anonymousblack | growing from repeated crimes

from THE SECRET DAKINI ORACLE, 1979
nik douglas and penny slinger

white lady, white lady, white lady. woman of the white waters. woman of pearls. mother of pearl. she who obfuscates the functioning surface with the very function of that surface: gossamer and pearlescent, the way color can be a factor of white: the way pearls come forth from almost nothing, from irritants and parasites, flushed over the surface flushed over the surface again.

white lady, woman of waters, mother of pearl. you are autonomous and you are desolate. you are tuned in to eternity at the expense of the here and now. wrapped in a sheen of a scarf and nothing else you wander the caves, caves in the mountains, caves beneath the sea, caves of limestone and dripping, caves of volcanic glass and wavering light. the earth beneath your feet is always gestating some thing, think of it as the earth negotiating an irritant, think of it as the great mother building up her proud pearl.

in the waters we are equals, in the waters we are sisters, in the waters where we came from we face off, we mirror, we bring a color forth on that strange surface: we make a pearl between us, in our shared gaze. in our shared gaze, in that place where our gaze meets. in our shared gaze, in that place where, all at once, we both know everything demonstrated back to us in the other's gaze.

sister of waters. mother of pearl. the straight blue weaving, the spiraling in. how a surface changes in the depths: here. here. the pearls gathered together, the pearls clacking against one another in examination. imperfect pearl, not quite a sphere, a hint of topography, of distinct locations. the pearl will not roll straight. the pearl will roll off into a digression. a digression of pearl: that milky white silver, bright as a full winter moon. and the chill of it, the neglected parts of it, the layer upon layer upon layer of it, the we are always this one thing and not quite another, the stumble and upend, the moment the moment the moment. the holy moment. the holy fucking moment.

did you know? did you hear? the white lady, that woman of waters, holy mother of holy pearl. fucking mother of fucking pearl. she is childless, for her womb is a labyrinth, a spiral spiraling in on itself, chamber again chamber again slightly smaller and smaller again chamber. chamber where matters are held, where matters occur, where things come together to be made into something greater than they once were. woman of waters, where are you going? and woman of waters, what does it mean? you are a woman without children, you are a childless woman, like me, in resonance with my own distinctions, and yet:

pearl calls you mother, pearl is made of that same silver milk that drapes your nudity into something more sensual than nudity, that draws the eye and trails your path through the great roaring caves of water echoing the sound of water: of water wet with the shapes of water: of water, water, again water. the ways water knows us, the way water makes us, how we are the shape of water, perhaps to say: the shape water takes. and yet there is something i have forgotten, and yet there's a note i've forgotten to make my words tumble out of me after years in her womb: my words that were irritants have become pearl. so listen then, to the sound of them, the rise and roar, the coming in, the going out, and out, and out yet further: the white lady watches as i stir this cup of pearls, mixing my words, making a sound, making a path through this mystery of mysteries, this mystery of me, this that will remain a mystery, this wrong that must never be put right.

do you hear it? again, i said, do you hear it? did you hear? are you listening? are you listening, still? what are you listening for?