The Ostranenie Effect

I drove my truck down the sandy beach, passing the hazy blue ocean and its foamy white tides – which crept up to salt my tires. My eyes weren’t on the sand-made road, but focused on the pearls in the sky that lazed above the earth with its melancholic constitution. The balloons are buttons.

I regained focus as I began searching for a parking spot in the city so I could unload my belongings into my new apartment. I found a spot rather quickly but I didn’t know how to parallel park, so my truck did it for me. The olives didn’t come, they were crying and stacking books in the corner, but I only know how to read when you’re in 
                                   figurative, literative, blasphemy, time zone, seashell.

As I hopped out of my truck I grabbed a piece of paper from my pocket with bright red writing all over it, 651 was the building I needed to find. I’ve never seen my new apartment so I didn’t know I what I was looking for, just drapes and melanin playing with puppets. The city was confusing. Someone must have noticed my confusion because a young, dark haired man came up to me and offered to help me move my stuff into my building. He grabbed a few of my boxes, dogs and cradles, this and that, then headed down the street towards a group of men sitting around on the corner.

“How much you want? I got 3 boxes, $100 a piece. How much you want?”

He was selling my stuff. But I had embargo. The cargo ship moved through the intersection.         Jaywalker.         Jaybird.      

She was blue and tired and dust.

I intended to stop the thief but instead I continued to walk down the street searching for my building number. I was told it was only a block away, yet I walked for miles down the city streets being overwhelmed by the stench of lamb kabobs. When I saw 650 appear, I knew I was close and that my building must be across the street. So I skipped past the future and opened the backdoor to the historic hotel and started to run, but the halls were dark and painted burgundy, and the lighting was so dim I lost my way. I ran down the first flight of stairs I saw and out the swinging doors which led me to 651, but it was an Asian Goods shop that also did taxidermy. There were no apartments here, just dead beavers. I took one and dyed my hair sandy blonde, like the beach. I was too distracted by the old man to wash the color out, so it turned to seafoam and the beavers became buoys.

My friend grabbed my arm and insisted she knew the way. My feet were hurting from the tan heels I wore, tan heels tan heels tan heels and toes, so I took them off but my toes became filthy from the dirt of the fields we were walking through. It was already dark and there were no buildings in sight, just tomatoes, but I think they were stars. So I stopped at the hotel by Denny’s and called my dad to let him know I didn’t make it, but I would try again in the morning.


I never woke up and made coffee instead, but my mouth turned to gravel then existence evaporated. All the gardens shifted and now the mailbox smells like those flowers {the ones you can’t remember} but there is only sand falling like blades of grass from the sky inside the hotel.

                                           I thought about this once.
                                                        Then never again.

I am thinking about it three hours from yesterday because the lights are too dim for me to see how cold the ocean feels from inside a braid of stringy fingernails– but I can hear the identity with my eyes. I left this time. I saw it coming, so I blinked 47 times.

No. 42 times.

Is it social or science? It tastes like cherry cola? I’m not familiar with your tone of voice but I’ll accept the books, BLANK, where the point line plane postulate collapsed and I found 651 behind the cellar. I was already there before I never was.