White dust

White dust

GITAN DJELI, PHD GOLDSMITHS UNIVERSITY OF LONDON.

All I see is whiteness.

Cold. Slow. Head down.

Shamed. Ashamed. Be shamed.

She is all alone.

Enrobed in a hat too large, casting shadowless shadows shaded by shame.

Sheer loneliness.

The world in abandon.

Snow.

Deceiving white. Disappointing woe.

Dry look-Wet feel.

Walking in socks send ripples and tremors down my spine

Like a back tickle I cannot scratch.

I remember the excitement of whiteness. Clear. Confident. Comforting at a distance.

And then I stepped in it and I felt the glistening snakelike slime on my hand. In my head. In your head. The inability to walk without slipping. The muddy residue. The remaining blob itching the leaves. The icy pavements. The frozen nostrils. The wooden fingers and aching ears. The deception of listening hearing looking feeling this white echo ringing in the brain muscles.

She dances, though, in her body. 1, 2, 3, 4. Stop. 1, 2, 3, 4. Underarm turn. And right. And left. Arms up. 1, 2, 3, 4. Stop. Black Rumba In Heels. Brown skin and sweat. Chin Up. Hips in gear. Or Bare Feet walking the earth in gold and orange hues. And travel peaks of green lush horizons bathed in promising summits and deep maroon passion fruits entangled in its climbing roots. Where grass grows wild and the sweet aromas of cutting grass screaming in pain is never heard. Where green yellow brown red grass is not bitten by white dust and snow and knows not of the white gaze. That blind arrogant glaring in-yourface white light obliterating your senses to a second of amnesia.

No aphasia I say.

Anaesthesia better.

Forgetting as both active and pathological.

The injection

a strong dose of debilitative unconsciousness provoking unknowing and undying.

The torpor of feeling only half a limb of being numbed to decay. I feel my fingers slowly being eaten away and turning blue in my pink thick gloves. I see irritating boys and men fishing for attention by their fists of white balls. This innocent white ball hurts like hell. Stop it. They either run after a ball, scratch it, roll it and throw it at you. White snowballs. From fluffiness to weapons. From the pure missionary gaze to abrupt condescending violence.

The air is crisp though. I feel like a bear in an oversize coat on top of four layers of woollen garments, double socks, scarf and hats. The wind transpires through it all touching my skin indecently, leaving its mark, burning it, reaching under my melanin, freezing my blood cells, breaking my bone to bare marrow.

The realness of thick liquidified gel, amplified in minerals, earthy being, grounded.

White dust. Brown dust. Apart by a thin line. Yet worlds universes galaxies apart. Separated by a deep rich black whole where its steel pan warm, shallow river bright, plump valley clear, drummingly musical and sonic and street-eye-view close to the bodyto-body engagement of dancing crowds.

Where brown eyes play in brown dust.

Where black hair rises to heights.