How to recognize…poison
in the act of writing
Snake poison
The act of writing is repetitive motion and there comes a time when the hand gets tired, the metatarsals 1ache, when the fingers pecking to choose precise words for true meanings hurt, when the masked muse sneaks out of the building structure, in search of a flying circus, elsewhere.
And the flying circus insists on revealing an old-aged fairy tale of horror and of war, once again, revisited in history, not with Dali, but with paintings you never seen for sure, for real, but know deeply in the imagery of your dreams. Some Spanish stuff, from art classes, Guernica also comes to mind, and how much Picasso earned and all the others that divinified and collected plenty for their personal views on wars.
Not the workers from the lifting of stone necessary for the erection of the buildings, but the dead in the trenches from the killings in the wars. Now dead, paralyzed and silent inside school yards and apartment dwellings – fake divides between civilians and army erased?
The murals of what’s his name, the guy the heavy browed woman from Mexico liked, the one who painted overwhelmed lilies carried on the backs of beautiful brown women. The beauty of the almost dead from working for others? The continuing pathos and myths of poison, sometimes called art. Valuable art.
Today, when it felt almost like spring, I watched the first snake of my season emerge from dream and slide across the leaves, slowly. I waited, in barely baited breathing, hoping she would cross the main path, the civilized plowed path leading to my house. She did, methodically slivering to rest, for a long two foot while then, on to the other side, by the winterberry, to disappear. Today, I released a cute, wide brown eyed mouse from the blue safe life trap inside.
In the act of dreaming about poisonous coral snakes
My childhood is populated by snake bites. Someone else’s children taken to emergency room for free intensive care, the sweat of a shaman sucking the snake venom and spitting it out with curses, words in languages I do not know, nor understand. Yet must respect, listen to, then. Mostly, listen to today, now, here. Listen to, paid money to listen to, now, here today.
Rattle snakes were my father’s favorites, musical in that they warned us when they were about to strike. That rattle chatter is alive for me. Jararaca as the name given to a very ugly woman. Girls turned into women fast and becoming uglier even faster, once used. Not deemed to become – then just becoming what? Poisonous? By that stage in the poison, beauty then quite related to sinuosities and the abilities to eat and procreate successfully? The becoming of snake and of poison soon after, if you don’t, as necessity…? Killing it then, again, a necessity to preserve beauty?
The Poisonous Coral Snakes - a dream
I am reintroducing, reinstating (like a queen reinstates inside a nation- a state), poisonous coral snakes to our place.
It is a cakelike structure I hold carefully, with both my hands, where the snakes are piled on top of each other, like fallen leaves, held together by light beige clay, triangular hourglass shapes and veins. The key is to place them in the water, without awakening their poison and getting bitten… as you move them and they start to wake up, their heads in red, black gray and yellow orange coral colors. Ready to strike if you disturb their peaceful life.
I am seeding the poison snakes, trying to teach others how to do it. An older, bearded relative cousin of mine is quite good at it, removing an entire clump with serenity and guiding it, one by one, to place it inside the ground, inside the community.
Like when planting or transplanting with meticulous care. Recognizing each poison in its own set positions of being and of poison. With respect, difficult silence of my own. Not war.
“The metatarsal bones are five long bones in the forefoot, located between the tarsal bones (ankle/heel) and the phalanges (toes), crucial for weight-bearing, balance, and walking.”
Your writing provokes something mystical for me. I love this,
"when the masked muse sneaks out of the building structure, in search of a flying circus elsewhere." That really comes alive for me. Like a dream are you the muse or the flying circus or both.
Your writing is just what I needed this morning. We are living in fog these days, literally, and figuratively. Your writing emerges from the fog and speaks to so many feelings we all have now but can't express the way you do. Thank you.