Interiority Complex

It is not unusual for movement to startle me. The right direction, so they say, is whichever way one has chosen to orient themselves.Our materials are organic, undetermined and have the potency and crackle of high-voltage sub transformers.  A DNA built from Vidal Sassoon and mould, in full bloom. Graffiti causes some introspection here. You tell me, “The transposition of certain arteries cannot be corrected. In other words, you add, we’re constantly crossing our wires.” As if to prove the point you quickly destroy the tunnel you had so carefully conceived in order to connect us. Merely the suggestion of the other is enough to feel congenitally implicated. Weaselly and unfortunate. This is the motion which I feared. I have ten memories and ten memories only. Memory 1: I have received unexpected visitors in unexpected ways at unexpected times in unexpected places. These visitors come in all shapes and sizes—the skin on their faces peels away like old chips of paint. Memory 2: The bones of the dead are unable to replicate the sound of certain machines. Take this oscillator, for instance. The memory of an old friend, fading within a swarm of wasps. Memory 3: We have not met yet, I don’t believe. We have not yet recreated the simple rhythmic patterns of sleep. Memory 4: You comment on a poem I have written, “This is exactly the kind of writing that those who teach poetry can’t stand.” Memory 5: They come at us from below. Their wings are black and their talons rake through our flesh. They string our hollowed out bodies from thin metal wires. They push their spikes through our eye sockets. They capture our disemboweling on health and safety videos. They giggle at reports of ice shelves quickly melting. They tell us the streets are theirs. Memory 6: Finger pianos, apple crates and unsustained winds. Memory 7: This is the motion I was so terrified of. Memory 8: I’m driving in a car, to the ocean, believe it or not. The ocean in question is not one with which any of us are familiar with. You say, “I believe it might have been something we downloaded.” Even these few moments are mediated. Memory 9: Somebody, I can’t see how, brushed their hair out of my eyes. The touch of their skin is intimately familiar, but I can’t place the face. As though suddenly aware of my presence, the screen hiccups and then refocuses. Memory 10: I dive under the waves. The ocean is heaving and teeming with life. The waves pummel me and then I wash back up on the rocky beach, bruised and a bit battered. I dive back in and swim out further this time, beyond the waves, beyond where my feet can touch. I’m a poor swimmer and my muscles quickly get tired. A helicopter follows the contours of the coast to the north. How do I know the direction is north? How can the retaining wall be painted green? How can the faces of the players be obscured by their instruments? I hold in my hand these rays of light, even the ones I can’t see.  

contact: craig[dot]foltz[at]gmail[dot]com

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