From the pressure point of her knuckle concentric waves of fresh green sparkling sands float in depthless space until their shimmering hue sprawls out across the eyescape. Its verdant mist laps against the boundaries of her inner vision and reflects back in each softer current, the foamy crests of wavelets catching golden glimmers, and slowly the haze encroaches on the zone where her knuckle presses, where the apartment is cloaked in the perennial sap of translucency, of humility. Pressing deeper. The visible concavity expands in grainy rings of warmer hues; radiating explosions of golden flecks degrade the profiles of home further. In this central depression, in the grown over remains of inverted domesticity, she wanders the ways of final repose.
All things in the city must collapse upon themselves, roads become hillside cul-de-sacs, sidewalks pool into parking lots, water from drains meets the sea. Her feet streak across the concrete and the concrete travels upward to fill her stockings with hard unfeeling stone. She kicks her shoes when she walks on each vertical element rising out of the concrete, some tall enough to strike into the white sky, others just barely high and stiff enough to resist her limp motion, metal street sign posts, black iron security fence struts which she merely drags her leading left foot across, the legs of mailboxes, wire uprights of disposable for-rent signs, high striped mooring posts, marking out a linear pen that stretches up to the horizon and diminishes.
I layer my clothes to brace my skin from the air. It is too sensitive to the eyes that can see around corners, whose pupils are shadows, piercing through the breeze and sun. The sun is over the end of a street now where it is blocked off from the sand and ocean. I dont think Sepulveda hits the ocean. It goes on forever. I should make a day to find the end of Sepulveda. I want it to start and end distinctly. I want to see it in the dark so the beige hills that crush the valleys and trump the horizon are lightless and black. They make me shake. The tail of the ridge jutting out to the north is a heavier shade of white from the sky with a thin silver corona. I see the sun behind it, snatched from the southern sky, able to rifle dusty afternoon into the bathroom windows were I home.
The third body is defined by where it is not and where its actions are not. The third station, the thighs are slightly parted, at ease, the hips ascending, waver slightly before dropping, and the arm muscle groups tense minimally, arching back to define an upward pointing chevron-shaped void, framing a refrigerant cloudbank. In so much buzzing and dripping, and clawing and stepping over the limp and the mechanized who move in machines in the dark, all that a body can do is to sleep, and to vibrate. All that a body can do is to not be there. Dark streaks between parallel pale limbs on the rind, taper back to skin punctuating this night of continuous capes with the flickers of a single body turning to mist at fluorescent dawn.
Her gaze bears down and drives you harder to the earth each night, grinding you into nothing against the asphalt and dropping you into corners crushed from the burden. You are broken into pieces and her eyes see them when they float away. You remain kneeling before her glassy eyes and you remain hurriedly stepping away from them and laying in the dark and sitting behind a counter forgetting. She sees the past admissions falling away from you in clouds of dust, in sweat that falls on the table. In all the days of all the eyes in every moment you never cease to be broken apart, yet you never outrun the big clumsy body that has wasted so many dreams and footsteps. In every moment, even those in which you know yourself not to be, they record, taunt ceaselessly, and place you there.
You cant know how this situation will redirect me. You are responsible. Whatever the outcome your guilt is sealed in the vapor that perpetuates my life. You have nothing to do. Let this moment free into the reflective moisture of my breath, the fine clear crystals of the sand endlessly flickering between cause and effect. Let yourself be lost in the sun. It will all happen whatever you do. The sky is half white atmosphere and half luminous white cloud from end to end of the beach. You squint across the sand. I get up to leave. You have not changed position. The scrutiny presses down on you. You have jettisoned yourself over and over into the sand to keep your body from sinking into it because you dont know what is there. I know what is there, I was buried from the beginning.
In the obscure distance she can discern the impersonal forms left in the apartment. To recall these cast aside items is to destroy their importance, to cross a threshold into an intangible home on the night, on the street, to blow away with the breath of a wink the cloud that binds them here and her to them. At the cusp between the pleasure of permanent damage and entrance to this memorial home the sparkles shimmer behind your eyes with roseate benevolence. With continued descent lights consume the eye and smother out the remaining wisps of recognition. She is seeing within her eye an entire space of senses free from the population of her mind and the street. The natal sight, the ancient directive to gaze behind figures of the material world, is awakened.
She is bound by external impulse to tap her foot until her shoes have disintegrated, are clean, by impulses from beyond the horizon, beneath green dusks, march her forward away from the sea until she crumbles into dust under the rattle of endless footfalls. Each step into a new reflection, a lengthening shadow, is a new doom, a new empty urge to satisfy. In her reflection are endless lists of scorned surfaces to erase and incompletions to amend. She presses her palm against the breast pocket of her smock. The stack of paper relieves a soft rectangle out of the fabric. Each card and folded sheet explains a failure, a boundary. Papers drift into the canals from vaster seas upon weak tides drawing only the most base of concerns, the elementary shortcomings for her to find, second-hand.
I stayed all night at my desk. That morning the sky was green. During the night the hills had fallen away and loosed the smog and sun from the morning sky. I stood absently in it for a moment before going back to my desk. During the day, in there, the sun didnt move, there were not shadows. My actions didnt progress. When my hands started moving over the desk, they didnt stop, the paper didnt stop, the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, the metal lamp over the desk, all of the other empty desks light the room into a shadowless gas. It was momentary. I had only to move one envelope and I had moved and placed all of them for a lifetime. It wasnt a matter of how long it happened, only that it had happened. I believe that one moment is different from the next. I wasnt there. I was at the beach.
Fourth station, third body. The vertex of the void formed by the hips ascending the insides of the thighs, forced outward to press the arm muscle groups out of the sagging chevron, now taut, approaches the shape of a diamond. The arm muscle groups forced into a peak, through whose frame, which breaches the rind of the machine, a gray stria of light bisects the scene, directly through the soft vertex which would lie opposite of an elbow. The body curtain parts upon a luminance, a vermilion guardstrip draws the edge of the rug at the bottom of the stria. Light clings to the night, light clings to sweat on skin. The curtain is drawn back to the taut blacks are pulled before the light casting shadow back onto the body through a diamond shaped orifice, slightly before it goes limp.
Things become solid in the dark. The past becomes tangible. Guilt, suspicion, and scrutiny are forces that you are cast adrift upon to meander through the night. You yearn to sink down into opaque silt. Her eyes pass you from one moment to the next, floating empty beneath you, never filling a place or failing with you. The lost spots where you have fallen, spilled, given up, cheated, intruded, hidden, decayed and languished, leave inlets for scrutiny to fill, her eyes flooding your past and eroding it into wandering islets and spits that you never find again in the backed up stagnation of the trapped tides. The moments that fall away, into the soup, swim suspended beneath you always, always rubbing amongst one another, borrowing and infecting, and losing you with their foreignness.
The day is a long morning, waiting to start, for the sky flats to wheel into place and the buildings mocked up. Then things are hidden around the city, notes to yourself, bits of food, beds, clothes, tragedies. They are attractors. Not each on its own but the mess of them. You couldnt be drawn to a specific thing. You have no needs. The sky is swollen with a single cloud. It contains the sun. The cloud is viscous benign smoke. A breeze emerges from down the beach and pulls the hair from your face across your chest and is still. Where the sea horizon meets the beach at the edge of the city a black soft edge of sky blends into the water. It grows. You dont see it rising filling half of the sky. A cold wind filled with sand and bits of soft paper fills the beach.