It’s something

women have always known: the truth lives not in facts,

but in perception.

Take as your example Joan of Arc. The truth:

(as any tomboy could tell you) she was a warrior.

(as any Catholic could tell you) she was a saint.

(as any closeted teenager could tell you) she was a gender icon.

(as one specific court could tell you) she was a heretic.

Her real life has no trade with the truth.

Take as your example a chair. The truth:

(as any artist could tell you) it is white.

(as any carpenter could tell you) it is made of wood.

(as anyone with tired legs could tell you) it is for sitting.

(as one specific granddaughter could tell you) it is from 1965 and held an old woman every day until yesterday.

What does the chair’s existence have to do with the truth -- except in its interpretation?

There is a school of philosophy that holds

that the existence of something derives entirely from its perception.

That fir tree exists because

we see and name it; we

create the truth of the world.

Outside of the adherents of this discipline, we tend to believe in facts and interpretations.

One: a thing exists, with objective qualities and a real existence.

Two: we see the thing and interpret its existence; we name it and give it purpose.

Except, of course, this is wrong.

Existence and interpretation

are two faces of the same goddess; she

shows us both her sides at once.

Like the body, it’s a merged palimpsest, held together

with chalky ropes

of interbound veins and

nerves.

#poetry

I am not beautiful

I am a goddamn motherfucker

I am a goddamn motherfucker with boils on my face

I am a goddamn motherfucker with boils on my face and I pick at them with my own two hands when I’m nervous,

I’m always picking with my own two hands

I’m a goddamn motherfucker who isn’t beautiful, dress myself up in silks and short skirts and passerby will wince

I don’t walk like I’m goddamn beautiful, I walk like a motherfucker,

The kind of motherfucker who doesn’t want to be looked at but is also angry

and that angry radiates like heat on asphalt, and makes passperby wince

I give kisses to cats

I give goddamn motherfucking kisses to cats

And neither me nor the cat are beautiful

Both of us are half-hairless and lacking a pure and perfect soul

The cats I kiss need their fingernails clipped, I need to stop clipping my fingernails

Both of us wash ourselves with our tongues and look at the hair we shed like we didn’t do it

I am not beautiful

I haven’t cut my hair in months but even if I did I still wouldn’t be beautiful

Even if I cut my hair I would still be a goddamn motherfucker

Even if I knew how to contour and get nice clothes from the thrift shop

To be like the girls with the metal glasses and the big patterns smoking cigarettes outside the sex shop

Even if I had metal glasses and big patterns and bummed a

cigarette outside the sex shop I would still

be a goddamn motherfucker

who kisses cats.

#poetry

It was on a bright morning when the Pythia was found dead in her chambers. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping peacefully, but in fact the breath had left her body at some point in the night. It was bad timing, though the priestesses didn't hold much stock in timing as something that could be bad or good. In three days time, visitors would arrive at Delphi in search of truth and guidance.

The new Pythia's selection from among the priestess cadre was something of a surprise. She was young, relatively speaking, and had a family. But unlike the older women who played in temple politics, she maintained a purity of affection from all in attendance. It was decided.

She kissed her husband and her three boys, on the forehead and once on each eye. They looked at her, round-faced and unsmiling.

"Do good," she told them.

"Will you visit us?" her youngest said.

"You can see me in the temple," she said, smoothing his hair. One more kiss from her husband, for luck, and she had to turn away. It wouldn't do for her family or the priestesses to see her weep. The god had given her a true role now.

Flanked by the priestesses, she returned to the river and the cave. She washed herself, burned the laurel leaves, and drank the blessed water; she sacrificed the ram. Then the Pythia sat on her three-legged cauldron and waited for the god.

Beneath her, a crevasse reached unfathomably deep into the sweet secrets of the earth. The earth's breath exuded from the ground in a constant flow, and the Pythia felt her breath travel upward and join. They two women breathed together.

And then the god entered in, and the breath was words, and the words were strange and infinite. Kings and priests and warriors came to the temple in three days time, and she advised them. The shape of the world was handed up to her by the god, and in turn she handed it to the people.

It was a position of terrible certainty. No living person could see the map of life, but she was given glimpses. As the words passed from her to them, she knew the future was set like clay in a kiln.

---

The world had breathed for many years and now her hands were old. From her three-legged cauldron, she could see her thick veins and withered feet and legs. The year before, an emperor had come to her and asked about a conflict he intended. Through the Pythia, the god had said an empire would fall.

Cocky and foolish, he didn't stop to think. The conflict went forward, and his empire fell. It was world-shaping news. As soon as she had spoken, she saw that page unfold from the great map. And in the rout, her youngest son had been killed.

This local news was not the purview of the god. He dealt in empires, kings and their families, the half-gods, human heroes, and ships lost for many years. In the fall of this emperor's kingdom, this one death was a letter on the page. It was a nameless detail in the great event, a grain of sand in the avalanche.

A buried thought was straining at the edges of her mind. She was the Pythia, and knew that the map remained uncharted until the word were spoken -- from the god to her, from her to the people. The future had its shapes and lines, and these were set like clay when she exuded them. This truth underlaid the office of her oracle. She was the hand that sketched the shapes and lines. She carved the certainty of that empire's fall, the grains of sand, and her son's death.

Her withered legs still held her weight as she descended from the three-legged cauldron. She stood for a moment at the entrance. It was a bright morning, and distant dots of people moved on the hills. Nearby, there was no one.

The world was open.

She left the cave and its vents. The later visitors seeking the future found only her footsteps.

The doors of fate had come unlatched and rattled in the wind.

There are the everyday tragedies: the little things. You say them like they’re the usual petty sadnesses, but the difference is in the echo. Not every sadness makes your heart heavy. Not for a week or a month or when you see their face on the train, but an always-heavy. You and your constituent components are just a little weightier now; the change is livable and permanent.

They sound like petty things, but they drag like a loose rope behind a sailboat. "My husband, who loves me dearly, doesn’t want to have sex with me anymore. My body does nothing for him. We cook and live and sleep side-by-side, but there's always an edge." The heaviness. "My brother, who is only a teenager, misses me. He’s growing up and I’m not there." The heaviness. "I didn't call my grandma on her eightieth birthday. I called her later, but she remembers." The heaviness.

We’re a strange group: half of us don’t want anybody to know our names, and the other half can’t wait to share. When we go out together we make one whole person. Three of us forward in the light, talking and listening and feeling, and the other three in the shadow, watching and hoping and ready to go.

We keep to the places they struggle to explore: the mountaintops, the deep oceans, Alaska. The lore helps us: should a lonely mountain man see a vision on the Denali slopes, who will believe his tall tale to be true?

We were never social creatures; we never traveled in packs, built cities, protected the family unit. At the beginning, we remember watching the hairless apes band together with fond bewilderment. We should have foreseen: cannot a colony of ants bring down a great spider, or termites topple a house?

It's strange that here, in our collective twilight, we have found some measure of that pull of life to life. On mountaintops, in deep oceans, and in Alaska, we find each other: an encounter that is almost accidental in its fateful simplicity. Like snowy tigers coming upon one another on the border of their territory, we meet, touch noses, and go on our way.

It takes some time for us to move from place to place. Our plasmatic tails and fins and jawbones were built for contemplation, not velocity. It can be hard to see us, translucent and nearly incorporeal against the snow or in the deepest places, but nevertheless our speed is a danger. Like the soap bubbles some of us say we resemble, we were built to drift.

We found another in a copse of trees whose boughs had been scorched and felled by fire. Like so many matchsticks, the trunks protruded upright from the hard earth. We found ourself there with little intention; the pull was quiet but insistent. They were already in the trees by the time we moved our enormity up one craggy hill and down another. A light snow was falling, and perfect flakes settled on our back. There preserved, they seemed to hover, and didn't melt.

It had been quite some time since we had seen another. There are fewer and fewer of us now, and our proclivity to vast deserted spaces does not lend itself to chance encounters. But here they were, an outline in the snow. We are not impatient, and they did not stir as we continued to process to meet them.

In the matchstick wood, they and we exchanged words: ventriloquist, we offered, adorbs, and beatemest. In return, they brought us silviculture, weeb, and barbacoa. It is a great pleasure to enjoy words with someone who, like us, feels no need to rush. We enjoy slowly.

They asked about our journey here.

Long, we replied, And full of snow. We traveled on the mountain's edge.

It's a journey full of loveliness, they said.

And you?

We have been here with these bare trees for a little while, they said. It's winter, so they do not bloom.

We have been around for quite some time: before many creatures had left the seas, we were born. But they are older even than we are, older than the atmosphere and maybe even older than this world.

Touch, like socializing, is not something that was ever typical of our kind -- we are only one step away from the wholly cerebral. Even so, we and they reach out and brush the filaments of each other's casings. We, as a species, do not feel very many things: cold and heat and pain and water are distant sensations that we consider only as an interesting idea. This feeling is not an overwhelming one -- but neither is it just an interesting idea. Our skins in contact, we contemplate for one another, and separate. They remain in their forest of matchstick trees, and I slowly move up the slope again and out of sight.

In times before, a new one could have slumbered in our meeting, and risen themself to join the slow and distant throng. But we do not multiply anymore; it is the hour of our decline, and so we find each other for a brief hello before we both must sleep.

Weirdly, the first thing I heard was that song from Stranger Things. "Lights Out." The one that plays when the monster comes through the wall in season one and he's running through the house. Which is a pretty horrible thing to hear immediately after you die. Luckily, it didn't last long: like a radio tuning, the song flickered for a second and shifted. "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." Full choir, slightly echoey. Not necessarily better, but at least a little more typical. That was brief as well -- a moment later, the tune crackled and became Pachelbel's Canon. There was a brief, bizarre moment of "In The Arms of An Angel," followed by "If I Die Young," followed by what I think was some kind of Gregorian chant.

Whatever strange radio was trying to tune, it seemed to be having some trouble. The static lasted longer and longer between each song, until it eventually subsided into a steady tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

That was the first moment I got scared. I didn't have a mouth or eyes or ears or legs, as far as I could tell, so I couldn't do anything about it, but I sat like a little mote of terror in the ether and listened to the radio tick. I don't know if you can technically say that time passed. That ticking, terrified moment felt infinite.

And then, without warning, there was a sound like an enormous orchestra tuning up. That had always been my favorite sound -- the beginning of a concert, the lights coming down, the beautiful musicians with their shining gold and silver instruments, the conductor tapping her baton on the stand. This time, the lights came up as I heard the orchestra, and I could see -- which meant that I had eyes. A ripple of becoming moved from my head to my toes, and I had some kind of form again, a sensory apparatus tied to a corporeal body.

In any other situation, regaining a body would have taken up my attention. But now that I had eyes, I could see a vast field of fog stretching out before me. The sky and the fog were both gray and blended into each other strangely on the horizon, almost like someone had smudged a charcoal line.

"Hello," a voice said, smooth as an elevator operator. "Thank you for your participation. We are glad to have you here."

It paused for a moment; maybe it expected me to say something. It was a good thing I wasn't responsible for holding myself aloft, or I would absolutely have fallen out of the sky.

"Welcome to the laboratory." The voice said it the British way -- lab-OH-ratory. "You have been requested by seven research teams. Two in the being department: subdepartment gender and subdepartment age. One in the action department: subdepartment walking. One in the perception department: subdepartment colors. Three in the reality department: subdepartment trust, subdepartment Christianity-Protestant, and subdepartment animal companions. Do you have a preference on your area of participation?"

I couldn't even remember most of the subdepartments, but this felt important, possibly eternally so.

"Do you have a preference on your area of participation?" it asked again.

I made a sound like a bug had flown down my throat. "Trust. Or -- okay."

"Reality department: subdepartment trust. I will inform your research supervisor. Are you familiar with the circumstances of your participation?"

"I literally just died." The voice said nothing. "No, I'm not familiar with the circumstances of whatever."

"I will fill you in. Welcome to the laboratory, where we study life. Here, all things exist." Below me, the fog seemed to roil at her words, throwing up tendrils in my direction. "We are making great strides towards lucidity. As a former living human, you are indispensable to our learning process. We will conduct a number of experiments and study your behavior. Of course, when not in a study, you are free to do whatever you want, within existence. Shall we proceed?"

I swallowed. It was one of those overwhelming situations that made me want to go to sleep.

"Is it going to hurt?"

The voice laughed, a smooth, melodic tinkle. "No more than living did."

It seemed to decide that was enough talking, and without intending to, I began descending towards the layer of fog. As I drew closer to the swirling substance, I thought I could see vines, or buildings, or the edges of faces I almost knew, but they faded as soon as I looked at them directly. The fog, surprisingly warm, touched my toes and crawled up my legs like a living thing. I tried to keep my eyes open as it rose over my head, but what had looked translucent from above was now black and dark, and as hard as I tried to hold on, my being slipped into nothingness again.

#fiction

Hey! Is now a bad time?

Yeah, it's been a minute.

I'm good, I'm good. How are you?

Good to hear.

Well I had a free moment and I just thought I would call you up.

I've been giving it a lot of thought, and I think we should get back together.

Don't hang up.

I'm not -- I promise I'm not gonna cry.

I know you said you never wanted to see my face again.

No, I remember.

Yep.

But I really have been thinking about it a lot, and it would be great if you'd just hear me out.

Please.

Thanks so much. I'll make it quick, I promise.

First I wanted to address the elephant in the room.

Brittany.

Don't call her that.

No, I'm not seeing her anymore. I wasn't ever really -- it's not important.

I want to apologize. Really, sincerely. I was selfish, and stupid, and I hurt you, and that inexcusable.

In my defense, I would like to say that you were in Rome.

Well what was I supposed to do?

Okay okay okay. This isn't going well.

You said you would hear me out.

Okay.

What I mean is that I'm sorry about Brittany. I've changed. I'm a better man. A bigger and better man who doesn't need validation from other girls. Sorry, women.

I didn't appreciate what I had when I had it, and I didn't understand the consequences of my actions.

I understand if you can never trust me again. That's totally understandable.

What do you mean you don't know?

That's not a real answer.

Yeah I had other stuff. Um.

Second, I wanted to say that I've been thinking about you all the time, every day. Your long hair --

You cut your hair?

Oh. Oh, no, that's fine, I'm still -- yeah. Your pretty face, and the way you laugh, and your smile, and your body -- and how smart you are!

Yeah. I miss you. I guess.

Um, third, I think I was really good for you because I convinced you to chill out and not work all the time. You work too much. I always said you work too much.

Yeah but wasn't it more fun when you could blow off steam with me?

I know you have a stressful job! But I think you should try a little less and I helped you with that.

Sorry, worry. I meant worry less.

Fourth -- this is the last one, I promise -- I think you were really good for me. You made me a better person. I was nicer, and happier, and was actually looking forward to the future. You did that. You're great. I think we're good together.

So, um, what do you think?

Hello? Are you still there?

Hi.

Okay.

I guess I understand that.

Well, give it some thought -- if you ever change your -- okay.

It was good to talk to you.

Enjoy dinner.

Bye.

(The cell phone is dead, and she blocked his number long ago. It doesn't change the satisfying, indulgent pain of the exercise.)