A Ritual of Three: A Magic for Happy, Revitalized Spirits
An opening of our ritual minds: I am ready for magic to be done upon me. Hear that, all you good witches of the world?…
An opening of our ritual minds: I am ready for magic to be done upon me. Hear that, all you good witches of the world?…
I love that my soul is in ten sweeping universes as we speak. I love that however terrible forty-five minutes can go, a weekend approaches. With dancing and ill, malformed, delighted wiggling and sweet wine. I love that there is purple hair dye in my bathroom calling me. I love that silk robe that seems to make the world on my shoulders feel escapable by parachute. I love the kind whispers saying the kind words, all done as if we’re in a film noir. I love that I saved myself. I love that I knew what to do and did it. I love that I am willing to throw myself into the fire and burn myself to bones for a good idea. I love that piercing eye.
It would be a dangerous thing. Dangerous in that it would convince me, perhaps convince others who might take me as an object lesson, that…
That boy had followed her into the stars, was haunting her. A blur of dead, so many little boys and their mothers, their brothers and sisters. All of them dishonored and left for the maggots who seemed to be the only other winners on the field – save the Reapers. The Reapers didn’t even have the decency to make use of what they killed, to feed. There was no meaning but annihilation. Arran needed to make sense of the terror that had become the very boundaries of her life. So maybe her unconscious fixated on a child, on what could have been if she’d never been ordered on that fateful shakedown cruise to Eden Prime, and twisted him, left him to the fire. It made a shitty kind of sense.
It felt half-punishment, half-mercy because he didn’t want to know what was on the other side of the bender, when the reel ended and she was just dead.
And then, it recedes
into a rain
Intent, thick, swollen, sick.
Screaming against the skylights, shields,
asphalt and
drowning worms.
I don’t know how to respond
to this compliment
which I wrangle into place
by surrounding it
by self-deprecation,
direct their view to the rest of my body governing
these wee, elfin, gnomish hands,
these tiny, childlike empress
earlobes, these miniaturized, precious
bitty feets
being elephantine.
Sluggish. Immorally decadent, extruded
ill-formed
and an asymmetric center askew
from its poles.
What I need and want to write about these days is not our best china, put out only for company. It is vacuous, dropped sentence-ridden, whirling dervishes, mean and sad, and hopeful and bracing. It is Maria at the start of the Sound of Music, just feeling herself in the air. Both the good and the ill in equal measure.
Aloneness is not weakness or bravery. It just is. It is a state of self that exists in me now regardless of how many people I share a room or a drink with. It exists in me even when I share and recognize it in others. Even beyond logic. I often crave it even as I’m experiencing it.
Short skirt, long jacket or Glinda the Good Fairy. That never the twain shall meet. I think this is wrong. I think the twain meet right at the intersection of my spine and shoulders. I think within me is the origin of universes. Soft, spongy, intersecting galaxies.