if knowing me is

a fantasy, then you're just

a page in the book.

Panic

And it's suddenly struck home once again--

The arrow into the heel of Achilles.

I'm violable, I'm nothing special, I'm real.

Thud.

Amphibian arrowheads sinking into my softest skin

Pry open my thief-knotted secrets,

Rendering me as pale and unarmored as the fabled beloved

shining, suddenly, with no Hephaestus to hide behind;

My glass wall is spear-shattered and my mind is left staggering

Across bedspreads and library stairs,

Miming the spastic flight-dance of a turtle with no shell.

It's too far to the sea.

Lying in the field I'm waiting for the gulls,

Welcoming coyotes,

Gathering sand.

Speech in Praise of Eros

Although I do not pretend to understand, in the slightest, the nature of Love, it is one of the very few things that I believe in, and I believe in the power of Love with everything that I am.

I found the realization that this belief is so strong in me to be quite startling, as I am a girl of rather few such intangible convictions. This isn't, of course, to say that I'm apathetic, but rather that the vast majority of the things I feel passionate about are very concrete, unambiguous things—that violence is a terrible thing, that the environment needs to be protected, that certain parts of the government are broken. I am, by nature, somewhat of a literalist, and have incredible difficulty putting my faith in something that I cannot see, or touch, or, at the very least, visualize.

Love, though, cannot be defined, cannot be measured, cannot be predicted; defying the laws of thermodynamics, it materializes from nothing at the most unexpected times, and often is destroyed just as inexplicably.

This mercurial quality makes it easy for those not under the spell of Love to be skeptics; I, too, am often plagued by thoughts of why. I tend to think of Love as something close to divine, yet my stubbornly scientific brain often badgers me with the rather demystifying idea that Love is nothing more than a chemical response to pleasurable stimuli, especially those that simulate the begetting of progeny—which is, after all, what we are wired, evolutionarily, to do. Our genes tell us to make more of ourselves because the organisms lacking such a drive evaporated from the genetic pool eons ago. However, the less jaded half of my brain counters this with a question: if it is true that Love is nothing more than artificial feelings synthesized by chemicals in our brains, is there anything wrong with that? Is it any less noble if there is no transcendentalism involved, if everything we feel is just mind-games courtesy of our hormones?

If the happiness a lover feels is the same either way, does the source matter?

To reconcile these two endlessly warring halves of my head, I don't believe it does matter. Even if Love is somehow made less noble by not having some higher thing as its origin, it is still elevated to such great heights by the ecstasy that it brings to two people in love.

Love breaks down even the skeptic's carefully constructed barriers against the unexplainable, against rash emotions. Love destroys your carefully empty eyes, those words you tried to memorize, and as it fills you it washes away fear, self-doubt, and loneliness, infusing you instead with a wonderfully buoyant sense of belonging that serves as a lifeline to carry you through whatever hardships you may face. It is this quality of love, this uplifting, affirming sense of peace and confidence, that makes me believe in Love, that makes me worship it above all other gods.

--

Post-Valentine's Symposium speech. Written at 2am, minimally edited.

Sapphic Fragment 3

always, I yearn to give

wings to words, yet of the glorious

resounding cries, of the beautiful and good, you

force me into a shamed silence of pain, stifling me

with fear, blame, regret[?]

for your swollen

[fingers?] as I let you take your fill. for though my thinking

arose all self-condemning, it was not thus

as you accused; nothing is arranged

erratically, nor erotically, though

all night long, l[a]ying anxious, I am aware

of your allegations of evildoing;

but I, in my desire-choked silence, my willful blindness,

lay blame on other souls, all those deluded minds,

those cursed, those blessed ones,

all around whom you spread your downy wings,

all whom you loved,

all whom you destroyed

unknowingly?

I reject that you'd willingly break us,

and yet

the truth lies naked.

have you no temperance, no shame?

--

Creative reconstruction; bold words are the original fragment.

Chased

Dissipating, dissolving, condensing, coalescing,

I stand swaying,

cymbals crashing betwixt my ears

smashing into nothing,

atomizing silence.

As I stand dead-in-the-eyes and slowly cracking

and my body collapses into paperdust and coffee bones,

I can feel my mind leaking.

Hard as I try, I haven't the fingers

to overpower this entropic exploration.

A shadow slithers accusingly up the moonlit page

as busking crickets resuscitate the landscape

and I shake myself to clarity, shiver the machine to life.

With my aluminum lungs and pewter heart

I'll go swimming in your slipstream

in a mist of safety glass,

a fog of shattered taillights and adrenaline.

Racing, racing, cogs and flywheels burning,

never consuming quickly enough to catch your tragedy.

Always, I'm one revolution belated:

just close enough to pick up the pieces,

never far enough to rebuild.

WWP10: Forever Lost (Collaboration)

Emma and I decided to co-write this one.

(philipstraub.com)

Once upon a time the trees of this forest were green and lush and living and this land was suffused with eternal daylight from the Sunbirds that we tended, kept in cages made of branches high in the treetops.

No one ever suspected the new fruit would be our undoing. After all, the birds delighted in them, and as the delicious new food spread, the Sunbirds' songs grew ever more joyous, their light ever brighter and more glourious.

Looking back we could never remember when they first appeared; it seemed they had always been there, fat and golden and hanging from trees that used to grow pomegranates and persimmons and blackcurrants. None of us had ever tasted them, but their smell was bitter and strong, so we left them to the birds.

We never planted any of the seeds, ourselves, but the forest floor beneath the birds' cages soon became covered in them, so it was rather inevitable that some of them sprouted. They were the queerest seeds you'd ever seen, too, tiny and star-shaped and glittering in the light like the Sunbirds' shed downy feathers among the leaves.

After a few weeks they shot up into funny little twisted trees, branches shooting out every which way so fast there were those that swore they'd watched them grow and still we paid them no mind, save perhaps as a curiosity.

It wasn't until the Sunbirds began to beat themselves against the boughs of their cages that anyone thought to question them. Night and day they'd beat, beat, and the branches of their cages would bend but never break. Then, finally, we stopped to think, and we feared them. We spoke of them often--in whispers, for reasons none could ever really explain, always in whispers--and so word spread quickly when one young man, brave and foolish, announced that he planned to try one.It wasn't until the Sunbirds began to beat themselves against the boughs of their cages that anyone thought to question them. Night and day they'd beat, beat, and the branches of their cages would bend but never break. Then, finally, we stopped to think, and we feared them. We spoke of them often--in whispers, for reasons none could ever really explain, always in whispers--and so word spread quickly when one young man, brave and foolish, announced that he planned to try one.

Although the whole village was stunned by his reckless audacity, no one tried to stop him; everyone was just as curious to find out what would happen. So one day, about a week after he had made his announcement, when we'd all started to whisper that he wouldn't do it, after all, he scrambled high into the canopy, plucked a ripe gold fruit, and took a bite.

That first bite, he told us later, was as bitter and terrible as he'd expected; but then, as he chewed, something strange and wonderful happened. The fruit changed in his mouth, until it was the sweetest, purest thing he had ever tasted, and before he knew it he'd eaten the whole thing.That first bite, he told us later, was as bitter and terrible as he'd expected; but then, as he chewed, something strange and wonderful happened. The fruit changed in his mouth, until it was the sweetest, purest thing he had ever tasted, and before he knew it he'd eaten the whole thing.

At first, the fruits seemed to have no effect on the young man. Over the next few days, however, he became more and more restless, eyes constantly darting about, feet relentlessly tapping the ground. He was often seen staring longingly out into the forest, fingers picking nervously at the hem of his shirt. We all kept a careful watch, of course, but one day, for all our scrutiny, he vanished.

We tried to search for him, but everyone was afraid of venturing too far into the forest. Its familiar winding paths had been hopelessly obscured by the strange plants that grew from the fruits' shining seeds--enormous, twisting vines that covered everything else, choking out the ancient trees. At first, they looked innocent enough, but as they thickened they developed weird, bulbous growths that reeked of decay. The plants grew so closely together that even the light from the Sunbirds became dim. We tried to search for him, but everyone was afraid of venturing too far into the forest. Its familiar winding paths had been hopelessly obscured by the strange plants that grew from the fruits' shining seeds--enormous, twisting vines that covered everything else, choking out the ancient trees. At first, they looked innocent enough, but as they thickened they developed weird, bulbous growths that reeked of decay. The plants grew so closely together that even the light from the Sunbirds became dim.

So we waited, helpless, as the forest grew darker and stranger, the Sunbirds grown few and ragged from their constant assault on the bars of their cages. Months passed, and even the staunchest among us fell into despair, and then finally, one day, the man returned.

His months away had changed him, almost beyond recognition. His once-neat clothing was tattered and ragged, and hung off him limply, for he was so thin it seemed his bones were all that was left of him; his hair and beard grew long and tangled, grown inextricably together with countless leaves; and, strangest of all, inside his eyes burned something clear and fierce and joyful.His months away had changed him, almost beyond recognition. His once-neat clothing was tattered and ragged, and hung off him limply, for he was so thin it seemed his bones were all that was left of him; his hair and beard grew long and tangled, grown inextricably together with countless leaves; and, strangest of all, inside his eyes burned something clear and fierce and joyful.

He was raving, we thought, he was mad. We listened in fear as he told us of his journey, describing monstrous things as if they were Eden. His head was filled with the most absurd ideas; he said we were trapped, he said we were caged, he said we had to destroy the Sunbirds' cages. "Set them free"? The man had lost his mind. We couldn't comprehend why the birds would want anything else; we gave them shelter, all the food they could eat, and protection from the cats that stalked the forest for prey.

We set a watch on him once more, doubly vigilant this time, and while we did we began building another cage, bigger than the Sunbirds', big enough for a man. When it was done we hung it high on a vine-choked tree branch. That night when he slept we picked him up, softly, softly, carried him up the tree, and did our best to forget about him.

But only a day passed before the shaking started.

It started quietly, no more than a trembling in the treetops, but it grew more and more violent, accompanied by frenzied shrieks that crescendoed until we had to cover our ears from all the noise--the man's manic screams, the trees' boughs creaking and snapping, and the birds, the squawks, whistles, and screeches as the birds battered themselves against their cages in increasing desperation.

After hours of this, hours of fury so great it seemed the forest itself was trying to shake us free of its back, it stopped all at once. We who had thought we would be relieved found instead a great dread growing inside of us, keeping our throats closed tightly and our voices trapped in whispers. Then, as if to echo the silence that had overtaken the forest, pitch black settled around us.

The man descended from the trees, then, and it might have been the surrounding dark but it seemed like something of the fire was gone from his eyes. He told us of how he had freed the Sunbirds, one by one, and how they had flown straight up, up, so far above the miserable forest that he could no longer tell one from another. We are told they fly far and fast each day, in their exuberance, so far that by the end of the day they've come back to the forest, but the vines grow so thick now that no light ever reaches us. No other plant grows here, now, so we are forced to eat the fruit of the plant that was our undoing; only the old and trapped can stay here for long, and even they grow mad and restless. And that, my child, is how night came to the forest, and why I am going to leave in the morning.

WWP8: Unhinged

(samjinks.com)

It's amazing how quickly the brain will revert back to previously embedded memories, how easily sleep can replace the present with a distant Eden that should have been long forgotten. Drifting out of consciousness, the mind in its weariness replaces discomfort with a blissful emptiness. Sleeping, slipping into forgotten skins, the subconscious often errs; the mind, in its wishful folly, refuses to reintegrate perception with reality.

Waking slowly in a foreign place, the disconnect is jarring, as the brain inserts a pleasant memory--a soft bed, the warm arms of a lover--in lieu of the stark truth of an unfamiliar sofa, a bathtub, a hospital bed.

In the presence of prolonged anguish, this slippage begins to intrude upon the fully-conscious mind. When the soul panics, struggling to protect its tender heart from agony, the brain overlays perception with a veneer of better days long past. As this carapace thickens and hardens, sanity and awareness are slowly broken down and replaced by skins shed long ago, until even the cold white steel of a surgeon's table feels like home.

--

What the hell even is this. I have no idea.

WWP6: Excavation

(www.jamesjean.com)

It was a lonely life, but it was hers.

She loved her forest dearly, of course; it's not that she had ever dreamed of leaving.

Even in the dead of night, when the darkness seemed to breathe, heavy air pulsing, pressing like a stranger against the nape of her neck, even when every sound was scared silent by the pressure and the fog, even then she would just wrap the smokey tendrils tighter around her naked body, pulling the cloud across her dripping candle like a funeral shroud, smiling into the misty caress until the sun's fury burned the vapors away.

It's true that she wasn't overly fond of the sun, either. Although she understood that forests need light to grow, she resented the way his relentless rays washed all the mystery from the shadows of the trees, scouring away uncertainties, revealing details but removing questions.

No, it was the twilight she loved the best, that in-between-time when the moon waltzed up the sky, gracefully forcing the heavy, reluctant sun below the hills.

During this dance of light and shadow, night and day, she would roam her forest haven, wandering, searching for someone-- anyone.

She'd tried forming her own companions from the woods around her. She'd made a pair of slender hounds, carefully stitched and sculpted from wilting petals and dying leaves, stuffed with loam and the souls of the moths circling her head. They ran beside her as the sun sank, faithful and silent as shadows, but still she searched in ever widening rings that grew with the hearts of her trees, searched for someone to share in the fleeting beauty of a spiderweb at dawn, its gossamer strands beaded with perfect drops of glittering dew, someone to share in her tiny circle of candlelight and read the patterns in the wheeling stars.

Still, she knew that if her spiraling exploration ever reached the edge of her sylvan domain, she'd never set foot beyond the treeline.

It was a lonely life, but it was hers.

--

This needs some major editing.

WWP4: Passive

(buttercupfestival.com)

Sometimes it strikes me suddenly, the static.

Like the trees and the grass I am grounded,

Rooted deep in the fertile loam

Reaching down to unyielding bedrock

Sitting motionless,

Day by day

Waiting

Always waiting

For someone with the gift of freedom

Of motion

Of flight...

For someone to bring me news of elsewhere

To tell me fantastic tales of that which my eyes will never see

Someone to fly back to me and sing of the sky

Lying upon the world like heavy wet cotton

Wrinkled and lazy and blue.

WWP3: Possessions, Possessions

(maggietaylor.com)

No one ever quite figured out the flood of '47. It wasn't really the intensity (although that was quite astonishing) or the duration (though three weeks was no blink-of-the-eye). No, it was definitely the fact that not a drop of rain fell from the sky, nor did a river, swollen from some torrential downpour far upstream, burst its banks to overwhelm the fertile fields. No, this flood was different.

This flood rose up.

It came seeping up from the grass and the gravel, collecting first in tiny droplets, then slowly pooling, puddles to ponds to lakes, a river in every avenue.

--

Gaaaaaah short and unfinished AGAIN. Also, way to barely connect to the picture at all. Again.