death & the maiden | a furling of fears

death & the maiden a night of darkened heavens, a night of leaves, and in the two-fold dark I hear the owl [...] and the wolves duncan campbell scott — frost magic

November knows my face, but it has forgotten its' own. dear reader, light flowers on the hill — and frost roots here deeply, changing to snow the never-ending rain.

I know not who of us is more feeble: this waning month or I. perhaps it is neither; perhaps feeblest of all is the dying year.

I hold my breath and, sinking, I try hope.

INDEX one.......an ode to november's weather two.......first quarter : thursday 1–8 three.....second quarter : friday 9–15 four......third quarter : friday 16–22 five.......last quarter : friday 23-30 six..........letter to agrippina minor seven.....odds & ends & ill-fit things

an ode to november's weather

a lone red robin weeps, calling upon Christ to raise the bones that slumber in the heartland.

He cannot hear; this mountain rain falling incessant has drowned out its' lonesome song —— God lies blissful, dead and deaf, alone with just His Dove. only I still haunt the moors —— only I am out with lanterns, looking for the mums heaven left sunken in tree hollows. hung from the dome of the old chapel, a brass-bell echoes; a call to Mass, perhaps, or maybe this is something somber, richer in velvets and in sorrow. around me poplar branches keen, heaving with years; the downpour has embrittled them —— they snap as bones, splinter under my hands.

I veil myself in storm; the blackbird housed within my throat howls, beats its' wings against the caging sinew —— we are home, I tell it. around my feet, the flowers blossom saffron; dear heart, at last we've made it home.

first quarter one : the month starts off on a strong note — I am partaking in NaNoWriMo for the first time. throughout November, I will be working on an anthology of short stories, tentatively titled Southeast. so far there are five planned; each is to an extent inspired by the folklore of my birthland. † two : writing so much has been keeping me busy, yet nevertheless certain demons refuse to be silent. alas; I am good at subjugating my phantoms. I will prevail — by speaking it into existence, if I must. † three : not much to say, today. I am physically unwell; and I fear that my mental state will soon follow. † four : there is no right way to word the storm within me. such depth of uncertainty...I have not felt this breathless, this directionless, this young and terrified in a long time. I am sinking, sinking, sinking. † five : ah. here, the right way — I am filled with such unsurmountable doubt. † six : part of the problem, I think, is the format NaNo imposes; I have never been the kind of writer for whom quantity takes precedence, and the whole point of the project is to force you into overcoming your “inner editor”, the incessant voice of perfection. trying to silence my qualms about quality has damaged me. I will finish Southeast, but I will do so on my own terms. first, however, I must heal. † seven : again I am at the gates of a breaking point; it feels as though I can never hold the pieces of myself together for long. tonight I am frayed at the edges, slipping, too tired to even be. everything I do or say seems to end up in a discussion I am not stable enough for — I wish I could rest. I need to rest. † eight : the night is reserved for quiet contemplation. after midnight I turn off the heating and open all the windows, breathing in the night so as to let the cold of it sink into my marrow. it’s not that I need to find myself or to remember who I am; it’s that I need space to freely manifest that truth. some of said space, I think, must come from within. I need to set some boundaries — and to start controlling the emotional neediness that pushes me to talk even when I know better. I distract myself with translations.

second quarter nine : a little better, today. I continue my foraging into the writing of Lucian Blaga — he is one of the few Romanian poets whose work I truly do adore. most translations I have seen are, however, rather lackluster; perhaps I will enclose a few of my own along with this newsletter. other than that, I finish revising soil unto soil, the second story in my anthology. I am close to finishing with full hands as well. † ten : social obligations pull me from my work station for most of the day, but I have a lovely evening on the all. also, I got to purchase new shoes, which is always exciting. † eleven : clementines. dreaming in diffused technicolor. the body as a tumult of sea— eleven, again : what I mean is, today I think in disjoints. my very being seems to me right now a quilt of patchwork, frayed and worn clean through with years of soft moth-kisses. I am not unbecoming; my parts are merely losing awareness of what their cumulus equals. † twelve : I finish with full hands, today. not quite satisfied with the ending, but at this time I am too tired to go back on it and refine. tomorrow, I promise myself; tomorrow, a new me will emerge from the chrysalis of our bed sheets, and she will be better. she will succeed where this wan I has failed. † thirteen : morning comes accompanied by a migraine from the deepest reaches of Hell. as I am all out of medication, I have little choice but to grit my teeth and bear it. I tackle the day’s tasks in order of importance: rewriting the ending sections of with full hands comes first. not a final draft quite yet, but alas; I am content with the scene itself, if not fully with the writing. afterward, I start scribbling away at the next two stories in the anthology, false spring flowers and the fourth, as of yet still unnamed. parallel to that, I begin to plan for my upcoming chapbook projects — loving vincent, angel numbers, and a third volume of lingua flora to go between them. at this rate, I have my plate full until February. † fourteen : a change of pace — today I am content. I write a poem of which I am truly proud; I eat well; I feel well in my own skin. yet still there is a permeating sense that this peace is the prelude of a storm. † fifteen : as predicted, deluge does hit the shores of my being; alas. the glass is, as always, only halfway empty. albeit belated, I receive some good news.

third quarter sixteen : anew, a creative and depressive low. on all sides I find myself surrounded by despair. † seventeen : I am seized by a strange fear; between the political climate and the environmental issues we are facing, my anxieties in regards to the future have returned fourfold. I can feel myself spiraling again. † eighteen : sometimes I forget how autumn and the rough hands of life can wear down those around me. this evening, my mother confesses to suicidal ideations — recent ones. both of us have been struggling with depression for years, and it seems hers is accompanied by a seasonal affliction. I am unsure of how to properly console her. all I may do is listen; speak, when she would rather sink into her mind’s silence. † nineteen : it snows during the night; the first frost of the season follows in the footsteps of a monotone mountain rain, and so the pure white is quick to melt once daybreak cleaves its’ way through the clouds.

I myself am feeling a little more peaceful for it; my own moods are inextricably linked to the weather. cold like this – the kind that sinks into your marrow – is a balm for my blighted soul. † twenty : I am healing, slowly, at least creatively. I have begun a new series of writings — the “fauxpress” interviews with the Maiden and her Styigan. thus far I am enjoying their redaction; they are half a means for me to destress and half a means for my readership to familiarize themselves with these two figures. I think I shall write them a follow-up, an informal essay of some sort. † twenty-one : further improvement. I feel better about my writing, although I still have moments where insecurity makes me loathe absolutely everything I have ever produced. † twenty-two : today, I return to my coding endeavors. the result is a tumblr theme I am enamored with, set to go live December fifteenth. slowly, day by day, life is piecing itself back together for me, although I am still sunken in the chasm of a contemplative phase.

last quarter twenty-three : I spend most of the day baking. I am trying to be gentle with myself, to abate the voices which keep saying self-kindness is a luxury I simply lack the physical time required to afford. I am nineteen still; yet to be perfectly honest, already I feel as though I have wasted my youth on meaningless endeavors. often I have thought of quitting writing, of settling for less than who I am. † twenty-four : another slow day. I float in and out of my body’s banks, lulled tenderly on an uncertain sea. † twenty-five : in the small hours, I draft an informal essay: On Death and The Maiden and God and Love, mostly. quite a mouthful, the title, but the text itself is, I feel, some of the softest writing I have ever penned. I shall let it rest overnight, then proofread it tomorrow and edit as needed before posting. † twenty-six : paroxysm — I am a pendulum, swung constantly between ecstatic highs and excruciating lows. I am hysterical, in other words, trapped in a whirlpool of moods and modalities. † twenty-seven : tonight, I think I’ve hit rock bottom. to God, or to whatever infinity lies there — save me. † twenty-eight : I sleep most of the day off and rise late in the evening; somewhere along the way, the moon as a signet has begun applying itself to me: nocturnal, emotional, cyclic in its’ falling. † twenty-nine : all my appetites seem to be absent; all I wish for is to drown in art, in quiet pleasures which ask nothing of me. alas, my hands row me in a different direction. I still feel as though I am lost at sea, inert and drifting under the starless sorrow of a burnt sky — but perhaps this too is a wayfinding. † thirty : I did not think I would be able to end this month kindly; nevertheless. despite the vulnerabilities, despite how volatile I am, psychologically and otherwise — despite the fear, the protests, the nearly insurmountable insecurity — despite it all, I somehow am. November slips from my arms as sand within the hourglass; and sudden December is here, promising to be kind. dearest reader, I leave you with my love whole and with these verses from Scott’s In Snow-Time: “but here a peace deeper than peace is furled, / enshrined and chaliced from the changeful hour; / the snow is still, yet lives in its own light.”

beloved———

My head is filled always with the thought of some sweet sin; and who but you to best understand these leanings? Imperatrix, you made your bed among serpents, among vipers, among ruby-bodied scorpions; you made of sin an enterprise. The sword of your body is unmatched still in cruelty and sharpness.

I admire that.

I always have — women must be ruthless if they are to survive in a man’s world, methinks, and although I would never borrow your book in full, I still would like to steal a couple of its’ pages, make half your charm my own.

Half of your courage, too.

How superb you were in those last moments; “Strike the womb!” — that final act of defiance has marked history. Its’ image, albeit half-formed, burns now at the back of my eyelids; one lone woman, half a god in her madness, half a beast in her alacrity. It is a pyrrhic kind of glory, making such statement of your death.

I admire that also.

Hell awaits me as it once awaited you, my lady, albeit for different reasons — I can feel its’ flames lap hungry at the soles of my feet. The love I make has earned me my nadir. We shall be met one day in the pyre; and I shall smile.

ardently yours, L

odds & ends

for this month’s trivia section, I will be talking about the golden flower — the chrysanthemum. despite the Greek name, most of its’ cultivars originate in East Asia, thus the complex cultural associations we find it woven in. a herbaceous perennial, it is counted among the Four Noble plants of Chinese art, along with the plum blossom, the orchid, and the bamboo; they have been used to depict the succession of seasons since the Song dynasty. a symbol of autumn, the chrysanthemum is also associated deeply with royalty, familial affections, and death.

this month’s album is actually an extended play: released on the 19th of October, Nothing But Thieves’ What Did You Think When You Made Me This Way? is a thorough delight.

a closing fragment

the egg of this dawning cracks, splinters at the middle — spilling its’ wealth of golden yolk over the mountains, over the fury of the sea; lover, if I am dreaming, wake me not: for one as restless and as wretched as I, this is as close as paradise may ever be.