P e r y s t a l s i s

I place my palms over my eyes. I was thirteen years old when my dad was institutionalized and my mother headed home to the States with her three kids. In the darkness I reach for an image of happiness. The cliffs on the Isle where we had a small rented cottage. There was a delapidated fairground that we played in under an empty sky. The end of England.

Earlier this year, during The Implosion Of Jupiter, I listened to the Reverend Jen and the lead witch talking about the astral plane where they meet up in their dreams. The fairground of the unconscious. The amusement park, the astral plane that the wiccans dance upon. I Dream About A Place I Call Disneyland, I observed. But It’s Not Disneyland. I still haven’t met the witches there, down on the beach that leads to the front gate.

My father calls me to tell me that the Seminary Chapel has been destroyed by fire. He is outside watching it smoulder and his voice is parched and thin.

I’m not working, and my face is bathed with the light of a computer screen. I Need To Stop Reading My Tea Leaves Off This Fucking Grey Box. There is too much darkness swirling, I can’t cut it off, I have to sit with it in my lap and feel it being part of me. It's a broken marriage, England and an infinitude of sorrow.

E s o t e r i c . . .