These Are Not Gypsy Premonitions
“Hey, you know what?” When I speak, you are the perfect listener in perfect silence until I’m afraid you’ve walked away.
You are always still there. The attention can be almost disconcerting. Like this it’s almost refreshing to have to fight for a little. But like this, I’m impressed you can remember who you called.
“Am I connected to other people by bubble people?” you ask me. “Are we all connected by bubbles? I think we are... oh my God, I’ve uncovered the secret of life.”
There is a great, great deal about bubbles. “We use language to describe our bubbles of thoughts,” you explain, “because they’re just bubbles.” This is how it begins. It veers into vast thoughts of bubbles, everyone’s bubbles, a pool of our bubbles in which we all mix minds. I cannot write you down fast enough.
“You don’t even have to wish,” you promise me. “The universe will take care of you, as long as you want it in your heart.” I'd like to have you, but at first you seem not to understand the concept.
“Well, which part of me do you want? There is my mind, which you have right now, and there is my body.” There is something about the way in which our communication allows me to have your mind. It is so abstract I can't cling to it long enough to write it down. I am weighing my worries: fear that having your mind is factually impossible, fear that I will never be worthy of it.
“However, if it is my body you want, the universe will take care of that too... at our second meeting. Yes...
“I don’t know where my pants are. Or my boxers.”
I break into giggles again. It is dark outside and I can't see the leaves of the trees until I press my eyes to the pane. You are far, far away. It is as if I have magnifyed the map without moving. “Hey, you know what?”
“I want to fuck you.” Oh, I know. That wasn’t what I was getting at, but I’m there.
Again, I must convince: “Yeah, really. Why wouldn’t you believe me?”
For once ever, you do. “Now I want it really bad. I have for a long time.” What? “I’ve known you in spirit for a year. We were connected by the same bubble.” Really now? “It's our lives, and our frames of mind...”
You see ghosts, on your shelf and at the end of your bed. “Two ghosts, and they’re playing patty-cake with their two ghost-like hands," you say, engaging and mystical. "They’re hanging on fishing line, making patterns. These are not gypsy premonitions, they are warnings, Anna.”
I have them all out of order. “Uh oh! They’re coming! I think they’re evolving!" you cry out in fear, breathing heavily. "I have to hide under the blanket! They’re going to eat me! I’m going to die.”
I laugh, I want to cry. “You will,” I say. I don’t lie to you! “But not right now, so don’t worry. Don't freak out, you'll be fine.”
A tiny sad man with no eyes is walking on your wall. His name is Keith. There is another person beneath your skin, and you want to take him out and see what he has to say. I kindly convince you not to use sissors. It's a bad idea, I say. Just pop the bubbles with your fingers. Besides, why would there be another you in your stomach?
“Because that’s where my gut feelings come from!”
The mind is what the brain does. “I have a tic," you say, "that goes tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, take time, tick tock, tick tock, take time. It’s coming down! It’s coming down! It’s got long arms with light bulbs on the end like searchlights and they’re looking for my brain -
“I’ve lost my mind.”
Like this it takes a try to claim your attention.
“I’m going to fall asleep and slip away into a land of magic. Which you wouldn’t know anything about. I don’t know why, I just felt like saying that. I’m going to be naked, riding a horse bareback.” Like this it takes a try to claim your attention.
“I’m sort of fucking in love with you.”
You don’t believe a word, sweetheart.
How hard for the covers,
To be pulled from the slumbers,
But a ghost never gives up its sheet
Tell me is it the same,
For the rattling chains,
Or whatever you wear when you sleep
You remember the time
I told you to take off your clothes -
You were as naked as a window
But I’ll take all that nothin’
Over nothin’ at all
Oh, I’m just a hallway,
For ceilings and walls babe,
And emptiness all the way through
You know you’re asking too much,
To be held and not touched,
But somehow that’s just what you do
- Josh Ritter, “Naked As A Window”