1. Write what you hear now.
I am hearing these words as thoughts, as though they existed externally, outside of my head. The fidgeting noises and running, dragging, tapping pens/pencils of other people's thoughts drawing across the page. The actual sounds of thought, not some neuroscientific action of the silly brain, some electrical impulses becoming all, gods to which we all must submit. Thought as action. Reality of the now existing somewhere between words and gestures, the actions of entering the words, the thoughts, into the physical realm. Pen sweeping across paper is thought, electricity a mere excuse.
2. Write about a toy you had as a child.
Pound Kitty, later found out to be a Pound Purry, the industrial branding tattoo on his thigh, the "PP" to match the Pound Puppy line. But who in their right mind would want PP to be their initials? Poor Peter Pan. Pound Kitty has lost his head twice, and while I would like to say he's quite the romantic (he did, in fact, have a wife for a few years, before I lost her), I mean it literally. Once, when he tried to jump the fence. Once, when my mom made me put him through the wash. Twice, reattached. NEver washed again. Since, he smells old, dusty like an ill-read novel, though he remains on my bed to this day, even traveled to Japan with me. Not as soft as he once was, but still nice to the touch. He looks scornfully at my real cats, so disobedient, so destructive. Perhaps he thinks how much longer they'd last, head or no, if they too were stuffed. After all, he remembers Charlie, ten cats ago.
3. Write of a time you said your name and felt extreme pleasure or sadness/disappointment. (OR write of a time someone else said your name to the same effect).
Don't want to. Don't even want to speak. Don't want to be here. Don't want to be. If only you'd just let me sit silent, listen, act as spectator, not actor. Let me sit as wallpaper, clinging to the corner, maybe peeling off a little in interest from time to time, but mostly sticking, still. Thinking of the t-rex in Jurassic Park. If only I am still enough, they will not see me. Try not to breathe. Do not blink, but then, the tears are motion too. And, of course, the settling and unsettling in my chair, and the eyes of hte companion I've come with, so encouraging, and such a nice, such a friendly smile.
That eventually, when it's my turn, I have to wave out at the circle around me, to which I am meant to belong, and say, "Hi, I'm Mandy, and I'm a chronic pain sufferer."
4. Write about a rainy day/night.
I hear the call. One, at first, a single drop. Then others, so quickly and so large. The landscape swept, no, blurred, turned into a Monet painting. The trees run, the houses and the streets run, bleeding into the sewer drain. The infinite vase emptying on the land, that smell of rebirth, and the wonderful thought of becoming a boat culture. Let me live upon the waves. "Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water." I must be free to have it join me. Ignore the bodies huddled into coffee shops and the reality of a thin white shirt. Stand beneath the sky of clouds and let the gods of thunder make love to my body, take my exposed nipples into their mouths, run their hands upon my thighs, and enter me in a thousand different places. The cold so quickly warms, and we are joined, my hair me, my clothing me, my tears me, and my rainy day me.
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