Monday, February 25, 2008

the diving bell and the butterfly

Encapsulated in a small space or a large one there is no room to move. The movement only stutters in letter form - like a myspace page "server busy" or "error notice." Try not to think about it too much - just reach out to your loved ones and say thank you. Lineal movements of the arms cause silhouette charades to mirror the inside of the right eyeball. A pound. A pound. An interior pulsating that just rotates ad nauseum. Taken to tiny measures she dreams again and again, new endings or days for tomorrow – like if you think about it long enough – there will be a remedy. Inside the diving bell: water all around...an ocean cloudy with turbid phalanges. The forearm curves like a perpetual “C” and she sees it as a sign of compatibility or genuine concern. A kiss on the left shoulder. Roll over, and begin to sleep. The days pass by in random order: not all long or too short, just pedestrian in quality until – Until she walks with determination and looks forward instead of down, to the right. A pathway for the eager is sometimes too inviting or sensitive.

When the right eye is sewn shut depth perception removes itself as being a quality of measure. The gauges freeze and you are looking down a tunnel. She knows this tunnel like the lost highway prelude – just a continuous pavement stretch. Stretch, stretch – her triceps burn from overwork and the midsection lays soft for good luck and three wishes. When he softly pressed his lips upon her a shower of acupuncture needles filled the frame – at first enraptured, and then pausing to find a flaw. The beauty of movement is that you can always change direction. In feeling the way to a tomorrow it is best to think of before and just hit replay hit replay – the butterfly lives inside the chest – papillon – mariposa – syllables that beat upon themselves, so the word actually represents the meaning. Like the casual stroke of hair from cheek conveys a novella or when you see flashbulbs in the iris and the room is dimly lit. She continues to look inside the body for elixir. A cadaver not dead opened and the moths kept in a jar on the bedside table. The diving bell regulates air so breadth is rhythmic – a thrust in and out. The left thigh pressed alongside the outer and nails running down the back scratching to lift off a piece of skin.

Encapsulated inside the mind there are no boundaries and no tactile means for gratification. The butterfly has yet to synthesize – a Diels Alder reaction taking maybe four (4) to seventy-nine (79) hours. If the body is paralyzed, would you consider a seismic event? Do we only take the time to feel the earth move when we are awake or can imagination prove strong enough to fabricate memory, and thus the perceived reality? If our toes intertwine and touch all throughout the evening will long walks around the park lead to…there are just too many ways to script an ending and the ultimate lies in everyone’s future. The ability to wake and truly enjoy the next is what is so often taken for granted. If anything comes from the incessant pondering it rests in the rising of the sun and the production of sunsets. A strong wind pushes through the window and she thinks a diving bell and butterfly: perfect matches for cinema landscapes and glacier meltdowns.


So, yeah – the diving bell and the butterfly some heavy shit :o though definitely worth viewing. I think the next time I go to the movies I will be sure and do a bit more research. Maybe that is the reason things resonate so strongly, when there are no expectations, the impact of the shudder lasts longer.