anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] kiss)
[personal profile] anonymousblack
1.
the broken spell, the spell broken, the broken matter of what was spelled out and smashed to bits then abandoned: to the elements, to the elemental forces, to the shape of things to come that came and did what they did and now they are gone and cold blows the wind, the wind blows cold, cold and sharp around every fractured corner, in through the window cracks, blowing again blowing, whistling through, whispering through: but then again you know but then again you’ve heard, at least you had the opportunity to hear, did you hear?

have you heard?

have you given this information a chance? listen:


2.
we are blown by the wind or we are blown through. we are blown out, wick deprived of purpose, left stiff and blackened in a molten pool of wax. we are, as we are, as we’ve been, as we’ll be, until we are not and then who even knows.

i bring the pen’s tip to the page.

i hover the silence.

i wait and see. i wait and wait.

i wait and listen - listen - listen

but then again. and then again. again, again, again, she screams. o god, she screams. burn it, she screams. take who you were three minutes ago and


3.
the spell is broken. the broken fragments of spells: elemental invocations, bits of string, needle stems of herbs sealed in splattered candle wax: listen, can you listen? do you hear what’s calling, what’s been calling, now that there's a crack, now that crack in everything has let the light in? but you can’t listen to light, can you? not with our factory standard sensory capacities. not with our common sense and this-is-really-for-the-best, you’ll understand one day, you’ll understand someday, what i’m saying is: who’s reading? who’s reading and why? again:

i listen for the light. i listen for certainty. i listen for some subtle change, a telling displacement of the waterline, an unanticipated component in the local bouquet, an unacknowledged frequency moving the needle in strange new ways. one year ago yesterday bowie died. one year ago today i'm a black star, i'm a black star i sat next to ben in the mezzanine, doubled over my notebook, suddenly desperate to describe a miscarriage i’ve never had. bowie's death knocked it out of me. bowie's cancer knocked it out of me. it’s just a story, but i’m twitching with it. it’s only a story, but it’s making the corners of my vision spark. it's a story, but something about it has broken skin. my pregnancy stories do not end well. only one in memory carried to term and technically. technically?


4.
i burned the physical remains of my incomplete first novel in a friend's fire pit. she left me alone for this. she is also a witch, but, moreover, she is also a writer. a fellow witch and a writing fellow, she knows the basic shape of where i am in this moment if not the exact contours. she has also lamented lost creative projects. she did not need to hear my lamentations to know they occurred.

and so the book burns, at last. sixteen years. twenty, really. twenty-one years. the book burns: the printouts, the composition notebook, fifty odd scraps of ingram status reports freehand inked with wistful fragments, beautiful stray lines that got stuck at the shelter for much too long, trying again trying to get me to: write the damn book. but no. and no. and again, no. every time no. fifty odd failed attempts. thousands upon thousands of failed attempts. and then the workshop handouts, my revision notes, my session notes, feedback feeding back on itself until i collapsed at the keyboard with the shakes, all i could ever hear when i reached for the next word. the next word wasn't there. the book blew town. the book never looked back. the book died.

all the same, i carried its corpse with me everywhere: for a year, for two years, i carry this book with me still and it needed to stop: so i burned it.


5.
and i say this like it is accomplished fact, but it is not. right now: it is a story. that's all a ritual really is, in the end: a story told, beginning, middle,to end. a story told with the body instead of words. so here is my ritual, and here is my story: the story of my first miscarriage. the story about a miscarriage that i failed to carry to term. it's a droste effect narrative. the book that died like that on the workshop table: it will happen a few days into the waning moon during the upcoming venus retrograde. i will burn my incomplete first novel. i will put the ashes in a silver flask and drive them to delaware, or i will hold on to them to release off pelee island at the end of may. release them back into the wilderness. release them back into the wilderness they never really left. will that be the end of it? will that finally be the end of it?

probably not, but who could say.


6.
my most significant offering, to be sure. listen: where is my book? and listen: where did my book go? we haven't got all night. we haven't got forever. we do, but we don't. forever doesn't present itself in a way most of us can easily grasp. it's a tease, a shameless flirt, trust forever and find yourself alone at the coffeehouse all night every fucking time. forever doesn't tender in temporary. forever doesn't even follow whatever it is us temporary residents think we are talking about. but that's because forever has that kind of time. forever has all the time in the world.


7.
and the wind whistles, the wind whispers, the wind blows. forgetting and breaking, breaking the shore, breaking the spell, the spell broken: gentle child of words, you didn't deserve this. gentle child of words, i have failed you.

and i'm sorry

i'm so sorry

i'm so fucking sorry.


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