Scales, and rods and such

24 11 2012

ἀπέπεσαν αὐτοῦ ἀπὸ τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν

I have been in a fog.  Deeper than the tule fogs of the San Joaquin Valley.  Obscurity more profound that the blindness that drives the 100 or 200 car pileups on the highways.  Me the old lady.  Me in the house in the woods, me sleeping in my old used up gurney.  I keep forgetting

λεπίδες  ἀνέβλεψέν

I keep forgetting that place .I keep forgetting I’ve been in this fog because I want to be here.    Me as me, me as bad guy.  I’m a bad person.  I’ve been in error, I’ve not done enough–it has not been sufficient.  I am not good enough.  I have outreached myself.  I am not capable.  Shifted footing and the stones in the little house in the wood are stippled with blood from my busted knee and my scraped knuckle.

immediately there fell from his eyes

Once the scales fell, once I saw a gurney for sale.  How charming it would be to sleep on that gurney.  How charming

as it had been scales

How very, truly, horrifying.

I have almost forgotten the taste of fear

Once upon a time–that old fairy tale, there was a forest made of the metal bars of a child’s hospital bed, there was a witch with a mask and an ogre with a stethoscope and there was, as always, copious amounts of blood in my nose and mouth, choking me and making it hard to breathe.

I have supped full with horror

Then I grew up.  Then I was this–was the child then become the bad person.  What that space, that lack means bad–bad guy.  Old lady in the woods, on her squeaky stained gurney.  The scales have fallen and I am afraid.   This is difficult for me to write about.  It is  embarrassing.  Perhaps you will use it against me.  Perhaps you have.  This is why I’m writing it.  So I’m no longer afraid.

look’d toward Birnam, and anon

I am so tired

methought,/The wood began to move.

Liar and slave

tired

who are you?

I am the bad guy

a moving grove

I will be a bad guy I will own all I do with a clumsy precision and a cold hearted focus.

That after Horror–that ’twas us–

Kaiser Soze and Lady Macbeth and also Lucifer, of course.  I cannot seem to don their armor though.  And maybe, at least in Lady Macbeth and Lucifer’s cases, it’s no real armor.  They end up fallen again or dead  that candle.  I was that woman in the woods.  I was the old lady with the candle wax burning my fingers.  The smell and the taste, I remembered the fall once–I look up and the light came down and pierced through me.  That was Lucifer in his fall–that was the sunlight in Seattle.  That was the water and the stone.  It was and will be and is.

The Cordiality of Death–/Who drills his Welcome in–

I want an iron will and a strength.  I want to call it to me and to embrace my errors–I want to hold that iron inside my heart.  I want to know who I am and what I have to offer.  I’m human, I am all error,  but I have an open heart.  I am on fire and I am a mess–I believe we can all go into that space just a bit farther and I will take you there, farther than neatness or cleanliness allows.  In this way I am  human and a teacher.  It is not perfect, perhaps it is not sufficient.  But it isn’t without my heart.

I don t even have death to fear/midday though/scares me   there s a

haunted and people

A stone and the sea–the wax on my arm and my heart.  An old lady because the crone.  Because old is frightening old is afraid or perhaps just light, translucent skin.  Some things are more valuable than breath.  I’ll light them on fire.  Welcome you to my cottage.  Welcome grey stone and snowtipped peaks.  Welcome lake and river.  Welcome cold.

became/a fugitive and a vagabond on earth

Welcome vagabond.  Welcome in.  Come into this space of my errors and my mistakes.  Welcome in–see that corner, that is where I’ve misled you and that corner, that is where I was inaccurate and there was the place that I didn’t do enough where I took the time back to myself because

Such heartache/dancing heartache

because I needed to so I could come back and be there.  Though the door is now closed.  We learn these things–we old ladies in the woods, with our bloody noses and our tangled up hair, sticks and ribbons, coffee and pain.  Aches and sorrows.  You know these things.  Trick or treat, hold my hand, I’ll lead you to the pit or I’ll forget you along the way.  I’m the bad guy.  I’m a bad person.  I’m bad.

I am the one who puffs horror

Quotes are from Acts 9:18, Erin Mouré, Jesse Pinkman, Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Antonin Artaud, Julie Carr





Flagler, A Ghost Story

3 11 2012

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,

otter marks, plastic, heavy potpourri, pie, potatoes, salmons, taste of wind, cold wind, wet, walk behind building warm, hospital, beams and plaster, operating theater, narrow stairs, in that space, in that room, attic, what smell?

And these are of them.

Where are the dead? smooth marrowstone cliff face, sound of helicopter like the air in southern California,

Ordinary wonder at the world’s bits of order

Every moment is ghost once it is past.  Nothing of time makes it linear

makes ordinary experience

One my children were here and once I was family

fractured

To be conscious is not to be in time

Once was a man with a broken neck

I am the remnant

of what history was on about

This is my ghost story—What I know is nothing more than breath.  What I miss is something I do not know or that I’ve contrived or that is a space.

Here is a place of disaffection

My ghost story, the remnants of what I was once, a man with a broken neck.  Contrivance, space in the air, a lick of icecream, a river otter, a bit of driftwood.

At the still point of a turning

gas like sulfur or nitrogen richness, the absence of smoke and a mist rising,

still point of a turning world

a flash of lightning when my head hits the counter, numb pinky and water in my hair, wet head, numb toes, the give under my feet,

I feel for you I feel

Sealions barking splash raise self up silhouette water wakes wind in trees like paper flapping, two bald eagles, crows playing, line of gulls.  Once were children here once was family.  Now it’s only the hanged man, his neck cocked oddly, he’s got bright eyes.

When everything is revelation

taste of cold, taste of the inside of my mouth, chocolate like a narcotic hands yellow numb, the cracked and opened tree the tree inside the tree, smooth bark and curved, shadow and rough outer like a seed or nut cracked, the engulfing, the way the moss hands like reaching down to you the way it bows

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children

moments of hemlock, the high small birds, the chickadees and kinglets, water, sound of water running and of rain, and the sound of anxiety in voices, the small birds so high up and high pitched, the sound of wren, of robin, bald eagle bald eagle bald eagle, shrew all sight, once was family

what seemed corporeal melted

the spooked mule with the dragging rope and they carried it down and there was something like a wind that passed by, smell of potpourri. Frog and deformed and living inside of this.  Texture of greens if it could possibly be captured without focus and the smooth brown.  Fire nearby

And into breath

Your deformity renders you unrecognizable.  Your broken neck renders you appalling.  Your ghosts render you horrifying.

Upon the heath

the abundance of wrens, the Bewick’s on every spare branch, the wrens calling at me calling for Saint Stephen’s and the empty rooms where someone wrote about ghosts

ere set of sun

Things were good between us once

once I was here and I was a family.  Once my children were here and once was a family there is a hole right there and why always is it scratch scratch scratching at my window because it is not but an ache and the ice cream the hiking up the windswept hill of grass the water and beach all along a dog and then

Out out damn

The ghost picked up a blade but its hands passed through. The ghost told her not to pass that way and she paid attention, his neck was at an odd angle

I am faint

Once was family once was family once was

my gashes cry

My ghost my memories pointed up the hill, away from the path.

So should he look /That seems to speak things strange

Away from tree where he’d hanged, neck crack, 93 years before.  The tree now struck by lightning, now laid down in the moss and ferns.

So should she look

This room was inhabited once.  Notice how the stairs have been worn, with black on the white and a dipping in the middle.  I can imagine I see someone’s face next to mine in the mirror.  I’m always alone I was so alone I am alone

And you

I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.

And what do I believe? it can lock itself

I’m haunted by my own ghost standing at its trees along the path, warning me off and warning me to the road, or telling me to just stay there, not to move, here be monsters, because once I cross by, once I walk the path, you’ll be there waiting

and I’ll be lost. ­­­­

*           *             *

Quotes are by William Shakespeare, T. S. Eliot, Susan Neiman, Aaron Mccolough