Saturday, June 13, 2015

Ocean in the Badlands

When I dream I often go to a place that falls between the direct intersection between Aldine, New Jersey and the Badlands of South Dakota.  In the dreamworld these locations are just barely not adjacent.  They are direct neighbors once removed.  They coexist in the same small community.

In my dream, the space between between Aldine and the Badlands is only as big as my dream.

I live in a house there that sits on the edge of a dry lake by the ocean.  There are scrub pines along the road. The dirt is red.  The light is gray and blue and purple and seems stuck in dusk.

I was only really ever in the Badlands for the most brief moment. An eyelash bat of time.  I lived in Aldine really never.  But the traffic jams on the way to work there were the result of dairy cows on their way to work.

The house in this intersectionality glows.  It fills the space and pulls the light.  If this light were water it would exist as fog and mist and roll into the places we'd like to forget.  The places women with the marmish pursed lips tell us not to speak about.  The light like fog rolls in and makes us utter the truths that we have be told we should forget and never speak of.  Those truths that fester like cancer.  The pursed lipped women only want to hear stories of happiness and sunshine and sweetness even when the cancerous truth they bury and ignore eats away at them.

The ocean should not exist in the middle of the continent...the lake is only just dry.

My house has the scent of roses and ocean and must.  The lamp in the corner has turned itself on- old wires...need replacing- and glows yellow, warming the blue and gray light.  For a moment the world holds its breath with this new light.  Then when life continues, so does the exhale.

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