Eating Your Own Heart

Interior sunrise.

Last night: three punk rock concerts in a building with a black octopus painted on the entirety of the floor. The percussive drive of the beat forced itself into all my cells as this culture communed with its god. No person was surprising or unwelcome. Yet, there was something beautifully unique about the lead singer of the first band who joined the crowd after her set and simply, quietly, swayed. What I'm trying to say here has to do with music as sorcery. A new place is created in the creation itself.

To bend as willow.

I've been thinking about witches again – who they are – how they are given meaning. As an archetype, witches are typically “she” with power on her own terms. She is not defined by anyone else, unlike wife, sister, mother, virgin or whore. And her gift is transformation, conjuring worlds out of words, creating things other than children. Witches are alchemists connected to words: spelling and spells, grammar and grimoire. Female writers as witches.

Seeds, urging us to do better.

Nighttime is a secret wood where witches, writers and musicians eat their own hearts. How else can one fully arrive at sunrise in true kenosis? My legs as two kissing women carry me into the lighthouse of dawn. Pacing – writing – blessing. Moon lanterns are dowsed as no longer are their rays visible in the brighter warmth of another day.

Time to plant.