snow.

I wanted to write something about snow, but then an email came from Damien Sully asking why I auctioned my pimple over eBay through this delicately marvelous guy/artist that I’ve just met on the street. I tried to reply. Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Damien Sully,

Dondon Donnadon

It was quite a nice surprise when, after finding myself waking up on the couch, I went through this email again and realized that I have written it while being half asleep.

I didn’t know I was that tired, I didn’t know I was dead tired. My muscles were aching from the template they had to put themselves in on the couch. It’s better now though as I’m writing this. And I do remember that I wanted to write about snow.

Yeah.

It’s actually not about snow, more about the memory of snow. It’s fuzzy, with bright light and white light lines. Somewhere in it there’s a feeling of having been in my warm jacket just stepping out of an extremely heated building. There’s also an aural memory of people whispering. Or maybe mumbling. Or maybe I was temporarily deafened by all sensation. I could only caught the t’s and the s’s, and that they were talking about a verb that is magnificent and wondrous. I stepped outside. Cold. Raining. (Oh, no; Snowing.) Snowing? Snowing! Eeeek! of joy. A silent one. That was my first snow in twenty-three years. Another important aspect of the set is the feeling of walking, stopping, and looking up, and being very happy. Smiling all over my body. Passed my breasts, my knees, my toes – then flew up to heaven in the count of frames in a second.

Happy. He has been very happy once in Madrid. He told himself that he would have to remember that moment forever, and in that instant moment he entered my time machine. We were standing side by side without looking at each other through adolescent years. There was a wall of distance between us, a physical wall of distance, but nevertheless … You know how little girls would look at little boys with disgust, as if – and only as if – they’re none of their kind? That’s it. That might be the reason. Or perhaps it was just as simple as in ignoring the presence of a pimple.

Now, back to the pimple, they say my brain is jumpy so let me confirm with what they say. Jump. Went out. Wind blowing on my face. I was wearing the jacket that got Dan thinking that I was a strayed neighbor’s kid. It was blue with green lining. Snowstorm. I tried to cross the street, the wind still blowing on me. A few dirt of snow came onto my face. As I was standing in the middle of the street, I took a glimpse onto my left arm, and found my first snowflakes there.

They were trapped in the folds of my jacket. They were the most beautiful, beautiful, oh my oh, if there is any other word I could describe them with, please, the most beautiful tiny things in this world. At the first sight it was, I fell in love with them. These mythical creatures I knew from mere singing christmas cards sent to my parents when I was little. Still standing in the middle of the empty whitey road, I tried to pick them with my right hand to kiss them. The moment I touched them they began to fade – and my breath was only kissing their soul. Where did they evaporate? Tell me?

I felt a pang in my abdomen. I tore it open like paper and twinkling winged creatures came flying out all over the world. Encapsulating and warm. I opened my jacket, folded it and put it on the street. I opened my sweater, folded it and put it on the street. I opened my shirt, and my skirt, and my thights, and folded them on the street. And then my boots, and my undies. I opened my skin. I had snowflakes all over me. I became white. When I started to kiss myself, I evaporated. This is beauty, so ephemeral. Even when it is frozen.

Forget about those bloody peeled bubbly fingernails and the sedatives, my friend. You’re here, and now, and all that is past is previously gone.

•

It’s snowing on TV.

In Indonesia they call it ants.
 
 
yes, d n.