No. 8 Vesuvius, Are you a ghost Or the symbols of light Or a fantasy host? In your breast I carry the form The heart of the Earth And the weapons of warmth. -"Vesuvius" by Sufjan Stevens I’m going over my skin, pore by pore, follicle by follicle, in an attempt to avoid writing. I pull the neck of my shirt down, examine the pale skin on my chest, stopping to occasionally pinch a blackhead (or what I imagine to be a blackhead). I pull the skin taut with my middle fingers, and run the others over the hard surface of my sternum. I poke at my breast. Anything to avoid writing. The other day I deep cleaned the kitchen. Then I put away all the plastic blocks, plastic food, toy trucks, stuffed animals, play kitchen utensils, board books, and other miscellaneous toys that my niece and nephew had left strewn about the house. After everything had been cleaned, I began to pace. A shuffled playlist of Queen songs electrified the house. I thought about how Freddy was a brown bi-sexual man. About how many of his songs are played at events in which there are many attendees who hate brown and queer people. About how many of those haters sing out his tunes in support of their favorite sports ball teams. I think about cognitive dissonance. Anything to avoid writing. Next weekend is Pride here in Tulsa. It is supposed to be over 100 degrees with 70%+ humidity. Maybe there is a god. Maybe he’s real mad that us queers are going to be out celebrating in the streets. Maybe he’s trying to melt us. Amy looks at the bright side of things: lots of half-naked gays running through the streets, and meeting for cold drinks in air-conditioned bars after. So maybe there is a god. A very, very queer god. I just found a blackhead on my shoulder. I squeezed it good. I should probably find something to eat even though I’m not hungry. I’ll at least refill my ¾-full water bottle. That seems necessary. Water bottle full. Mission accomplished. Anything to avoid writing. I think about some things that started to bleed through my finger tips the other day. Things that were oozing out my fingers from my heart. Things that were too honest for me. Things that I don’t want to face. Hard truths that will require a painful level of transparency on my part. Things I have known for many years, but have avoided writing down. Because to write something down, to define something and bind it, demarcate it with ink, is to render it, in a sense, concrete. And I’m not quite ready for such things to be fully awakened. Not that I will ever be whatever it is that I’m currently defining as “ready”. Anything to avoid writing. I think about the Kilauea Volcano. How its lava creeps through lush vegetation. How people built on it and lived with it for generations. How the lava excretes from the open sore, the maw of the volcano, and oozes gently into neighborhoods, across streets, through backyard fences, living rooms, chicken coops. How a black crust forms as it slowly moves. How the new, blinding red and yellow magma slides over the dark, undulating old. How Vesuvius destroyed towns in hours. How Kilauea destroys towns in days, weeks. How destruction is destruction no matter what form we see. I think of the final scene from Fantasia 2000: Stravinsky’s Firebird Finale.* How the Firebird destroyed the forest. How it buried Life under its expansive dripping wings, under the ash from thousands of trees. I think of how Life was mutinied by a force existing within it. A force it perhaps knew of, but didn’t know. I think of how Life struggled through the massive, oppressive weight of what had been destroyed. How Life rode on the back of a friend until it found the air, the space, the oxygen needed to grow. How Life turned what had been burned into fuel, into nutrients, into a fertile soil. How Life evolved to be stronger, smarter, more resilient from being smothered by a rage, a fire, a truth that lived inside it. I think I will go watch that scene now. Anything to avoid writing.
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September 2020
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