I am bored of myself. I am waiting to be subsumed by something greater. Like the great outcasts, the living shrapnel of the shoreline, I am waiting for the next movement, for the profound yet deadly adagio, to glut itself on my body. It is this host of Neptune, this ceaseless undulant body, that I come here to consecrate, and, in the process, be consecrated by in turn.
My childhood was a wet, timeless sea. I masturbated in the forests; fertilised my undeveloped womb with air-fed lichen. Found secret castles, ruins in the woodland, unmentioned in maps, or historical documents. On endless summer days, I had acres of solitude to fill; sharp infinities of loneliness, set to a soundtrack of visual and audible waveforms.
It’s is strange that I should always feel nostalgia for those periods in my life I was at my loneliest. That I feel the need to revisit them, to understand them, as though there was a sacredness to the sorrow I miss and yearn for during life’s more temperate moments.
Perhaps it is that divine compensation again. All that emptiness to be filled up by a harrowing divinity. Your soul, an empty field of activity, awaiting the scythe of harvest.
At such times, The Moon Goddess and I, regard each other from a distance. I, ensconced on a book-strewn sofa; while she, sullen, mysterious, huddles in the bay of my window, hugging her knees, her eyes wide, unsleeping, unblinking –obsessed with never missing what the rest of us shut out.
You cannot have a conversation with this woman. She abhors description – only soundless telepathy. If you were to recite to her the contents of your shopping list, in depraved vengeance, she would rip out your innards with long sharp nails, and decorate them with daises.
Her hair is black and matted. Cluttered with the brambles of the night, she wears anxious thoughts as her headband. In this respect, she has never seen reality, because she is so enamoured with a million paranoid possibilities, she has gifted her life to the exploration of them.
She is not here to talk. She is here, because she knows I belong to her. And, like every good mother, she must tend to her children, to ensure they make good their inheritance of delusions.
It is not only at night she comes. She can appear to you at any time. Today she arrived at mid-day, when the sun was just slinking off the meridian. In conjugal disharmony with her passing husband, Pluto, I suffered the spiritual equivalent of a forcible lobotomy, the stolen spear in the brainstem – the one that makes you ache to pull off your skin, and wear something a little less harrowing; the meal of curses that puts a lead weight in your body, and makes you wonder if you’ll ever again feel peace or contentment.
It is not an easy relationship. You have to accept a lot of unpleasant things – not only harsh realities, been even harsher unrealities. You have to admit that unimaginable pain can be the most giving of lovers, and pleasure, the most vampirically selfish.
Most of all, this phase of The Goddess despises indifference. Those who are not soaked up with the mortal unrelief of careworn agonies are her bitterest enemies. If she and Reason were ever to meet face-to-face, she would bite him with teeth, sharp and ravenous. She hates those who do not love; and even more zealously, those that deny its existence. For her, love is a crusade, a bitter battle, that pits idealists against stoic apathy. She would kill each and every last person now living, if, in their final moments, she could get them to see but a gleam of its glory.
I’ve known her for a long time.
She lovingly held my head underwater during my long years of seclusion; chained me to seaweed in the depths of the ocean. It is, through her, that I am on nodding terms with Sedna, Inuit goddess of Victims and their glories. She taught me the art of feeling sorry for myself; for digging into pain, like a well-stocked larder. She has looked deeply into my eyes during every sickness; has laughed hysterically when I thought I was cured.
You’ll all have met her at different times in your life. At moments of solitary inebriation and suicidal ideation. She sat and watched when you were too scared to leave the house; she put the precious liquid in the secret syringe every angel hides in its wing. She is the overdose that makes you comatose, yet does not invite death to share your pillow.
I saw a painting of her once. It was horrifyingly accurate in the most flawed and inaccurate way. But, it was not long before the gallery owner turned its face to the wall, and, eventually, scrapped the whole canvas, using it as wallpaper in a lunatic’s asylum.
I think she’s gone now. But, you never can tell.