Intuition

Intuition

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glow

Don't go. Go. Be slow. Be flash. Glow. Radioactively. Humming electricity that's thrumming on piggyback waves of a Strum drum trance Shooting constellations Into projections behind the eyes

i'm studying the bond between the body and the spirit it's a first hand experience to recognize the terror the widening of the eyes adrenaline fevers lullaby cleavers unsheathed in the night can you feel the sliver A glint of quivering light

I think it's interesting that depression's sunk more than a few brilliant writers. To this murky end I think of Virginia Woolf. She wrote "To the Lighthouse" as a way to examine certain aspects of her parents. It's not an autobiography as much as an exercise in memory and perception. Experimental literature is an attempt at art more so than an exact reproduction. In another book that reference Woolf's "To the Lighthouse" it's suggested Woolf expunged those issues from childhood once the novel was written. That the act of writing healed parts of her psyche. Processed and moved on. Supposedly. But it wasn't enough was it? The other author forgets for the sake of comparison that Woolf did go onto fill her pockets not full of coins or earnings off future books, but rather she filled them full of stones and marched out to sea. No lighthouse. No future. No other answers to be found. They say everyone's got at least one good book in them. To that I say: "Godspeed."

weave

You know it's been coming. Weaving in and out of traffic, like a kite in the air, no like a starling chased by the hawk. It's on your heels. Anticipation. Tingles down your spine, cold sweat on your back. Reflect. In the rear view mirror it grins. Brandishes its scythe like an oncoming truck you didn't see entering the intersection this time.

The question centered on the tense. What context is this? Anxiety thrummed as the unknown spiraled out like great and vast universe. Galaxies rose and fell. In time there passed a countless dawn and an innumerable dusk. I cleared my throat and repeated what I'd said to another friend, "No. For all my time here I've never actually been to the HiLo. I hear it's a seedy dive-bar. And no good stories have come from there so I continue to avoid it."

It comes to pass that I am lost in a river bed at sunset. I feel you in the mud and water seeping up my calves then rushing past my thighs. More than anything trying to keep me in this place by the time you reach my waist. "Don't leave", "Don't go" - don't ask me how I know. It's not a nightmare but an irrational dream nonetheless. By the time the muddy waters reach my chest your name is on my lips. A dare. A wicked, wicked dare. Still I'm so stubborn, love, I force myself awake before I let myself succumb to the urge to speak your name even my sleep. But I've never felt more hollow than in that pre-dawn realization, a handle on what I'd done, a course correction left me like a tree with no core, like a cave with no hearth, like a star so black no light escapes it. I called it freedom then. Yet I still look back on it and question.

One's taking a shower Another's wanting for a book One's in the mirror defining a look This one's on the bed strumming on the hour That one's in the kitchen looking at a flower One's soaking feet in a tub Another is writing on a wall One's in the car like it's a concert hall

I nip his ear. "Ow, you're hurting me." He doesn't flinch and keeps reading the news on his phone. I nip at his neck. "Seriously, ow." He doesn't even bother to roll over on the bed to stop me. I nip my way down his arm before sinking my teeth into the side of his stomach. "Ow, I said you're hurting me." He still doesn't put his phone down and he's faintly smiling as though this might tickle more than it hurts. I smile and wonder if he can feel the menace tightening up in my jaws, pressing firmer into his flesh . "UM, OW." "But there's so just so much of you to eat; you're like a goddamn Roman feast." "I'm a what now?" he laughs and checks where I bit him. The indents are already disappearing.

The wife now sits back in bed reading a thick book on some subject the husband finds interesting, but tedious. He'll get the cliff notes over coffee later. As it is she's recently returned from picking up a new album and some last minute groceries for tomorrow's breakfast. Her dark hair is pinned so that it frames her face and her makeup is still flawless despite the oppressive summer heat. He never quite understands why she's randomly taken with lining her eyes and rouging her lips when all she does is go to a store and come home to read, but when she does "pretty up" it always has an effect on him even when she reminds him that she does it for herself and no one else. "I do it to feel different," she'll often say when he's studying her features. Tonight with her dark eyes rimmed in coal and eyelids highlighted with gold --- it invokes a memory for him from a time when they were dating and how he loves the color of her skin and the way it looks under a flickering candle light and how her face can be so expressive even when she's thinking about a million other things than him. With his index finger he pushes the book into her lap and she looks up at him. Red lips beckon in a coy little smile. She knows he can never resist when she's being herself like this.

I watched her eyes narrow as her companion for the evening unsuccessfully attempted to blow smoke away from their table. The wind, hot and humid, would not comply tonight. I pitied her for there was no way to avoid the plumes that ghosted over her hair and through her clothes. I couldn't discern if they were more than just friends. Her eyes said "no." His feet and shoulders slumped towards her towards her said, "yes." "Staring at those losers are you?" The voice was familiar. It was warm. "I don't remember welcoming you to my table." I glanced away from the couple and looked into a set of familiar eyes. "I'll just have a seat." "You'd better not. I'm not dating anyone and I hate to give the impression that I am in a place like this." "Fair enough." The eyes were hurt and the tone defensive, "Wouldn't be want to seen with the likes of me. I get it." "At least not here." I offered a wry smile. "I'm bored, downwind, and I have no intention of staying. Come if you like or stay as you will. I'm not your keeper nor are you mine."

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writing since 2010 · 876 entries · 716 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Intuition showed up.

32longest streak

716days written

1.2entries / week

on this day 14 years ago

Intuition wrote about arts
“It is something of an art, the arts When delivered so confident and self-assured All while knowing it was nourished in a heap Potent mix of both fear and doubt, a pile of peat Twins in the night …”

the words Intuition reaches for

noweyesmindanotherwordlightlovelinewordssuresongreadhandsometimeswaterhear