unsettled account/p7

And here I would have to submit and surrender, in leather mask and all, to the notion that I might have lost the thread.  Because we are sometimes behaving like a breath, and sometimes like a wave, but there are those liminal times when we don't know what we are.  Even worse, when we don't know why we are, and the reasons for that are usually somewhere in a mirror at the bottom of the ocean.

Because I had every intention of taking enough time to spell out the spells of that copper witch more properly, to mark her marks on my body, her marks over the scars that matched on our bodies that became something entirely other during a one-night stand that lasted for too many months past the night to call it anything but entirely liminal.  And suddenly, there's this other witch, a witch of an entirely different bent, and I need to talk about her, because this is getting entirely too close to that moment when the sky will shift and my years of being entirely irresponsible are over.

Here is where I reveal the secret plannings behind all of this, that this is a way of closing out those chapters, and letting the door shut on those rooms so that cobwebs might start to gather there, and I can visit those skeletons when I'm much older.  In the year ahead I'm destined to become the person I've been marked to become, with sure steps, and no indecision, and in a body that is free of desire.

Which is all to say, this plan, it seems so very well-intentioned especially now, while it also seems obvious to me that any torment these thousand loves who have crucified me have brought to my door, they have also brought something entirely other, and I am attached, and considering that these are the things that might absolutely set me free in a new body, or rather, in the skin that I am in.  Because it seems clear to me that the only chance we have of really shedding skin and loving the sun is by inhabiting the skin fully, to live in it and love in it until it bursts open and makes room for something else.

And truly, no one crucified me or caused me pain, those martyrdoms existed certainly, but by designs that were entirely my own, and not some curse that comes with my name.

I said goodbye to the copper witch at the river, in the manner that speaks of a culture that is entirely traditional, and in the old ways.  It took months to resist going back before I could see that I had never any intention of going back, or had lost the way entirely and could not, but it took months to recognize that my goodbye was a goodbye.  And because that original ceremony made sense, I knew enough to mark the thing on my face that interprets scents the best, because I never wanted to forget.  Perhaps it wasn't at all because I didn't want to forget how painful it was to lose something precious, but because I didn't want to forget her, for in truth she did touch something buried deep inside me, and I found things inside her caves that I grew to love as deeply as an adult could in an adult's body.

In this same way, then, I have a new mark on my face that carries me into this next incarnation, and it's one that is certainly there to remember and not forget, because something in her, or in the way we moved together, unlocked my tongue, or unlocked a tongue beneath that tongue, and I could never be the same. That may be a small consolation, considering how I have never been afraid of not being the same, but rather enamored with the idea, and with its multiplicities.  But less of a concession and more in the realm of something that rather terrifies me, I saw in her that same possession of an ability to enter into multiple realms with multiple identities, and again this comes back to the idea of the twin, which is unlikely on the surface.

Fortunately I am not given to showing too many pictures here, but one glance at the two of us would be enough to demonstrate how remarkably untwinned we are, and this would be enough to let me rest if it were over, if it were over, but I don't think it is, or at least, I have strong suspicions that it's not.  In order to make the dull gray of the days before I turn into something that registers in the marrow of the marrow, I have been visiting old friends to discuss the magic of blood, and work out the contradictions of love.  Only there are no offers for new skulls to examine, and no spirits jumping from candles and coconut shells to tell me to say goodbye in the old ways, but only comments that we look unlikely to some, but to others, it resembled that thing that only very young children have of making angry people smile suddenly, a recognition that this was a perfect match.

It's a hideous thought.

Because it reminds me of some movie where the man with the bulbous nose and matty hair was running through the streets of Seattle, no less, having woken up to the thought that it was true love, and true love is something for the tea party types to diddle themselves over, because it means something stable.  I can't know all that I am, or all that I'll be, but stability has never appeared to me like a unicorn in a garden, flirting with me to get me to leave (and find a steady job, and give up art, and lock my magic in an attic, and procreate).  The only one who could, in fact, ever turn my head, was that same river goddess, coming with bangles on her ankles and a brass belt on her waist, churning imaginary tides that speak of honey in the near future.  The notion that this goddess is there to bring the man who works with iron out of his shed in order to begin a civilization is rather charming, and perhaps true, but not in any tea party sense of the word, but the most essential thing here is that this very goddess is herself quite mad, fucking insane really, and as stable as mercury.

Which is where this should come to an end, in a pool of mercury, because we don't know who or why we are, and the moment we do, that will surely change, and that's the way it needs to be.  But at the moment, the moon is at my back, but appears in the window in front of me, to remind me that if I know what I'm doing, I am a fucking fool, and there are better things to do than wait for her steps outside my door.

That thought has been enough to make me decided to change my door, and go somewhere deep into a complicated and populated city, where she can't find me.  And that thought sounds right enough, although I know for certain that the pirate in me will soon enough draw her a map on her doorstep in white chalk.

The moon will be in that map, because the moon was always watching over us, and I would not be a good heathen practicing the old ways if I did not honor this mother-father who lights up my head at night.  And if she were at the door, I would not open it, not for at least ten seconds, and then I don't know what will happen, it seems as though it would have to be enormously important and carry the weight of all of our tears, or perhaps it is simpler than that, and perhaps we are only required to play the games that children play in the forest, and let the next moment decide what the next moment needs to be.

I'm not done yet.  But I might be done for now.  


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