balognasamples

it was an old wood cabin set on a flat area among some grassy hills and marshes, and it was well kept, at least structurally. the walls inside were covered with carved and painted messages, initials in hearts (some crossed out or edited from MG + BK to MG + DL), smiley faces here and there, occasional suicide notes scrawled by pillows, inside jokes (jessie is king worm). outside jokes (camping is in tents), and all the rest. It was quite like all those camp cabins we stayed in as kids - if we were sent off to it by our parents - but simultaneous - not fleeting, like you might want to recall. what i mean to say is this cabin, and all of its environment, were collapsing in time. it was sunny and hot with birds chirping but all awash with thunderstorms, fat, gentle snowflakes, and gusts of winter wind rushing through at 200MPH. fish rose above ground with the tides and swam among birds, who sucked worms from each others mouths. we were collapsed too - in first meeting, in affection, embarrassment, bickering, kissing, playing cards, pulling hair - we were pools without ebb or flow. in space, we were without the fragmentation of chronology. experiences intersected through condensation and evaporation.

i asked josh, as we sat face-in-face at one of the picnic benches, "josh, what is your favourite kind of weather" "of course", he said, "everyone loves sunny days most." to which i replied, "not true. in fact, some people prefer snowstorms." without so long a delay as i could describe through "instantly", his and my feelings about weather amalgamated, and he amended his statement. "i might prefer snowstorms, at least when they occur." together we grinned as hot shafts of sunlight illuminated bursts of snowflakes which landed on the tongues of fish and birds, still sucking worms. i felt suddenly overwhelmed by emotions, and went inside. wanting to make tactful note of my ineffable feelings, i wrote on the floor words that did not go together, in handwriting that wasnt mine. it was a futile effort, more an aestheticizing of some imaginary catharsis which might have been real before the collapse. futile, because in our collapsed state nothing could be created and no future mysteries existed. our reality was conceptual paint water; all elements of a narrative tempered together until what remains is each moment enmeshed as a brownish-grey, opaque fluid.