Insomnia’s millipede

Think. Think. Cold out here, warm in my brain. Warmth comes crochet-wrapped but typewriter keys icy. Insomnia’s millipede crawling all over – touch of thousand tiny legs leads to spasmodic jitters. Espresso imbibed too close to night. Chardonnay imbibed too close to espresso. Black & white, (dark & light), cold & warm…reminds of lines over canvas. Strung, waving, always dramatic. My internal rhythm out of wack (what else is new). Stimulant-depressant cocktail chilled outside flesh, while inside head, thoughts hotly rush. This rush: did I suck it up through something? I think spastically: lines of varying thicknesses… mother & father… place. Which is my place, and how do I get there? Current “belonging” – real? Why do I feel like imposter? Why does guilt follow everywhere, chewing heels until they’re ugly & raw? Guilt as creature, guilt as viscous liquid. Stickiest syrup I know. Hard to get out of everything – stains clothes, walls, brains like no other.

Think. Think. Figure it out. Why this whiteblond hair? How much ghost inhabits me? My belonging, with Gregory, in this house…the end? How could it be? Twenty-five cannot be beginning of end! But love him. Possibilities of belonging together in different form, different place. Then, flash of premonition…he is going to leave me. No! Grasp at fragments, smash crystal ball of mind, zoom into future to prevent, while out there real crystal ball lies somewhere unsmashed, heart-wrenchingly whole. Concentrate on lines, shapes that ooze in and out, obliquely. Painted, oozing lines and shapes are ultimate comfort food. Damn the double-poison cocktail. Must sit and struggle against unwanted thoughts. Here they come, marching. Same procedure: smash demons of mind, while out there real demons are somewhere, still walking over the old continent (un-caught, un-sentenced) in plain clothes, but with ghostly peekaboos of black or grey or vomitolive uniforms (in right light & upon close inspection). They’re saluting in corridors of my skull and I grind upper teeth into lower, hard.

Lines are coming back to entwine me, protective. Spigot turns on often and I just let them do whatever. Funny how whiteblond head, ghost inside, churns out so much black and so much color. Přízrak, přízrak. Think. Think. Find your place. Demons invaded, I ended up here. They stole her, and last driblets of my childhood. They turned everything grey. Now in cocoon of rich abundance: avocados, peaches, oranges, olives. Ocean scalloped by whiteblond sand. Vineyards, modernism, Hollywood soirées. Live the life while the old European past rots in my heart. Continent rotted out from the inside, and I have abandoned it. Guilt sticks in gooey drops over clothing. I strip to naked and it jumps from cloth to skin.

How to travel there, to my place? Can I be painter, really? Confidence escapes… Would like manual: “how to do life”. Bilingual, please – Czech on left English on right. Every modern Czech-American needs one. Is nineteen fifty-five, height of modernism for god’s sake. So which & where? If printed someplace, bring me pages: painter, housewife, richgirl, immigrant? Socialite. Keys finally warming under constant finger pressing; stomach churning, trying to process the goods. Want to pluck conclusion out of abyss before trying luck at dreamland again. Miss Gregory. His heat helps me sleep.

~ by kingzoko on August 10, 2010.

One Response to “Insomnia’s millipede”

  1. Ah, a subject I can really relate to. Perfect title–Insomnia’s Millipede. When I turn off the light before going to sleep, I wish the switch would turn off my mind too.

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