white passage / grey passage

white: the universal code of illuminated bodies – clothed by oracles, makers, sowers – sent out to the day cities
woman as mental voice; instructing, suggestive.
hours as metabolism, as tempo or growth; time deceleration.
we are late for a gathering but never late at all
mall as difficult habitat, expanse and height, ever changing, stairs moving in opposite directions, climbing up facades that roll down and under, second floor never reached.
the feeling of time contracts while exposure to it expands
“the old man’s wife is here”
the white mansion is new, the double door traffics sunlight in and out. the old man’s wife paces outside, beneath concrete overhead train tracks, talking to those voices, those finely dressed ladies in her unmedicated head. it takes patient coaxing to lure her off the grass patch, into the white mansion, where finely dressed ladies are known to be, but never seen.
I feed her like a dog, by hand, shredded pieces of white meat. She’s a schizophrenic creature of daze, white dress bloated by an oval balloon body. I feed her like a dog as strange, pale men in pale clothes enter a side door, coming in from a false hallway made by beige lights. everyone is believed to be family.
it is known: the tall man before me is the dead brother of a hypothetical mother.
His animated body stands uncomfortable close to me and I know the woman in my head as ‘Nancy.’ I ask the corpse if he is Uncle J. “Uncle J? Nancy’s husband?” His irises are half moons of thin brown paper, irises rolling into his cheeks; eyes, distanced by light years and hypnotism. He leans into me and like osmosis, almost merges with my body.
I’m feeding her near the white wall. a woman known as mother is present, an elongated queen. there is a swaddled thing with her, possibly a pet infant, though I do not see any limbs.
the bloated woman is now a child, seen crawling up the curved staircase like a baby. I leave her red dog bowl and wait beneath the parapet. I look up her fake plastic lace skirt, I see disposable diapers made from papier-mâché. She walks backwards and falls off the edge.
I catch her.
another face grows in my head.
a face borrowed from childhood. different vision / same time line. my mouth is wide open and there’s a hand drill, unscrewing a metal slab in my throat, a doorway, a cover for the motherboard. cut the black wire connecting upper and lower molar. burn off remnants with soldering tip. melt the rubber.
the mind is turning to evening noise, into a back alley of drains and fences and trees. a place borrowed from childhood.
starting point: living quarters
ending point: canteen
in between: classrooms
abandoned school as grey world
abandoned school as classified zone
I am speaking to the unseen, in their native tongue, asking respectfully, for permission, making an announcement: “I am just passing through.” i say, “I am only passing through.”
#oneiricnovel #dailywriting #dailywriting2016day17 #dailywriting2016 #irvingpaulpereira

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