they were assigned to. It had left him with the aftermath, an unfinished housing-project, with such vast potential of cosy beauty, it didn’t take much eye to see that, now in wait, not ruin, to be changed, finished, graced.
Which page of the family would you like to start, she thought to herself, sitting at the old writer’s desk, made free from old dust bathing in the afternoon sun that these seven large windows let in, the side she was facing. She was convinced there’d be some young crafty men who could fix this up, repair the damages, salute the ending of a long wait, have this house intact, all walls firm, consistent, whole, the rooms tidy, warm with mellow lights to make any artist of whatever walk of life feel at home, within his treasures raised with green thumb, his whole heart revealing in little whispers each layer of thought and care put into detail, also the letting-life-live- undisturbed, it may breathe and simply – be.
She once researched the former german chancellor Helmut Schmidt, as she came to love his saying – how there’s no better room in the world, than the room of improvement. It can begin.
They’d visited Woodstock one day prior. If she’d have one that would be on her bucket list. It was quite the wish fulfilled. So she did smile like a child wandering around them cute little curved streets with the beautiful victorian style houses along them. At the Mirabei book shop, which was just celebrating its 30th anniversary, she purchased a small version of the Morgan-Greer Tarot deck. The trip picked the cards. The Fool: the pure at heart. 8 of cups: the retreat from emotional involvement. The King of Rods: A noble man, honest, conscientious and just, spiritually aware and in control. And the 10 of Cups: bliss, contentment, emotional richness.
He refused to eat at Joshua’s Tree. While standing outside the restaurant, a car stopped at the corner, two young sweet-looking ladies came out and promptly asked them if they’d help to photograph them standing underneath this very tree, that decorated the entrance of the restaurant. Three pix later and they were already gone, having thanked. It seemed of significance.
Then there was the full moon, 31st march 2018. She could barely fall asleep, thought-ridden, slightly sanded (instead of stoned), feeling the motions of the bright-lit moon above shining down, observing its luminous shadows in the remains of the snow, lighting up the landscape around the house, so for it to become the night itself, inside, tucked away, safe and whole. She almost never let her shoulders down. The freezing lady from the North, with Adriatic blood and a light-sensitivity as if from a different planet. He might have suspected that, too. Or maybe it was the other way around, not the freezing, but a possibility of soul-travel heritage yet unknown.
A faithless defeatism, a presumptuous separation, inclined, what degradation, the harsh reality, the disillusionment that comes with it, the familiar we seek, a return to innocence, simplicity, purity and a desire for change, naturally. Great caution asked, as is awareness. Her cards spoke.
One of the wheels came off, of the chair she was sitting on. A lot of things here craved attention, repair, care, love and light. Dedusting.
Vivaldi – Cello sonatas RV40/42/46, YouTube being handy, still uncensored, we’ll see how long it’ll last. Tremendous windows to the many world-views, just a click away.
Back in the house: “You say ‘M’ the same way when when you eat as you have sex.” he said to her. Having studied frequencies up-close while he tissues of all kinds, it had its way of metamorphosing onto them, the alphabet.
I could see myself grow a beard here, she mumbled while carefully walking through the Atelier. She put on her cold sun-glasses, at least how they felt putting them on. The coffee was of the same temperature, it all aligned, it found its own vibration, one place to live. The trapped flies would never find their way out in here. One hung dead on one of the nails sticking out of the woodwork above. The sweet red squirrels outside were done with today’s shift, they were not to see no more, the tree they’d been working all the day in the sun, was now just a – Baustelle.
She still got confused which substantives bore hyphens and which not. She used an online translator, German to English, to sort and check.
Wood and work was not parted, they belonged together. According to dictionary definition given. Some people bore names with hyphens. Just to make sure no-one, and I mean NO1 gets confused that these two names are ONE and not 2 people. One people with one name.
How much air does a text need?
This is where they should’ve gone for a walk. The red squirrel returned, its wisdom including the ability to solve puzzles, resourcefulness, storing for the future, balance in giving and taking, quick change of direction, power of rest during times of non- movement, warning, discovery, avoiding danger by climbing higher places, and in general – change.