we've been on the island for at least a week, mostly napping together in the rain. we sometimes bestir ourselves, drink some nasty port (bleh), and go looking for my lost wedding dress or sort through wet turkish rugs that are soaked into one another like we almost are, dragging around like eurotrash, muddy hippies, the opiated. (some bit about Joel...what was it?.. using my apartment I don't pay for for parties during the day. a collection of metal heads there, mixing a horrendous single, and using the stuffing out of my ugly couch for sound insulation. i'll have to leave and just leave it all) - a different dream maybe, but still about all the messy, wasted lotsa lost stuffstuffstuff.
it's not a sexy thing (for the most part) back on the isle, but there are a lot of us in one room, very close. more port (still bleh). more days going by. the 'no country for old men' guy is there, flirting with me. not the killer, but the handsome actor. it's kinda fun but were both wasted. he's drawing. I'm sharpening his colored pencils. Then I try to sharpen his one-of-a-kind persian cat hair brush. I can see that it was very beautiful, rare and no-doubt expensive. Now ruined. It was stupid of me, but I can't fix it or anything else. i decide to break the chain, to wake up and move, but not before I leave my soaked journal entitled Beauty Days: The Second Tree on my pillow, in case anyone wants to know I've left (my dream bleg??). Anyway, I put on my skates and skate fast though i can see I'm curving into an area that is just absolutely covered in strewn, cast off things. i kindof launch off a bank onto a fence of sorts on which is stored his skis, mine, some chairs, maybe. i don't hurt myself but i'm knocking stuff down everywhere: fire pokers, more fencing, the top part of a dog house. My x-c skis slide right past my throat.
I wake to N___'s voice singing outside my window.
All of it is yours. And everything in it.
All ya gotta do is take it and spin it.
do be do be do be dooo.
