A thousand and one stories of pomegranate seeds, Persephone’s journey into Death Territories (Hades’ Hell), of the territorial Mother, of Father in Judgement and of the Laws.
And of the girl who, well, all she wanted was to run through the backyard and pick a ripe pomegranate, rip the skin slowly with her fingernails, just enough to carefully take a segment, more delicate than an orange, finer than a tangerine, each seed inside, velvet red as Uncle’s wine, transparent acrid and lucid.
And to suck, not seven, not a thousand but each entire. Slowly. Without counting. Good juice dripping down the sides of her mouth. Spitting the bitter fiber and the hard seeds in the yard for the chickens. To die, doing this. It was all the girl wanted.
The girl apparently wanted things that had already been explained… in creation. And she lost her voice.
Maybe the girl knew more than Zeus, more than Demeter, more than Hades, more than Wall Street, more than all and no one. Maybe. Incipient woman, in the dumbness that came later.
As mil e uma estórias das sementes da romã e da viagem de Perséfone para dentro dos territórios da Morte (e do inferno de Hades), da Mãe territorial, do Pai no Julgamento e das Leis.
E da menina que puxa, já fazia tempo só o que queria era correr pelo terreiro, achar a romã madura, com as unhas abrir a casca devagar, pedacinho só pra tirar um gomo, mais fininho e delicado que mexerica ou laranja, veludo do vinho do Tio, transparente de ácrido lúcido. E de chupar não sete nem mil sementes mas cada gomo inteiro. Devagar. Sem contar. Escorrendo o suco gostoso pelos lados da boca. Cuspindo o bagaço amargo e os carocinhos no chão do quintal para as galinhas. Morrer nisso. Era tudo que a menina queria.
Talvez a menina soubesse mais que Zeus, mais que Demetria, mais que Hades, mais que Wall Street, mais que todos e mais que ninguém. Talvez. De incipiente mulher, na mudez que veio depois.
Talvez a menina soubesse de coisas que já tinham sido explicadas… na criação. E ficou sem voz.
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Beneath the lines:
Demure Demeter (and Persephone), Hade’s hell, the Territorial Mother, Father in judgement, the Laws and Zeus.
Quite a ways away from the mythical fate that awaited the girl:
“Magic doesn't sweep you away; it gathers you up into the body of the present moment so thoroughly that all your explanations fall away: the ordinary, in all its plain and simple outrageousness, begins to shine -- to become luminously, impossibly so. Every facet of the world is awake, and you within it.”
― David Abram, Becoming Animal: An Earthly Cosmology
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