on the water: a monologue

I am a fallen woman.

And if you died tonight, my love, I would sing a song for you. I would wail a banshee call. I would wash your body, be your mortician in shadow fishnets. I’d clean your body, and wash your heart, kiss your eyes, close their lids, comb your hair, and make a pillow for your head.
These fears of death, my love. These fears of death and love, we cannot escape. And this thing called new life, my love, is unattainable, for our hubris has outshone the sun. Our hubris is struck down here, on the water, caressing your body, with every movement, with every prayer.
In the valley of the shadow of death we have found each other. There are no gifts that can be forgotten. As I preen myself and my flicker wings there you are, love. Our creations together. I remember who you are. Do you remember?
We are NAKED. And no one can tell us TRUTH. But RUTH, she tells us to have RUTH. She tells you and me not to be RUTHLESS.
Fairy things tell me things, too. I was born to speak their language. Do we speak the same language too? Is affinity enough? Can we be worlds apart and still remain standing? And send each other sweet kisses from inside of our dark, twisted sinews, our cages of bones?
I pet a bobcat and was caught on film. There are flying things telling us to wake up. Wasps telling us we are alive.
Are we alive?
Do we dream?
Can I remind you, or you me?
If I were on a trail of tears with you, my love, I promise I’d watch for the mountain lions too, and the rose tendrils of my hair would possibly serve as warning but I don’t know if they see red.
But I see red, devil melting soupy cherry raspberry red, every day, every night of my life. Crows cross my path and ask me to join them and I say no.
I say, crows, you don’t see, I am Fox. Red tailed bushy fox, and I carry no disease. If you infect me with your scurvy, I will rage and pray to my gods the decay of your race. We are living in harmony. Let us share the berries and the offal.
Oh, it’s awful! O, I am filled with awe!
I met Mother Mary and she taught me how to subdue snakes. She rained down upon me as I danced in fields with you, my love, and you my muse, can you tell me what to do next? No, don’t tell me. Just keep breathing.
I believe that saving the world is a possibility.
Through blood, and love, and filthy games, this immaculate conception, can we inspire the multitudes to see? Can we tell tales of saviors and gods and howl at the moon so she can send it all back to us?
If we ate of the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge would we become like Gods and spew all over?
Our guts,
our hearts,
they are fragile.
My bones,
they are soft like a baby’s.
And I keep getting reborn.
I feel the vortex of the wormhole every day because
I know.
Because I have dreams of deliverance and remembrance.
Do you remember, love? When we knew we were creatures of the night?
When we laughed and felt each other’s bodies coming alive?
Do you remember how we found each other here, how we betrayed each other? How we hurt each other so much and how I said sorry?
I’m sorry I’ve broken your heart.
Please drink this water with me.
I know that I am a witchy witchy nanana and my sins do not let me go on without admitting that you have saved me, and that I’ve taken your eyes and traded them for silver keys.
Is that what this is about? Silver keys?
I wear Amber on my Fuck You finger so that I can see. I throw rox in gardens and ferns into valleys. Tea into pots and letters into pails.
I walk like a farmer, bearing the weight of my pain, and your pain, and the weight of the world is pulling down. This grave truth I will never be free of.
They all want me to change.
If we arrived at a carnival, would you be my troubadour, and I could be your wench? Would we play with candles, and sip on nectar?
If I were spinning, would you grab and comb my hair?
But if I were falling, you’d catch me. and this I know because-
you cannot tell a lie.
we cannot tell a lie.
I opened Pandora’s Box. It looked like an oil slick. There is hope at the bottom there. And I have found it.

rejecting illness

scattered  possessions, scattered stickies, many tabs, clutter – mindstate of add, or in other words, creativity. constant tangental responses combined with noticing and contemplating MORE of the observable world than others. the dancing girl. everything must be in view. everything must be accessible, splayed out of the file cabinets, it’s right under there under the lamp, third one down, no, the one to the right, next to the pile of books. no, the other pile. everything must be in view. if you put marbles in a bag they’ll never roll around and you’ll never see them. small pouches get lost. you leave them in a drawer and become forgotten. everything is important. everything is material. all of this can be used, and it will be used when it’s the right time. trust me. they’re all dear and precious. they come to me like muses do, but some of them, admittedly, are genies. the thing is, i dont know which are which until they tell me, and by then i’ve gotten so used to them anyway that i barely know they’re there.

“maybe you should look into re-organization therapy?”

i don’t need it. re-organization therapy is for people who feel uncomfortable about the whole thing. they become anxious, they feel embarrassed, it begins to destroy their lives. they’re lying to themselves. it’s the truth. you know it, and i know it. is that discomfort the fault of the condition, or is it theirs? are they happy, believing whatever it is that they believe? how is that serving them?

“you’re beginning to lose me. there’s no logical pattern of logic. it’s almost as though you were calculating a tautology without an answer, which, of course is impossible. do you realize this? do you remember how many times so far today i have said this to you? and this is the worst i’ve seen it. how can you suggest that we are not subject to God and His will? this is hubris. you could be killed for even referencing that in public. our conversations are always in confidence, as you well know. they must be, for that is the code. i am telling you this because the danger goes beyond that. you are becoming a danger. to yourself, and to others. i can promise you ultimate peace. your sick confusion, your painful delusions, oh they must be so painful, no more will you have to endure that burden, that hellfire. it’s not your fault. you were made that way. but i’ve sworn to act in the interest and as a torch-carryer, a sacrifice for myself indeed, but i would never say so to others, of course. things will be happier for you. you’ll be happy.”