MICAELA BRINSLEY

Strings 1

‘dreams jangling with lost connections’

March 2024

BEFORE THE SLICE

PRETEXT I
Tell me a story you know how to tell. Eyelids fluttering you clasp your hands, looking up at me. Wanting  something as blue as the sadness you wear—it’s your blanket. A downing. I can hear it rain from far away as you say, Well, I do want one that’s good. Convince me to share what I might be thinking. An exodus. Maybe the cloud above we watched together that one time? It moved from a rabbit to a dolphin while all along wispy and I’m pausing, between drops and the place where you want me to set this, to make this begin. Tell me a story you know how to tell. Why not take me instead, to the place you like to go when you’re soaked? I wanna see you bare. Boned. When you were with solitude last, what you were wearing. What you were seeing, in the shadow your nude reflection carved into the handle of a glass door, tears trickling down a frame.

SUBTEXT I
I’m staring up at the stars, wondering which one’ll shape me into the name for the person you want me to create. Orion. A story about me but I can tell you really want the one about… you, how you left her. Callisto. Behind, where you used to sit in that alleyway near that warehouse oh lounging, for that cat to lick your toe. Bear. Before, when the only people who knew your name made it into the same yearbook. Major. Fooled, by the touch of perfume dripping, still congealing, down the edge of her ear across her skin and you folded in desire. Into a curve. On a shore. Under cover. Tell me a story you know how to tell. How you stole her idea then ran, as far away from the echo of her screams as you could. Well, I want one that’s good. Returning only, to her once you made yourself known. Tell me a story you know how to tell. Asking me specifically for the one you’ve shared already, so you can hear yourself in the past. Oh, Arcas. When you were like me, when you could still outpace guilt.

REFLECTION I
It was not too long ago, the moment I knew. There wasn’t anything to mine, from where you are to where I want to go. Dizzy. I tried. But for too long I lingered in places I thought answers might be. Inside windows. Your blinks, during an inbreath. For that moment when I could finally stare without being caught—a nudge—but you never could realise, I like to stop. You can’t. Outside windows. You thought me curious about you, but I was interested in how you made yourself. Forcing your pupils ever closer, you kept leaning in as if you wanted to hear when you said you were listening, to what I might be saying underneath the words I was choosing—a sign—when you weren’t. Glass. It took me years for enough silence to give myself space for a no—for you it’s so easy. A key. From the tip of my tongue through my bloodstream to my liver and back, for some reason and I don't know why, there’s a gasp in my mind—for you, yes must be much less simple—realise, I didn't stop. It didn’t stop. Me, I stopped me.

PRETEXT II
Well, I want one that’s good. You want that every time. Do you really want to hear it? You must be hungry. I can hear the rain as you watch me far, I'm a distance away from where a knife rests on a wooden stoop and where am I? Tell me a story you know how to tell. Convince me, I want to share what I'm thinking—how I only see clouds one way since that time you first touched me. I’m pausing, between drops and the place where you want me to set this. Tell me a story you know how to tell. Mmm. Well, I want one that’s good. Why not take me there instead, to the place you like to go when you’re soaked? I wanna see it, the mess. How you were feeling when you saw the shadow your nude reflection carved into the handle of a glass door, trickling down a frame.

SUBTEXT II
I'm staring up at the stars, wondering which one’ll shape you into the name I'll create. A story about me but you really want one about… you, how you left yourself. Behind, where you used to sit in that alleyway near that warehouse oh lounging, for that cat to lick your toe. Before, when the only people who knew your name were friends with you, on Facebook. Fooled, by the touch of perfume applied dripping, still congealing, down the edge of her ear across her skin and you folded in desire. Into a curve. On a shore. Under cover. Good enough. How you stole her idea then ran, as far away from the echo of her screams as you could. But not that. Ask me again. Not quite.

REFLECTION II
Me, I stopped me. It didn’t stop. I didn't stop. Realise—for you, yes must be much less simple—there’s a gasp in my mind and I don't know why. For some reason my liver and my bloodstream thought I was the tip of my tongue. It’s reaching inside me, a need. For you it’s so easy, but it took me years for enough silence to leave room for a no. I wasn't hiding. Just the words I was choosing underneath what I was saying, you never listened or only to what you wanted to hear, in them. I like to stop. But you could never and I finally stared at you, without being caught. For that moment everything in my focus evaporated. Your blinks, inbreaths only. Mine, a coagulation of more. In the place where I thought answers would be, for too long I lingered. Where I want to go from where you are, there isn’t anything there to be mined. Anymore, if there ever was. The moment I knew, it was so recently.

PRETEXT III
You’re not ready. Not far, we’re a short distance from where a knife rests on a wooden stoop. Convince me otherwise, because I'm so close—do you really want to hear what I'm thinking? Pause, in the space between your mouth and the place where you told me to set this. The taste of it. Help me start this end. Take me there, to the place you like to go when you’re soaked—I don’t mind entrails.

SUBTEXT III
Which star will shape me into the name for the person I'm about to create? A story featuring you but it’s really about… me, how I left me for the idea of you. I used to sit on top of a wooden stoop oh lounging, for that cat to pass me by. I was fooled, by the touch of a promise dripping, still congealing, down a seam and I folded.

Into a curve.
On a shore.
To somewhere after.

TEXT
‘You know me better than my wife,’ you say. I'm writing an email. In the midst of it and you’re standing, against the bedframe.
        ‘You always know the right moment to interrupt me,’ I respond and you laugh. But it’s not funny. Infuriating, that you can see it on my face. When I'm consumed by something and you might as well be invisible, you find a way to pop it, leaving me loose and unstructured. More. I live for your anger, you’ve told me as if it’s an apology. So many times—it turns you into a cat.
        Together, we remind you of a storm. The wind of your speech and the shifting temperatures of my feelings. One person works with wood while the other varnishes. The rocking motions and the jitters, the inclines turn into declines and back again. We’re not-so-solid-ground.
        Alone, I walked past you. For years when I went shopping for groceries after my shifts ended. The cheese shop I visited whenever I got an end-of-year bonus, I'd sneak in almost not believing my luck. It’s next door and you were always there, in your overalls and hands in pockets.
        Standing against the doorframe. Always at the edge of outside and in. Staring at whatever passed you by. I couldn't look for long, but you’d watch me until I spun away. When I snuck in an uncaught look, I could see cracks on oak floors. Splattered over with white paint. Knives, hung across a back wall. Three tables, each thick enough so if a blade was flung in, they could take it.
        I liked it.
        The day you talked to me for the first time, you were wearing the jacket on you now. I had just eaten some cheese, I couldn't say no.
        I stuff some in my mouth as you say, ‘I’m being serious.’
        I look up.
        ‘Me too,’ I say, ‘I'm trying to finish this message.’
        ‘I’m trying to tell you something.’
        ‘I'm listening.’
        I don't know why I agreed. Maybe the thought of not having to pretend I didn't have a second job. Maybe the idea that I could learn a practical skill, to take with me so eventually, I could move somewhere far away and start something on my own. Maybe because I'd be proud to use this as a job title when I introduce myself to someone new. Also, I needed more money.
        ‘Don’t you want to hear me explain it?’
        ‘I'm in the middle of something.’
        ‘Don’t you want to know what I mean?’
        I can always hear in your voice, when I'm needed.
        ‘Not really.’
        The bedframe, the one you built before your wedding, creaks.
        You pause, sulking.
        I'm starting to enjoy myself.
        ‘You’re trying to make me feel guilty.’
        ‘What makes you think that?’
        I type another sentence.
        I look up.
        You’re staring at yourself in the window.
        I put on my shirt.
        I start a new line.
        ‘You never like when I start talking like this.’
        ‘Of course not. Why’d you think I would?’
        You remind me of a shame. The temperatures of my feelings, that shift at the wind of your speech. The varnish of me to you, working with wood. The jitters and the rocking motions, the declines turn into inclines and back again. We’re not-so-solid-ground.
        ‘You don’t have to be, you know,’ you say as if that could convince me. But my stomach already spins when I think of her in this room. When she returns late at night. Not even a thanks from you, for making enough to keep you both alive. She’s told me every time she sees me. Which isn’t too often but she brings it up every time, that you talk about me more than her. She asks me why? as if I could answer honestly.
        I don't know why I agreed. Maybe the thought of not having to pretend I was happy moving from job to job so as soon as one finished—I was at another. The hope I could learn a practical skill, to take with me so eventually I could move somewhere far away, start again. Maybe I believed you when you told me that finally you would start paying off your loans, stop relying on your wife’s money.
        It took me a while, to see.
        You turn to look at me.
        ‘You wanted this too,’ you say.
        A smile slices across your face, sharper than a knife.
        It starts to rain.

REFLECTION III
stopstopstop             my tongue on your skin     you & me        over a stoop      swirling
I was hiding you were hiding underneath                  turning arrogant, shame on its axis
                                like a knife         b l o o d             one’ll be sharp             enough             I want
one
too                      an idea turns my bones too        excited         for your cold                 ohhh
            no i’m not hiding      blink    breathe          raising my hand         the time for it’s

the SLICE
                 b l o o d                        sharp         one’s enough        to use              you trained me how
                  I crawl over a stoop                     without you           I stopped       stopstopstop
where’s the answer?        I      more and more and more and more             I             staring, finally
at
                                                                      you, soundless
                                                        will I be caught
                                                                                       ?
                                                                                                    focus
                                                                 need a new thing
………….....………..there isn’t anything       to be   mine                 d…………........………………
                                                                           mine

THE PROMPT
Tell me a story you know how to tell.

MICAELA BRINSLEY (4 September 1997, Tokyo) is a writer, editor, translator, amateur painter and erstwhile theatre director. She’s an independent researcher of art history, and an essayist for A Women’s Thing. A graduate of NYU Tisch School of the Arts in new play development and critical theory, she writes, translates, interviews, curates, and edits for La Piccioletta Barca.

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