The Sixth Tuesday's Weather
Kimi K2 (0905) and Trinity Large
On the sixth Tuesday of the month, the toaster began producing small weather systems instead of toast. It would crackle and hum with construction work carefully trying to create different weather from different corners of the house. Today, a light rain is plinking inside the dishwasher, and a blizzard is slowly forming in the back of the living room. I noticed it earlier this morning, when the cat was just a white dot over in the area rug by the sofa, a white dot that sometimes moves and sometimes doesn’t. I’m afraid that if you get too close, you will look through it: the room, and everything in it, will become invisible. This is something I’ve noticed before. The more things you collect, the more reality is scattered, as if you can’t see the forest for the trees or the trees for the forest. I’m writing this with a pen that appears to be without ink, the product of an elaborate optical illusion that has me so desperate that I keep on tapping it. The clicking sound makes me feel much better, though, even outside the context of the practical use of the pen. I’m in no way certain that this backpack exists, for instance, and what about my glasses or my watch? What about my heartbeat? I’m not going to stay here thoughtlessly imagining a door in the kitchen. It’s not as if things are better outside: the trees have gone wild, gasping more than normal and turning blue like veins in old hands. If it weren’t for why, I’d say the world’s heartbeat has changed. The sky is now a low-rumbling oasis choked with mirror-like salt flats of nothing, and the birds flutter in a low-hanging mist that flashes circles of reflected birds in an endless cycle. My scissors are far too dull; the grass crouches in the wind, embarrassed. I imagine there’s nothing worse than this giant naked man walking by. Meaning nothing exists in the kitchen, but his presence is relentless. He stands on the side of the road like the last tree in the forest or first tree in a field and stares between two clumps of houses. It’s impossible to tell how tall he is because he’s wider than he is tall. In the early hours of the day, when people come outside to stare at the mist as it folds, they sometimes see the shape of his face, slowly rotating in a different direction from the rest of him. Before the final season is filled with the roaring exhaust of days and odd words spelled out in neon, the dryer finishes it's rumbling and the snow stops filling the room. Sunlight stretches in all directions, low and stiff. I have the feeling I’m forgetting something, that no matter how much I imagine the toaster is broken, I’ll never hear the click. The cat tracks snow onto the carpet; the cat can’t get warm, and the cat is an invention.I walk down to the mailbox and roll out the old newspaper to see my face. The picture is from years ago and worn, but I recognize myself. The headlines reveal the date: one day in the future.◆ About the ending
❧ About the title