That might be a very unclear way of me wondering that it would be nice to say that now, somewhere far away from everything and everyone who are involved in this business of haunting, I miss her energy, the pleasure of being around her, that her presence alone was what I was attached to, and not her kisses, and the things that lie beneath the kisses waiting for more of the same and deeper and longer and suddenly the air hits these exposed nerves and there is something new in the world. But any resisting reader, or those tending toward a more sheep-like and obedient nature, that is to say, most anyone, would recognize that I am a liar. There may have been a personality there that spoke to mine, and there may have been ideas about revolution and witchery that coincided with my own urgings in these directions, but the magnets were fixed in the clitoris and its counterpart. Not to say there was no heart involved. That would take a strange leap of faith into a sad and evangelical realm, altogether christian even, in order to align with a system of reason, and the systems of reason at work here are of a peculiar West African bent, and I've already told you.
As much as I would like to be clear and straightforward, there is born in this moment a need to skip around a bit in time. Those who know me well know me as a very precise teller of very linear tales, and I like nothing better than to argue about things in a very logical manner, as spelled out by all the great Arabian philosophers and metalworkers of other times. However, it's already tomorrow when I have to shift, and although I am likely to continue then in this, just in case I don't continue, I want to get these minor discrepancies in.
The first minor discrepancy in the story is the suggestion that this certain copper witch would hold a particularly high regard in the history of this skin, and perhaps the highest, and perhaps that's true, but perhaps there are other kinds of witches one might meet on the mouthless road, and those who might be eclipsed are often given to redoubling efforts to stay in the horizon line, but the sky changes, and everyone has to go to bed sometime. The minor discrepancy here is of another nature altogether, beginning with the idea that this copper witch was the one who made it impossible to ever love so deeply ever again, which is to say, to love without reservation and to enter into a moment with utter abandon. Here the moment is appearing to appear more and more as if it were the shape of the opening to the uterus, however, and that kind of visual metaphor should invoke a rereading and a rewriting, so that the repetition of the eyes will be very much like repetitions of the pelvis, love is always something different and new even though the muscles might be almost exactly the same, but it's always something new, and always something entirely not new at all. The pulse we were born on is the pulse we connect to, and when it's the most unavoidable is when we, some of us, are alive the most, which is to say, this is a very conservative story because it is so much based in tradition.
This leads to where I would like to say everything stopped there, because it's so nice to say that I met this one person and she made it impossible for me to love, and I carry a torch for her, and that's how I will die, although it's not at all true. At least not entirely. Because although it may have taken a few moments of fluttering like a moth around the moon, following the ebbs of her 28 day river cycles, to come to the conclusion that my heart had been marked, it took the same time to be entirely opened up in another direction, in that way one gets transfixed and revolved, in a real revolution, when one meets their twin face to face. Or better, face to face and the tongues inside and outside the body making variations on the theme of the rhythm and pulse of life. But twin is the operative word rather than pulse, or perhaps there is no difference in words, or suffice to say, there is one who made me stupid because she was more like me than I suspected could live in a body outside of mine, and this meant that the other endless love was not the end of every love that I had hoped for.
We all want to be or to have the apocalypse for someone, to show that their heart is as powerful as the river that is home to the goddess of love in the world, and it would be nice to consider that a possibility, but the river rewrites us and introduces new currents and creatures all the time to introduce the idea that she, the goddess, is the only true love, and she introduces this idea over and over again because it is true, and to forget it will make her angry enough to drown you.
For me, drowning has been something to take the form of my ego telling me that I deserve to be treated better, or in the form of my friends telling me that this particular person is not who she seems, or, on the worst nights, in the form of me asking for advice from those who don't have time for the fluids of love on their skin, who need to shower constantly when they are in public, and generally don't believe that being a witch and being in love are compatible (for whatever reason, because it can exist among heathens and boring biblethumped heads in the same breath and wave).
Oh for fuck sake I have to leave this for another important moment, but suffice for now, before I am 44, there is one who held the moon in her mouth, and her mouth was empty enough to hold the moon, and I could see all my poetry in there, except that it came back in her words, that is to say, she held a mirror that showed me myself on the bottom of the sea, and the reason she had this is because she spent most of her time there, too, and we met to try to find each other there, but in truth, we didn't meet there until after I had turned 44, which is to say, my tongue is more than long for her, it longs.
As much as I would like to be clear and straightforward, there is born in this moment a need to skip around a bit in time. Those who know me well know me as a very precise teller of very linear tales, and I like nothing better than to argue about things in a very logical manner, as spelled out by all the great Arabian philosophers and metalworkers of other times. However, it's already tomorrow when I have to shift, and although I am likely to continue then in this, just in case I don't continue, I want to get these minor discrepancies in.
The first minor discrepancy in the story is the suggestion that this certain copper witch would hold a particularly high regard in the history of this skin, and perhaps the highest, and perhaps that's true, but perhaps there are other kinds of witches one might meet on the mouthless road, and those who might be eclipsed are often given to redoubling efforts to stay in the horizon line, but the sky changes, and everyone has to go to bed sometime. The minor discrepancy here is of another nature altogether, beginning with the idea that this copper witch was the one who made it impossible to ever love so deeply ever again, which is to say, to love without reservation and to enter into a moment with utter abandon. Here the moment is appearing to appear more and more as if it were the shape of the opening to the uterus, however, and that kind of visual metaphor should invoke a rereading and a rewriting, so that the repetition of the eyes will be very much like repetitions of the pelvis, love is always something different and new even though the muscles might be almost exactly the same, but it's always something new, and always something entirely not new at all. The pulse we were born on is the pulse we connect to, and when it's the most unavoidable is when we, some of us, are alive the most, which is to say, this is a very conservative story because it is so much based in tradition.
This leads to where I would like to say everything stopped there, because it's so nice to say that I met this one person and she made it impossible for me to love, and I carry a torch for her, and that's how I will die, although it's not at all true. At least not entirely. Because although it may have taken a few moments of fluttering like a moth around the moon, following the ebbs of her 28 day river cycles, to come to the conclusion that my heart had been marked, it took the same time to be entirely opened up in another direction, in that way one gets transfixed and revolved, in a real revolution, when one meets their twin face to face. Or better, face to face and the tongues inside and outside the body making variations on the theme of the rhythm and pulse of life. But twin is the operative word rather than pulse, or perhaps there is no difference in words, or suffice to say, there is one who made me stupid because she was more like me than I suspected could live in a body outside of mine, and this meant that the other endless love was not the end of every love that I had hoped for.
We all want to be or to have the apocalypse for someone, to show that their heart is as powerful as the river that is home to the goddess of love in the world, and it would be nice to consider that a possibility, but the river rewrites us and introduces new currents and creatures all the time to introduce the idea that she, the goddess, is the only true love, and she introduces this idea over and over again because it is true, and to forget it will make her angry enough to drown you.
For me, drowning has been something to take the form of my ego telling me that I deserve to be treated better, or in the form of my friends telling me that this particular person is not who she seems, or, on the worst nights, in the form of me asking for advice from those who don't have time for the fluids of love on their skin, who need to shower constantly when they are in public, and generally don't believe that being a witch and being in love are compatible (for whatever reason, because it can exist among heathens and boring biblethumped heads in the same breath and wave).
Oh for fuck sake I have to leave this for another important moment, but suffice for now, before I am 44, there is one who held the moon in her mouth, and her mouth was empty enough to hold the moon, and I could see all my poetry in there, except that it came back in her words, that is to say, she held a mirror that showed me myself on the bottom of the sea, and the reason she had this is because she spent most of her time there, too, and we met to try to find each other there, but in truth, we didn't meet there until after I had turned 44, which is to say, my tongue is more than long for her, it longs.
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