Jane Thomas
Menomorphosis
The alarms in my ears are constant but low, detection hampered by heat, all my windows open. And if my mind had not started to muddle, I may have connected the two into a security risk. But I didn’t. I was busy trying to remember the word for ice. That thing that stops things decomposing. Halts and holds things in state. Swims in drinks. Yes, ice.
One summer Wednesday, I was nearly knocked off my bike by an electric car. He said he couldn’t see me. I couldn’t really hear him what with the ears. It kept happening, on zebras, pulling into parking spaces, catching the waiter’s eye. I tried wearing brighter colours, character specs, statement jewellery, blonder highlights, wearing high heels (until my bunions started playing up). I went back to my norms, and began being more vigilant, a little pushier, louder in restaurants.
But my rhythms slowed, became deeper, intentional, interconnected, current. I stopped endeavouring, stopped fighting, started to enjoy my invisibility. Strolling into cricket clubs, betting shops, The Garrick, people don’t question the unseen.
The nigredo of my old life; corporate job cage, daily shroud of non-iron, consumer clutter, dependencies, morphed into the new. Conversations were with quieter divinities; trees, water, spiders, stones. Well-storied beings shared their secrets. My striving for survival was over, gone was the rush, it was all here; shelter of the bluff, soothing of the flower essence, fungi feasts, cloud commune, and this very moment. AQ