“W_ _H”, “SH_ _ER” and “S_ _P”
Skein
Solveigs’ fingers knead the fabric, rubbing in soap, mixing ointments, adding a blooming tincture, and patting balms and drops of solutions onto the cloth. “Out, damned spot” she murmurs. She feels she has been here before and now she’s here again. Before her mind's eye a sash of images unfurls, like a never-ending memory unspooling; another card on the mantlepiece, a figurine in a winding sheet, sea-buckthorn-orange stitching, a gesture towards hardened soil, a carved out hollow. Another vision swells, one of many shoes; graphic, ovoid, painterly and burlesque, marching along the mossy marches of her memory with their lacquered finishes in shades of black, white, and red. Some galloping, others trudging past without a sound, like a choir of silhouettes, rushing without terror.
Sleepdrunk, with her feet turning cold on the terracotta tiles, the early sun spills through the crevices. Solveig opens the sliding door just a sliding sliver, enough for her to shoehorn her face into the aperture. She examines the sky, a slate-grey wall paling at its edges. The lighter’s metronomic clicking, the squeaky drag of the cigarette’s end, her face still pressed into the opening, blowing out the smoke from between pursed lips. A gaggle of geese takes flight from between the reeds, becoming a skein once in the air, V-wedging southward. Her breath loosens, then tightens again in her chest.
The sweet scent of rice entices her back inside. Thistles stand suggestively in their vase on the countertop. The coffee churns in a vortex, its swirling black liquid refusing to settle. The rice is soaked, rinsed, and boiled, chestnuts are placed on top to steam together for a moment. Glancing across the kitchen, she still sees the ruffled feathers strewn around the floor. In growing anxiety she cries, “Out, damned spot!” Cerberus lifts his head. Another image intrudes; a votive wrought of chestnut-shaped stains on burgundy leather, morphing into flattened hot-pink chewing gum, spat with force onto the pavement.
Somewhere on the brink of intention and intuition, Solveig marches. Thin streams of icy air slide down the layers of shorn wool, cashmere, and silk, reaching for her throat. Nipples rising in their pinkness. Hunched forward against the lashings of wind, her entirety enveloped in a rainproof polyester shell. Cerberus trots by her side, curiously looking behind him to check if she is still following him, that she hasn’t vanished just yet. His hyena coat spangled with dew that breaks into prismatic freckles, stained glass scattered across his fur. Solveig believes that perhaps a dog is a way for us to like the world despite everything. Cerberus is an empathy machine on four legs, ordering the world for her by walking ten steps ahead like a moral snowplough. The shadows of his spindly legs lengthen as they pass various congregations of farm animals; chickens and ducks, young bulls, horses, rabbits, sheep, and a lone Kashmiri goat. On the pasture the horses move widdershins and kaleidoscopic; their legs wrap around each other, they swirl around their axis. Solveig’s somber eyes staring from under cow-licked eyebrows. Church bells draw nearer, affirming the morning in its unveiling.
A litany of people gathers in front of the train station one by one, adding their weight to Solveig’s shoulders. Chalk drawings appear across the pavement and square, leaving pastel dust resting on their tongues like a sort of omen. Exposed belly buttons, layers of lipgloss, large backpacks mounted on little people, chubby hands fingering long tubes containing crisps. Solveig buys a scratch card. What for? Trying her luck? A better omen? A girl eats grated cheese from a ziplock bag while walking, averting her gaze in embarrassment when their eyes meet. Another woman tips a paper cup towards her mouth; some liquid escapes, staining her coat’s collar with a growing shadow.
Cheek by jowl she wakes with Cerberus on the duvet. He innocently licks his paws clean of salt, getting rid of the mineral crust, rainbow dusting the sheets. Becoming undone, waking and walking from the dream inside the dream with a slumbering sense of good faith and the idea that a conspiracy prevents them all from remembering how they came into the world. She tries to wash back the deluge of images, to locate a single true symbol amid the glut. But her mind recoils at the excess. Meaning multiplies like spores. She longs to disappear, to be absorbed by the feathers, the stains, the momentum of the day.
Febe Lamiroy
Skein
Solveigs’ fingers knead the fabric, rubbing in soap, mixing ointments, adding a blooming tincture, and patting balms and drops of solutions onto the cloth. “Out, damned spot” she murmurs. She feels she has been here before and now she’s here again. Before her mind's eye a sash of images unfurls, like a never-ending memory unspooling; another card on the mantlepiece, a figurine in a winding sheet, sea-buckthorn-orange stitching, a gesture towards hardened soil, a carved out hollow. Another vision swells, one of many shoes; graphic, ovoid, painterly and burlesque, marching along the mossy marches of her memory with their lacquered finishes in shades of black, white, and red. Some galloping, others trudging past without a sound, like a choir of silhouettes, rushing without terror.
Sleepdrunk, with her feet turning cold on the terracotta tiles, the early sun spills through the crevices. Solveig opens the sliding door just a sliding sliver, enough for her to shoehorn her face into the aperture. She examines the sky, a slate-grey wall paling at its edges. The lighter’s metronomic clicking, the squeaky drag of the cigarette’s end, her face still pressed into the opening, blowing out the smoke from between pursed lips. A gaggle of geese takes flight from between the reeds, becoming a skein once in the air, V-wedging southward. Her breath loosens, then tightens again in her chest.
The sweet scent of rice entices her back inside. Thistles stand suggestively in their vase on the countertop. The coffee churns in a vortex, its swirling black liquid refusing to settle. The rice is soaked, rinsed, and boiled, chestnuts are placed on top to steam together for a moment. Glancing across the kitchen, she still sees the ruffled feathers strewn around the floor. In growing anxiety she cries, “Out, damned spot!” Cerberus lifts his head. Another image intrudes; a votive wrought of chestnut-shaped stains on burgundy leather, morphing into flattened hot-pink chewing gum, spat with force onto the pavement.
Somewhere on the brink of intention and intuition, Solveig marches. Thin streams of icy air slide down the layers of shorn wool, cashmere, and silk, reaching for her throat. Nipples rising in their pinkness. Hunched forward against the lashings of wind, her entirety enveloped in a rainproof polyester shell. Cerberus trots by her side, curiously looking behind him to check if she is still following him, that she hasn’t vanished just yet. His hyena coat spangled with dew that breaks into prismatic freckles, stained glass scattered across his fur. Solveig believes that perhaps a dog is a way for us to like the world despite everything. Cerberus is an empathy machine on four legs, ordering the world for her by walking ten steps ahead like a moral snowplough. The shadows of his spindly legs lengthen as they pass various congregations of farm animals; chickens and ducks, young bulls, horses, rabbits, sheep, and a lone Kashmiri goat. On the pasture the horses move widdershins and kaleidoscopic; their legs wrap around each other, they swirl around their axis. Solveig’s somber eyes staring from under cow-licked eyebrows. Church bells draw nearer, affirming the morning in its unveiling.
A litany of people gathers in front of the train station one by one, adding their weight to Solveig’s shoulders. Chalk drawings appear across the pavement and square, leaving pastel dust resting on their tongues like a sort of omen. Exposed belly buttons, layers of lipgloss, large backpacks mounted on little people, chubby hands fingering long tubes containing crisps. Solveig buys a scratch card. What for? Trying her luck? A better omen? A girl eats grated cheese from a ziplock bag while walking, averting her gaze in embarrassment when their eyes meet. Another woman tips a paper cup towards her mouth; some liquid escapes, staining her coat’s collar with a growing shadow.
Cheek by jowl she wakes with Cerberus on the duvet. He innocently licks his paws clean of salt, getting rid of the mineral crust, rainbow dusting the sheets. Becoming undone, waking and walking from the dream inside the dream with a slumbering sense of good faith and the idea that a conspiracy prevents them all from remembering how they came into the world. She tries to wash back the deluge of images, to locate a single true symbol amid the glut. But her mind recoils at the excess. Meaning multiplies like spores. She longs to disappear, to be absorbed by the feathers, the stains, the momentum of the day.
Febe Lamiroy
