The ministry of ethereal portals
OctPoWriMo 20204, day 2
I was nonresident, alien, jostled in New York. The brothers at subway entrances, in the clandestine commerce beneath their commerce, were the only ones who saw me. They sold umbrellas, mostly—a practical cover that rainy December—those guardians to an underworld I could emerge into a different world from. If you saw them (and most do not), gave the right filial nod to enter (upward, not down), bought a trinket (and left the change), knew to astronavigate the neon twinkle on rainsplash framing the portal, the hint of gold on tooth, and movement by the light’s—what it left on the mosaic tiles, and how it fled the bannister veneers of the doormouth, that entrance became an exit from the city.
Seven emotional systems have been identified: They are SEEKING, RAGE, FEAR, CARE, LUST, PANIC/grief, PLAY/joy. If you have come this far underground, ascend the escalator where those platforms converge. Do not look down. You will see your loneliness waiting, contractual, contingent, closing in, if you do. You may remember the ceremony: Do you take this loneliness, forsaking all others to have and hold this modicum of joy? A fair trade, on most days, but you must not look down. For me, beyond the eventual turnstile, there was a bed in a soundproof chamber. There was the sitting spot on my friend’s rug, transplanted opposite. There was a heart rate at rest. On the nightstand there was one pill to make you larger than anxiety, one to make you smaller than shame can find. There was someone to tell me, at last what the world is about in this fantasy where it all means something. It is different for everyone. Tell me what you find.
© Tolu Oloruntoba
Notes
Today’s poem takes a speculative turn from memories of a vacation long ago, and the short story I’d wanted to write about it. But since my ability to write fiction has not returned from war, here we are.
Speaking of wars, I am aware that things continue to be dreadful. Fantastical portals cannot lead to a MacGuffin that can end the wars and the oppression they are based on. Reading material that could soothe a person or two, though? I think they may be able to help there.
I cannot tell you for a fact that this is poetry. It is, however, today’s entry. :)
RE: emotional systems in mammalian brains, please see this article from Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews. Research like this is catnip for poets. I knew what I had to do.
I am not ashamed to admit that Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” is one of my favorite songs. Although they were likely singing about hallucinogenic / psychedelic drugs, it is such a potent and versatile metaphor as brought to us by Lewis Carroll (who may also have been writing about drugs; ha!).
Photo by Szabolcs Toth: https://www.pexels.com/photo/an-empty-subway-station-3255349
