Messages written in blue chalk like stars. I have stacks of books that I've never read and at night alone I just sit and wait. I keep contemplating what I should be doing. I know I should be doing something of worth but everything I come up with seems upside down and backwards bent. Sex, flowers , cigarettes and portraits. Fragments. Poems. Prose. People telling me I'm too distant. Too soon and too distant that is. Meanwhile all the boys wanna change my hair color. Arabian Nights not going to be spent. No I don't shoot up. No I'm not a lesbian. Nor am I a feminist. And, no I don't think it strange to just want someone who will sits at the foot of your bed and reads you a passage from A Season In Hell. No I'm not lonely. Stop confusing me with Eleanor Rigby. Don't confuse me with that person, ever! I'm just alone. And I like it. Alone like some sort of stranger walking the city streets, like some sort of Happy Birthday of Death. It was last year when I read that book, and worn copy of it is certainly sleeping in that quiet stack now.
Me and my violet parasol with no moon or stars. Real or imagined. I feel so free in these chains and their mastery. Yes. A pure fuck I am. And, when I look at those photographs now I don't see me, I see us. My shadow and light. Through the devil softly.
And the stars were aligning. And the angels were calling. And I'm a stranger here myself. Freedom wrapped in invisible chains. And then sometimes it even seems as though what I had dreamed for had come true. I had a new set of eyes and I had lost the "straight path" and entered a "dense, wild, and tangled wood." It just didn't seem all that believable. But it was, however, real.
© WORDS Wendy Rose Watson
