A loose thread

Ribbons and buttons and anonymous threads, thread, threaded. Deaded. I kept them safe in a tin, their own labarynth. They lie like a tangle of thoughts and episodes waiting to be unravelled, smelled, spelled, recognised. Sometimes they make more sense to me in there, out of harm’s way, shut up, unjudged by danger mouse and risky rat. Shut up. Shut UP. 

            But, butter. Butter in his nose on his whiskers on his paws. William would still slide into this conclusion: that we cannot be free to be you and me. There are too many spiders, not enough flies. He is the spider I am a fly. He has threaded me into safety, but I hold the silks. See here, in my tin. I hold them safe, Safer. Safety net, Safety Knot. Not only with words but with songs, French songs, lullaby goodbye lullaby from Lily loopy-limpet: Brother Jack Brother Jack are you asleep. William has taken control. He has made a safety net, safe for me, safe from me, a fishing net more hole than substance. It’s like the tight-rope walker on the tight, taught wire. A desire for height or flight or fall. Fall through the cracks in the pavement, through the diamonds in the net, through the scales. Fall, falling, fallen. Quite a stunt.

            Did the curtain twitch, the curtain to the other side? If I draw the curtain with paper and pencil I might see the cockateels again, the bright wing beat, the flitter butter of wing and air: beaten butter, creamed,created. Creating something new with pictures, with words. Out of harms way. 

            Not now. Now I need to keep it safe in a tin bin, safe from the whiskers and the wires.

            William

is talking. His words seem blurred. Talk to me not only with your words. They are not enough alone. I need the pace, the space between them.