Sunshine on an Open Tomb by Tim Kinsella

Author:Tim Kinsella
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary fiction, politics, occult, romance, Tim Kinsella, novel, politics
ISBN: 9781943888054
Publisher: Featherproof Books
Published: 2019-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 52 Infinity with My Diana

When I was 5 years old, I saw her face in my mind.

When I was 13, I was so confused that I couldn’t find her. I was sick on my wedding day cuz it wasn’t her.

Then finally, the moon low and huge behind her, she appeared.

When I first heard her voice . . .

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

She told me Not good enough.

“I love you twice as much as I’ve ever loved anyone.”

She told me Not good enough.

“I love you 10 times more than anyone else.”

She told me Not good enough cuz I love you 100 times as much as I’ve ever loved anyone else.

“That’s not good enough cuz I love you 1,000 times more than I’ve ever loved anyone else.”

She told me Not good enough.

“I love you 10,000 times more than I’ve ever loved anything.”

100,000?

We were living in the perpetuity of Dream Time.

You think I was born Mr. X-ray Crutch?

Mr. Oil Painting of Shattered Glass?

We couldn’t be bothered to account for imprecise language.

She and me mirrored each other’s illumination.

We wouldn’t notice when we were touching each other’s faces or not, both groggy all day and happy about it.

Her smile got even bigger.

She took my arm in hers and rested her head on my shoulder.

In the springtime the new fronds simply unfurled from their tight buds.

Meeting each other, each of us found ourselves.

She’d call me Belmondo.

She’d crack up at my Pops impersonations, a clumsy cowboy lost in The Middle East: Which one of you sheiks has gone on and hid all my oil?

Day by day, we’d live in moonlight, often intuitively choosing to sleep outside.

Diana means moon.

We’d float downstream lazily on a raft constructed of junk, and when we tired, we’d hide out in our fort constructed of junk.

Like Pierrot Le Fou, we’d kill her parents and run away with the inheritance.

In a small town gas station, no one would recognize me and snicker.

I’d remain unfazed by every man spinning to sneak a glance at her.

I’d chase a man around his car with a tire iron and wrestle him to the ground to carjack him.

We’d have to pull over and make out to save ourselves from veering off the road, across the beach and into the tide.

In her sundress and sunglasses, she’d put on my dusty wide-brimmed hat when we had to pass on foot thru expansive pastures.

I’d chew a cigar all day, reading out loud to her when we stopped to rest.

We’d dawdle thru our ever-expanding Present Circumstances, our quaquaversal best selves running unrestrained.

We’d be one, while also each retaining a constant sense of Wonder re: other.

She’d gnaw my cigar’s wet end to get a sense of how it feels to be me.

Five senses and memories—redeemed like a jellyfish shedding its exoskeleton.

Realism is: when she appeared, I stammered for hyperbolic descriptors.

I could foresee it all: suddenly, I would die a long and painful death.

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