There! A word, a thought, a whim of something a little too
magical to let it go.
It is barely 7am & I am half-awake, struggling to get
out from under the covers. But this idea, I’ve got to write it down! I look
around for my phone, jot the words down, & continue on with my morning. Eat
breakfast, brush my teeth, leave too early to be sure I won’t be late. Walk out
of my building, stuff the keys into my bag, & look up.
& then, there it is. The sky. The endless, ricocheting
sky. Some days, a gray backdrop to the gray buildings; others, an ocean of
cherry blossoms; others still, whipped cream the color of a smile. Today is going to be a good day, it
says. & I can do nothing but trust it.
I go into the underground metro, watch the tracks ebb away
into the darkness. Look, there again! The shadow of a verse. Pause my music,
look deeper. Yes, there it is, I’ve got it. Easy as hunting Pokemon. Turn my
music back on. Take a breath. Notes: time
is silver lining the tracks.
& then, nothing for hours. I get stuck in a drowsy
consciousness, only half-aware of the words spoken to me. I spend the day
nodding along to classes, scribbling lyrics known by heart without paying
attention to them, transcribing the alphabet into morse code to make sure I
haven’t forgotten. Switch pens mechanically; red for the titles, then subtitles
in blue, then green. The rest in black. New words in pink & purple,
important ones highlighted orange, yellow; sunset seeping through the page.
Laugh at jokes I only half-understand, squint to see the board, shake my head
& roll my eyes. If only I could find
a poem in here. It’s got to be somewhere. Search through all the spare
paper, every square a box waiting to be filled.
Now thank goodness it’s over. I’ve finished early & I
go outside; the sky has turned into water. There
is the poem I’ve been looking for. I take out my phone, desperately try to
type it up but the drops keep hitting the screen & creating nonsense, so I
wipe my screen against my scarf (wet), against my jeans (also wet), against my
sweater (not too wet... yet). Raise my phone screen down towards the sky, I’m
typing up a poem upside down. Ha, that’s
a good one. Notes: rain. upside down poem.
I decide to go to a museum, because it’s a rainy Tuesday
afternoon & that there’s a faint air of poetry lingering in the clouds.
Walking around empty museums always takes me into a parallel universe, feeling
like there is just me & all this art, & nothing else really matters at
all. The sound of my own steps gets louder & more present as I wander until
I forget about it & it fades away once again. My leg hurts, & I find
there is something special about hurting alone in the middle of all these
paintings. Notes: walking in an empty
museum with pain. I am surrounded by numbers, by colors, by shapes
that make my head spin. There is a room
full of black mirrors & I sit for a long time, facing a stranger version of
myself. I think we’ve become friends, & I will write a poem for her
someday. Notes: write poem about black
mirror room.
Going
home on the bus I watch the two girls laughing about a received text, hiding
their smiles in their scarfs, their heads pressed together, & I think how
beautiful it is to be so in love with the world that everyone around you can
feel it. Notes: two girls in love.
neither of them is me, for once. The rain has left its fingerprints across
the sidewalks & they carry me home, tickling my feet. My heart feels full
of poetry today.
I arrive home, check the mail, unlock the door, peel off
the layers of sweaters which have been keeping me warm. Notes: sweaters like your own kind arms. I make myself some hot
chocolate, or tea, walk around too many times around the apartment. I’m
restless, I want to see more of the world. I sit in front of my window for half
an hour. Damn it, I’ve forgotten my tea. Notes:
cold tea & warm tongues. Time to write.
I take
out my computer. I check my Twitter, read a few new publications, fall in love,
follow new lit mags. Open a new document. Open some old documents. Look at my
notes. Look around. Stand up, walk around the apartment again, wish I had a
dog, or a cat, or both. Even just a plant that doesn’t die under my care. Sit
at my computer again. Notes: all my
plants die anyways. even the cacti. especially the cacti. White page,
staring back. I think about the room with the black mirrors. Maybe there’s a
friend here too, staring back.
But
it’s the evening already & no friend has reached out from the blank. I eat
dinner, watch some series, try to forget about the words that won’t fit
together. Notes: distraction as
inspiration. I shower, wash my face, wash my teeth, stare into the mirror.
I get ready for bed, turn the lights off. I hear words running away behind my
eyelids. I have to catch up to them, I have to write them down.
Puzzles. Tents & trees.
Pieces of puzzles. Words that don’t fit. Too many puz—
Caroline Grand-Clement is a
queer, seventeen years old half-time poet, half-time student at an
international school in Lyon, France. She dreams of art in any form, falling
stars & late night conversations. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming
in L’Ephémère Review, Rose Quartz Magazine, Homology Lit, and elsewhere. You can
find her on Twitter, Tumblr or Instagram @octopodeshearts.
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