Hydrangea

DrawingWe choke on heat and smell of burning asphalt, white-hot faces behind a car-window.

The mayor is watering his hydrangea’s in secret, the hydrangea’s are beautiful, the world is a rotten place.

I remember the flowers on my sisters bed-stand, the rotting flowers – the underside rots while the top dries out, that mushy smell of swamp under those rustling dry leaves, metaphor for old people, metaphor for old life baking away behind a laced window, behind the sun, it never rains in retirement homes but it always rains at the funeral.

Well fuck, I go on driving like crazy through the small roads, the asphalt thick to my nose and ears, I drink warm beer which is foul and warm wine which tastes like kids syrup, I feel like I need tresses in my hair and a stupid flower-dress.

My mother goes out in the night to water our hydrangea’s, the cat licks the water from the tiles in the shower and I keep thinking about boobs and I hate it. My own collarbones are glistening, red sweat, old burned skin with a thin film of warm, syrupy water, why is everything sticky and sweet in this weather? I put a sticker of a heart there and burn it in my skin with sun.

I remember the Cuban who dripped sweat on me, I remember the younger, hairy guy who dripped sweat on me, I’ve been dripped on by so many guys and this one girl, who was surprisingly cold to the touch.

I am thinking about dripping and sweat and what boundaries are, I hate it when people take there shirt off at concerts and their wet sticky skin touches mine, but I don’t care when a soaked t-shirt brushes my face and lips in the mosh pit. I dropped my glasses once and everyone froze like a friendly cartoon.

I remember the desert with the red sand, I remember smoldering heat above an endless road, I remember getting out of the car and being hit by a strong warm wind that took my breath away, it was like being in the womb but my mother hated it, I thought that was logical because it was her womb and who has ever been in their own womb? It makes no sense but then I remembered that she has her own mother, who presumably has a womb.

My own womb is a non-entity, theoretically it can carry children but we do not yet agree on that, perhaps we never will. I remember walking down smoldering asphalt when I was twelve, holding my hands on my lower belly, sticking out, a round kid-belly, imagining a baby inside, talking to the possibility of a future child, nonsense I’m sure. I wish I could be someones dad, I would be irresponsible and run away, and come back only sometimes to take them to the zoo and forget their birthday. Their mom would be a sweet, round woman with messy hair, messy everything, my vision of the ideal woman is her being interrupted doing something important, something that didn’t leave her time to sort her hair out. I love watching loved ones being unselfconscious, sorting something out deep in thought, not aware of being.

I drive on and consider going in reverse and driving over the hydrangea’s, but what point is there? They are beautiful.

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