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Go shoppingI was the boy in the morning, losing his parasol. I was the parasol, caught by a breeze. I was the breeze. At the corner, I was a shelf of bonsai trees in miniature, one after another. I was a cat, walking along the edge of a narrow canal which ran behind square, wooden houses. And I was the cat on the fence of a garden housing mossy stones (me), a stone lantern (me) and a pine tree. I was the pine tree. I was every pine needle in the breeze. I was the breeze. I was the whole neighborhood. I was side streets meeting the main drag. I was shopfronts, my day’s business underway. I was invitations inside. The deliverymen and tradesmen and salesmen were me. I was seeking transactions agreeable to all.
Asleep on a roof at noon, I was a third cat. I was the 1,000 tiles of the roof. I was the 100 roofs of the neighborhood. All along a ledge, I was a number of sparrows. On my drying platform, I hung laundry. I was cotton drying in the sun. I was this warmth. In my yard, I walked to the rice barrel. I was the rice barrel. Lid weighted with a stone. I was the stone. I was this weight. I was 1,000,000,000 grains of rice. I was the rat going after the rice. I was a fourth cat going after the rat. In pursuit. Pursued. Across town, I was a horse tied by my reins to a post. I was the sleeping dog in the shadow of the hot afternoon. I was the tortoise balanced incongruously atop a stubby, upright stick, slowed further. On the porch of an open room, I was a client, on my belly, and I applied the needles. Each infinitesimal, invisible needle was me.
I was the gossip of the evening. I was a scattering of lily pads like fingerprints. Cross-legged, I spoke to a cross-legged audience of nine. Paper lanterns lit themselves: I was these. I was this night-time scene—audience and speaker. I was all ears. I was 100 toes. I was sandals ranked at the entranceway. I retained the warmth of their hot feet. I was this warmth. I was this charged stillness. I was 1,000 gestures and movements. I was living moment to moment. I couldn’t last. I was unfurnished. I was without bed or chair. I was out of sorts. I wasn’t myself, for a while. I was a thin home of sliding partitions.
About Dan Spencer
Dan Spencer lives by the sea with his wife and daughters. His writing appears places like Popshot, Stand, The Scotsman, Gutter and The Letter's Page.
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