we are supermodern we are retroactive we are automatons
we are individuals we are whispers we are all you hear.

Friday, May 8, 2009


Today, this word was stuck in my head as I methodically, mechanically, mindlessly washed dish after fork after tray at the pizzeria I work at. I could not remember what it meant except that I had read it used to describe the flow of the waves on the ocean. But I knew it related to my life. It is a beautiful word, susurrus. The waves whisper as they crawl atop the ocean's surface. The static of the television screen emits a repeated hiss. Life goes by with a rustling of its leaves.

My hands are soft now, from the dishwater. And the grease in the air still clings to my hair and skin. In a week and some days, these concerns will be gone. The Frenchland will have swallowed me whole with its mouth the mountain town. In a year, there is a black space. I see myself in Limbo, floating among the nothings, the nevers, and the nots. Five years from the now, the limbo has vanished and there is only blank space. That place is Beyond nothings and nevers, Beyond everything. It is unpainted, with no foreshadowings. Past that remains the Beyond. But for now, there is grease on my skin and grit beneath my nails. And I cannot wait for the Frenchland's teeth.

Limbo does not scare me. It is a comfortable zone, one I have seen many times in my short history. Long-term plans elude me like that girl with the perfect dress and perfect shoes and perfect hair. But Limbo is always there, ready to tell me the plan. I will figure it out as I go, it says. And Limbo moves ahead, minute by minute, as do I. And the Beyond forsees Limbo's movements and takes brief steps, ahead by moments. But eventually, there will be nothing left. Beyond will become only a memory and Limbo a place I do not want to call home. There will be wrinkles on my skin, a lack of hair. And a quickly dawning realization that this is the end.

And when that moment comes, my life will have passed through the universe with the quiet susurrus ripples in a pond's broken surface make.

1 comment:

  1. mmmmmmmmm susurrus magic.
    i loved the convoluted conversations with time.