Thursday, 8 November 2012


The world slopes to magenta and neon and radiator heat; a different kind of heat. A soft warmth that waits for your bones and offers fleece. I haven't left the house for two days, since we returned from New York. I am trying to tuck this fact in a secret place and keep it going. It is so very perfect here—all wooden and warping, all Leonard Cohen and the way he growls.

And there are no letters in the mailbox; and there are no grapes upon the vine; and there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore; and there are no diamonds in the mine.

Except, of course, my mines are full of diamonds.

I take the challenge of words like a woven rope hanging above a Mexican lake, surface speckled with the footprints of pond skaters. I feel the weft between my calloused palms and let myself entangle, throw this careless body out over a long still surface that could be an ice rink or a canvas or a deep dark hole. I speed the pace until I have no direct line to my thoughts anymore. I train my fingers to overtake the whippets in my brain and I let them delve into the afternoon Wikipedia research: Hierophant & skeleton keys & Janus & trickster gods & Diprosopus & the Holy See & Loki.

The internet is back.

Suddenly the air is full of flickering June bugs of html and secrets. I am addicted to this spill of ideas; I wish I could click forever. The blue lines are talismen and shaman guides through the soup that is a brain stayed up too late watching a hideous man try to convince the world he isn't really a lizard. Trying to pat the women on the head and hush their frets. It's ok, gal, I've got you covered and we know what's best. I couldn't turn off because there is, in my guts and my skin and my fingers and my womb, a rabid fury at their hands, blood smeared to the wrists, plunging into some unwelcome place. But by the dawn, it was fine. Things had prevailed.

But yes: things out of kilter. Waking too late and trying to grab at the coattails of daylight. Please, let your sunshine be my magic carpet. Let this grey mist whip us from winter's cavelike hole. I need a mantra against the damp that gathers on this season's walls. I will try the word "swaddled" in my mouth for size.

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