notes on flowers
it was my two hundredth birthday. i lit a candle. i prayed to the sun. i put my teeth in fire. i put my clothes in fire. i went dancing at honcho disko with two angels, suki and sean. the morning star and the moon watched me walk backwards to my room. there were heavenly wildflowers on my bed. my sister sent them from the land of the long white cloud. my sister and i are the same person. we have the same eye. same lung. same tongue. but i have a bigger nose. my nose has been growing for two hundred years. my nose is so big now it reaches the end of the earth. i put the wildflowers in a milk bottle on my famous windowsill.
damon is a traveller of time and space. he is the tallest person i have ever met. we walked into the flower shop on brunswick street. he asked the flower lady if she knew what the official flower is for the state of victoria. the flower lady changed into a greek amphora full of sweet wine in front of our eyes. she said she didn’t know and her handles fell off and she weeped and ancient wine spilled all over the shop floor. she only knew the official flower for new south wales. the waratah. a day later the young traveller placed the sweetest purple lillies in my famous kitchen. and a thousand waratahs fell from the stars.
the dreamy poet elena gomez invited me to read at the launch of her debut collection, body of work. after the reading i was having a cigarette and a pear cider with ahmed yussuf, another writer i love. we were talking about claudia rankine, federico garcía lorca and the ways in which haircuts can be demeaning. elena gifted me a bouquet of otherworldly orange blooms. ahmed said i matched the flowers. they sit on my famous windowsill alongside a cactus, a candle and a series of notes about the blackbird who sings to me at 3am every night:
the blackbird is a loop machine. he starts his song at 3am. i record his song. i play it back to him. he looks at me. i look at him. he changes his song. i play it back to him. he sits on my hair. he chews at the flowers. the flowers chew him. he sings to the flowers. the flowers sing to him. the blackbird is a loop machine.
all these flowers sit in the mandir, the artificial divine space made of wood, petals, powder, hair, paper and paint.