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☀ the revolution takes us home
10
“the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.” - gaston bachelard
it has been ages since i was comfortable. the days have dissolved into lengths of aches and creaky elbows and rubbing of bones. writhing in the dirt, screaming up to the heavens with pupils wide and black, i begged for them to take me. i vomited sickly electric confessions and screamed for forgiveness. but they did not come. i was not ready.
my life until that night had been busied spinning nests around myself, burrowing into them and calling them home. comfortable, temporary lies. pacifiers for the interval i spend in flesh. feathers and stones follow still me to bed. my pillows smell of the other side.
set fire in the snow, my sister and i did, building our army’s first home base with sage and laughter and textbooks. between dizzy nights and crisp mornings, we hung tapestries wall to wall and let scarves transform our lamps into jellyfish. candles and age-spotted mirrors, incense and teapots, books and a sort of forced whimsy piled neatly along the hall. chipped fine china littered with careless makeup and powdered pills, bong water bleary with paint and sprouting brushes kept the impending darkness at bay. we planned in hushed whispers over teacups of wine and socked feet nestled in close beneath blankets and books, knitting needles and tangles of yarn. we would be safe from the storm, we told ourselves. we are people who know.
days grew short as we gathered rushes and bottles and spoons. men, smelling of cold and smoke, came and went, talking of stars as their pupils blossomed, occasionally forgetting a shoe, a belt, a neckerchief to fester in the rummage piles of our den. the beds inched closer, the books mounted and tumbled into unruly, angular piles, stringed lanterns giggled at our plight. the blueprints of our future slipped between the crack in the beds to be forgotten. high, bleary-eyed and needing a shower, we picked absently at scabs.
snow piled silently outside our sickhouse as talk became petty and full of fear. days passed and pages of our ink scribbles peeled off the chilly walls, unnoticed. filth accumulated at the feet of our paisley chair and we shuffled through it bitterly, finding no joy in the web we had wrapped our lonely souls in. fruit turned moldy and brittle in a cup behind the neglected sewing machine. light bulbs died and remained unchanged. the tiny chest apothecary strained under the weight of an unknown blouse, and broken bangles rustled sadly in a bed that was never occupied. my sister breathed in cigarettes alone. i counted nervous, bloodless days.
forgiveness crept back the way bulbs push up green heads in march. it was then, the early days, when first we felt the rustle of insurrection in our bellies. full circle in the yellow dollhouse light, my sister brewed tea for to heal my heart and held me close. we spoke of the future, of children, of revolution and of immeasurable horrors and imponderable joys yet to come. outside, rain beat angrily at the smeary glass as we we hunkered in anticipation, bristling with traces of the otherworlds, not entirely sure who we were hiding from. brandy was poured and stale bread was slathered in jam and magical seeds and we ate so to gather visions, listening for the distant drums of battle, not certain what we were fighting for.
it is clearer now, but not certain, the path we have been on since first being born into flesh. little gears are still turning and clicking and still they keep us awake at night, but the rooms in which we curl have changed. cracks are opening. veils are thinning. the earth is shifting uneasily.
between four walls you will find us, the unholy four, crouched over beading puddles of science and trash and crowns stolen from kings. from room to room we stack our grimy specimens and talismans and stash sacred plants between pages of anarchist literature. peering into sinks we conjure, on the stairs we vibrate quietly and in the garden you might see us weep, sowing crinkled seeds in desperate attempts at shamanism.
feed your escapism or plan your dream house, find inspiration or simply admire. sit. stay a while. conjure a story or ponder the stars. in these rooms we will start the revolution, and the revolution takes us home.
☀mamacat
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