Automatic Writing: In Response to “What Else” By Gabi Trinkaus
My body is floating in the air. There is a tingling in my bottom belly. An itch. No, it’s the butterflies in my stomach. It’s the feeling you get just before you urinate. White cotton clouds are cleared away from my sight. Or am I moving? I squint my eyes and manage to get a sight of the lights below me. So far away from everything else. Flying all over them — so many of them. Small. Beautiful. Dots of glittering waves of lights. Bright. Pixels of neon colors. Shimmering dots connect to make a lineage. A bridge? Or a constellation of stars? That’s it. Perhaps we are stuck in the weightless, never ending darkness — the space or a blackhole. No gravity. No weight. No people. Nothing I see is definitive. Formless. Shapeless. Only palpable through the embodiment of the heavy air that wraps me. Still the stars. Shiny, glittering stars. That would explain the lightheadedness. The tingling in the stomach. The view shifts to the right, then to the left. Going down down and down. Not any force of push or pull. My body is responding to the natural movement of air.
Are the stars coming towards me or am I pulling myself towards the stars? Closer now. Clearer I see. I hear. The lights become brighter. Bigger. Transformed into signs now. Neon signs. Words. Symbols. Traffic lights. Cars. Billboards. Street lights. Towers. Apartments. I can see the sounds. Music of the city. I hear it all. Hustling and bustling of people, machines, engines, tools, construction. Cries of jumbled images and words are restless in my ears as they speak to me. Colors and energy are sweets to my eyes. Souls, bodies and spirits roam the air around me. It is music we, humans, composed. A city that never sleeps. The light we lit. The star we created — through the collaging of sparkles from all over the world — their voices — of 70 billion people. It is where we dwell. It is what remains. Our star.
