The Garden and the Creature: Clay

He took a lump of clay, once

He rolled it in his hands

poked and twisted

He showed you.

this was called ‘a shape’

He pointed out on you

it has a leg, you have a leg

it has a leg, you have a leg

it has a joint, you have a joint

it has a head, you have a head

 

It’s like me!

 

Yes. Just exactly like you!

 

You made it!

 

Yes. Just like I made you.

 

You looked around, suspicious.

 

What else did you make?

 

Everything.

 

(He surely knows everything. He’s answered every question. The Serpent asks you questions, but he never tells you. Not like He does.)

(He’s kneeling to talk to you- like grownups do when you’re a baby and it’s so important)

 

His eyes are shining.

 

That’s right. Only I know everything. That’s why you have to do what I tell you. Only I can keep you safe. Hidden from… monsters. And lions!

If you disobey me, little one, it will make me sad. Very sad. Because you’ll die.

 

What’s ‘die’?

 

This.

 

The clay crumpled.

Spurted through His fingers as He closed His hand.

The Good Wife

She was on the phone, puttering around the kitchen and living room. Cleaning up.  People, kids, around.  Like always.

I was in the door to the mudroom, peeling off my boots. And the mud.

Dad was somewhere in the house, slowly dying.

They had waited too long. When it had been discovered, a surgery could have removed the cancer. ‘God had lead them’ to treat it with extra vitamins and by having a biological dentist dig out his root canal, and by going this one time to sit in a hyperbaric chamber because that’s what the atmosphere was like before the Flood of Noah and people lived hundreds and hundreds of years before the Flood so this would fix it for sure.

When the tumor on his neck was the size of a Florida grapefruit, or larger than both my fists, they decided it was a swollen lymph node. From his body killing so much cancer.  When it peeled itself open and started gushing and dribling fluids, that was his body expelling the cancer.

When he couldn’t turn his head without pain and his right arm and hand swelled with edema to twice their normal size from being pinched by the tumor- they finally broke down and went to a doctor.

But at that point it was too late. It was everywhere.

She was talking to a friend. I couldn’t tell which one. Her voice was animated and eerily enthused. She was talking about his now inevitable death.

“At least he’s had a wife who served him. Not many men can say that!”

She’s fixed him sandwiches whenever he told her. She treats what he says as God’s word for her life- finding reasons for him to be absolutely correct even when God express irrational fears about surgery and then nose dives into conspiracy theories and quack medicines.

And now he’s slowly dying.

Funny.

Many men have wives who are sad when they die.

 

 

 

 

The endless growth of death that is life and shit.

Which is to say that I’m going to try to clean up the blog in the next few weeks. Maybe even posting- god. Fucking weird idea.

I’ve started another site for fiction and non biographical stories.

Body and Blood: Part I

Here’s some fucking vampire writing.

Also I’ve gotten depressed about having posted that video of Avicii’s cover of that one song.  Wake me up. Apparently the song was by a black dude called Aloe Blacc.  Avicii did a cover and the cover became widely popular and all the stations were playing it. It’s like Eminem and rap. White America. I’m telling you.

Here’s the original.

I like it.  Aloe’s got more feeling in his singing than an average pop song/than Avicii’s cover.  I mean seriously.  I like the cover and the video Avicii put with it still makes me cry, but after I heard Aloe I realized how… industrial? Avicii’s version was.  Like he has no emotional connection to the song but is still singing it because he’s being paid per word.

Or maybe I’m just crabby. I AM really crabby.

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Don’t Shame Those Bringing Darkness to Light: Elliott Grace Harvey’s Thoughts

Homeschoolers Anonymous

Sculpt and Photo Credit: Jason Benner

Some of the comments I come across regarding human rights issues blow my mind. I’m talking about the things that become a major source of dissension in social media and personal conversations.

A movie about kinky sex.

Discrimination towards the queer community.

Gender inequality. Rape culture and its many representations.

“No,” I protest, trying to kick him off. He stops. “If you struggle, I’ll tie your feet too. If you make a noise… I will gag you.”

An overwhelming theme I see emerging is an attitude of annoyance. Frustration that we’re talking about any of this. That whatever the topic is, will go away and we should stop discussing it because “controversy” is what makes this an issue.

“I have an overwhelming urge to cry, a sad and lonely melancholy grips and tightens round my heart. Dashing back to my bedroom, I close the…

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The Worlds of Creation

One of the saddest moments in my life. It was last week.

My little sister was showing me her minecraft world.  I showed up on the doorstep and she ran to get the cracked ipad.

My sister’s world is beautiful.  She has an extensive railway system.  The passengers are mostly cows.  Scattered across the map she has a museum and a mountain castle and a deep cave dwelling (under renovation).  She has a staircase that towers all the way up into the clouds. A king and queen live there.

She showed me the throne room. The king’s chair was golden. It dominated the center of the room.

The queen’s chair was wooden. It didn’t even have a back. It sat unobtrusively in a corner.

She walked her minecraft self into the bedrooms (which were separate). The king’s was impressive. Gold. Crystal. The queen’s was wood. Plain wood at that. She adds an explanation.

“I used to think queens and princesses were better. But now I know they’re not.”

*

I will probably never have a child. I hate being a girl too much.

*

When little sister was a baby, our mom didn’t have time for her. Didn’t have time to make her toys talk in silly voices. Didn’t have time to read to her or show her new things. Was too devoted to her ailing father (who thought he had cured his cancer through prayer) to spend time with her tiny child.  Too obsessed with the horrific end of the world to spend any time on life in the here and now.

I had time.

*

My mother spent my childhood and youth beating into my head that women were created by the all knowing all righteous infinite source of the universe for the sole purpose of handing men sandwiches and getting pregnant as often as humanly possible.

*

None of them talk to me. Oh they talk to me. They smile. Sometimes they even ask me how my day was.  But they never talk about anything below the surface. Never about anything of the organizing beliefs of our lives, never, never answer any of the questions I’ve asked them. Once in a while the mask slips a little. Little brother will mention something that I told mom in strict confidence. Mom keeps little sister away from me at church. The little kids stopped hanging out with me, despite being excited to see me when I show up.

I’ve seen her do this too many times- to too many other people- to not know what she’s doing.

*

I have honored my agreement to not talk about my questions with the little kids. I would have been, and probably still would be, cut off from them entirely- for doing that.

*

The screen shifts, and the view moves through block built trees- cascades of mountains.  A cow is stuck in a train car, being carted off to the farthest horizon for no apparent reason. The world that little sister created pours through our eyes.

The world my mother created  pours through them too.

My little sister believes that she is worth less.

There is nothing I can do or say.

*

Sia

*

Party girls don’t get hurt

Can’t feel anything anything-

When will I learn?-

I push it down, push it down…

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier

From the chandelier

I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist

Like it doesn’t exist

I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night

Feel my tears as they dry…

Help me, I’m holding on for dear life

Won’t look down won’t open my eyes

Keep my glass full until morning light

‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight

On for tonight

The Brush

I remember screaming. We were in the kitchen and I was about five or six.

“You witch! You witch!”

If I had known any worse words I would have used them. And this wasn’t even a spanking.

She was brushing my hair. Jerking her brush through the tangles. She was in a hurry and had to get it done as quickly as possible. But she was always in a hurry- no matter what. She was never going to be done with- whatever it happened to be.

My hair hung down my back, not quite to my waist.

I am, now, what in other parts of the earth would be considered an adult. An old maid. During short lived middle ages, I would be on the express train of old age headed for the broken bridge of death.

All of my mother’s children are still children- even the ones long out of high school. Living in their bedrooms in her house. Washing dishes to put themselves ahead in the competition for her favor. Baby sitting for people in the richer side of town as their ‘jobs’.

Their lives are passing.

She’s tired of them. She’s told me she feels guilty. Well of course. She had told them the purpose of their existence was to have children and also that it was sinful to be attracted to anyone or to pursue a relationship. They were supposed to wait for someone to buy them out of the store window.

Her store window was in the middle of a field and never did any advertising.

She never tells them she was wrong. She never even hints that they should pursue lives of their own.

They’re still waiting.

My baby sister is only eight. My grown up sisters are semi-raising mommy’s youngest children for her.

Now I’m not remembering. Now it’s a party. A family who is friends with our family (because Mom/’s family only interacts with other mom/’s families- not other people) is there and- in the middle of the party- my sister is brushing my sister’s hair.

Because we’re in too much of a hurry to stop for parties.

I’ve watched Mom brushing baby sister’s hair. She has trained baby sister to stomp her foot when it hurts- to grit her teeth and growl if it’s too much.

Because mommy can’t slow down long enough to NOT hurt her children. Ever.

She would rather be somewhere else, but she refuses to go. She would rather her children were somewhere else but she will not give them permission to leave. Even when she’s started to hate them.

Now my sister is ripping though baby sister’s hair with a brush.

I swim through the mass of people. A load of fake smiles plastered over skulls. God.

I get to them.

“I can do it.”

Sister’s body shifts to shoulder me out and she says something. She doesn’t want me to. Little sister keeps her face impassive. Her fists clenching and relaxing. At the age of eight, she could be a spy.

She’s asked them to cut her hair.  They wont do it.

A figure lurching behind me. Long hair hanging almost down to her waist. Long skirt. A voice made of artificial sweetener.

“Practicing to be a mommy?”

More of her teeth show. This question is the breakfast cereal of champions- the question asked of five year-old female children who can’t possibly not be five year-olds until they get taller and start earning their salvation through childbearing.

Bile rising. Sour in the back of my throat. I smear a fake smile across my skull, say words, and slide back into the crowd. Out of the room. Out of the house. I stand in the dark and breath.

You smiling fucking bitches. I’m not practicing for anything. I’m trying to keep my sister from being hurt.

Now.

Now.

Now.

Enter Title Here or Escape While You Can Still Get Out

This is the moment. This is my knuckles getting white on the wheel.  This is one of the bad (good?) spells. The reason I never bothered with drugs. Never felt the need of them. This so much more incredibly unimportant than the fluid tide of meaning drowning my brain would make it out to be. This is geese halting traffic as they cross the street, looking this way and that and honking like confused tourists.

They are tourists, of course.  Tourists and time travelers. They winged their way here from a different age of the earth, where light was yellower and more primal and the jewel eyes of inhabitants mirrored the sun without shattering it into names.  Or perhaps they aren’t tourists so much as refugees.  A white smear of nameless spread across the namelessness and then- then they found themselves running through time and space and evolution, desperately fighting for their lives. They donned disguises that the dead would be envious of- feathered and masked. Not saurians anymore but nobles, still.

There was no asphalt in the world they came from, that world that perished.  No rocks that purred and moved and stopped seemingly at will.  The chemical perfumes may be familiar, the trace stenches of a death wider than the sea, but other than that, they aren’t sure where they are now.

Their finery is ridiculous here. Mask doesn’t conceal in the fronds and cool wet voices of the swamps that were their hidden path to the new land. They are in the new land. Their capes of wings are folded around them.

The two on the road- a couple- have the sound of squabble in their voices. They call to the two waddling parallel in the grass and those two call back. The four of them moving together, gawking at the sights and gabbling like any of mildly frustrated party of four.

I don’t know their language. It might as well be geese Hebrew. I am too young and ignorant by far to understand this band of survivors.

I stare in awe, excused and forgiven by the living rocks behind mine. Ensconced in silence, bobbing in mirrors, perhaps they feel this awe too.  Pity masquerading as scorn and scorn dressed in urgency’s clothes are both drowned in the sea of our mutual alienation.

Behind me, alien, do they feel something moving in them? Do they name the sun the way I do? Do they call it love? But all it is is the sun, isn’t it?

Woven, flowing, in a thousand channels of blood and of the mind’s nervous fires.

The time travelers are moving.  The ground has shifted under their feet and worlds have bloomed and died in time lapse films that they paddle through and it’s still shifting.

I don’t know. I don’t know how they do it.  Will I and mine walk with them?  Will we be companions in the up and coming world? Strangers together in the place called strange-to-us?  Or will they leave us behind- squabbling as they waddle into the portal of the future- as we look, wracked with coughing, after them- maybe even possessed of the presence of mind to wave goodbye. Lonely now forever and still silent to each other in the land of the past- that country of stone and darkness that isn’t night.

I and mine.  Riddled with words like worms in the world’s only fermenting apple.  The words build themselves around us, through us, structures flooding out from the entrances to our skins, shaping the world around us at our desire. Wizard power. Made of less than seafoam, less than starlight, less than apple blossoms.

Less than the pipe that the arrow in the picture doesn’t point to.

Is the weightless name of the sun too heavy for swimmer to carry?

These swimmers paddled through namelessness to nameless.  The water rolling in beads off their feathers.  It couldn’t get in.

Must a wet creature such as me see the future from the crest of my own wave- before the burden that made the wave drags me down to drown in a seafloor death.

But the two make their way onto grass. The purr beneath my feet rolls me motionless forward. I move between the double couple. One spreads his cape of feathers in a challenge that greets me. The melodramatic swirl of the air.

They seem to open something for me.  Or- a puppet of the powers that animated me in the first place- perhaps I charm, unseeing, the opening into being.

A circle woven of the curling airs they have supplied me.

Perhaps the sun is, always, and is no more than that.  Or if all this is is the sun, running in a thousand veins, perhaps not.  Perhaps the sun is delighted by her mirror.

Perhaps she will go on polishing. Till, one day, even she can see her image.