The girl from the mire: part 2
Were we ever alive? Were we ever here? Were we ever?
Judith exists in a graveyard. Her tombstone is so old that it looks like a smooth glacial stone. Protrudes into her dusty, dormant grass world. Inhabitants are terri...
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Warning: in this chapter there is content containing a memory of sexual assault.
Judith lingers along Glanton street. What's left of the dark forest is a topple of black tangle anorexic bush leans. Flora has the shape of something gales blustered down long ago. Topography tastes like whistles on the dust in the cranny of a century abandoned railing post, just at the point where the horizontal leans upward. Parallels with a broken staircase, never an intention to become truly vertical. Always and forever a slant upon the view of teleology. Staircase like an upward climb from an ancient main floor into a heaving, leaden basement.
The littered street lead to the dirge of tilt, crack trunk unplayable piano corpses. No capital for capitalism. No society for socialism. No ominous window peaks to reflect the depth of the heavens. Glanton street is a partition of implosions. Walls made of cement crumbles and metal crumple outline what was. The street sign which reads Glanton is still legible. About the only word that's a word in this post-eschatological city. A city disintegrating back into the molecules of an atavistic language. Nothing speaks. Not even the dead mumble here anymore. There're no ghosts left to haunt this ancient decimation. No idioms. No synecdoche. No metonymy. No metahistorical emplotment. It's all just...nothing. And it doesn't matter that nothing is still something. There's so much missing that no one would ever really know what's lost just by looking at what's left.
Judith jumps from asphalt swell to concrete heave. Flings herself over deep pothole ditches. Fissures of dangly metal. Unknown depths to match the long defended distance of a sprawling width. Can witness between and below her legs. Recognizes some of the many partial cave-in sewer systems. Twists of subway tracks in möbius curls. Her bare feet land in each spot above the top of the below. Interrupts dust soot. Each toe ball heel creates cloudy puffs around the graveyard girl's legs.
Daylight isn't like the tree world burn. No scorch or bang scratch feeling. It's the empty chill of loneliness. Smoggy sun hides as a dim remnant in an existence of oblique solitude. Old Sol phases like a useless ancient clock through the haze. Feels like humiliating laughter. Mocks what might've been so long ago. This world is forgone. Maybe hundreds of years beyond the memory of Jane and Rist and Judith and Michael.
Michael. That Michael. The graveyard girl has an interest and an arousal for her own memory in a swirl with that damn man's thoughts. But maybe only to an extent in a way of wonder. Recollects her old population through his interpretation, which feels new to her. It's the birth of a new lost world from his perspective within her own perspective. Feels the time spent with Michael was the best valentine shape feeling she's ever come across. Has ever really known. He was in love with her like she was in love with him and not like a yin yang or a completion. Not like with her shadow in the masturbation room but also exactly like with her shadow in the masturbation room. The love they felt was much more like a paradox. Didn't make sense but made perfect sense. Judith would still die for him if she could find any of him in existence anymore. Any trace of that boy who fed her chocolate and peanut butter ice cream cake and didn't carve any mark of judgment upon her. Only the unconditional love of a true lover. Any trace of him in that way and Judith would run to him. Hug him. Kiss him. Look into his eyes and make love to him. Judith longs for his smile. His cadence. Mannerisms. That way he tied nooses around her words. Kicked the stools out and truly listened.
