One of my migraine stories, a headache translated into a narrative, as mentioned on this blog, as seen in Volume 4 of the Ampersand Review, as read tomorrow at Kieran’s Irish Pub, for Word Ninja’s house warming event.
The Father, grandson of Heaven and Earth. Son of Flow and Time. Nursed in a cave. From womb to womb. He Waited. Timely flow. Time will flow. Time did flow. Rebirth. Now. After. For him there is no time, only flow. From woman to woman.
The vast sea of women coming and going, ebb and flow.
Forsaking the prophecy, he cavorts with Wise Council. Then panics. He consumes her. Sees the void, his undoing, anticipates the unseen, repeats the mistakes of Time. All should be still, but can’t be. Still it becomes too much. Too much to bear. The pangs. He cannot suffer in silence. Why? the sky shakes. Why? he bangs his head against a tree. Why? his mighty fists strike his own mighty belly. Woman’s pain flows into his crown. His head swells. He goes into the woods to hide. He sits near a river, pinching the bridge of his nose. He does not feel full, he feels threatened. Metal scraping skull. Empathetic exhaustion exhausted. He can’t concentrate. Double-vision. His skull cracks, hatches. He thinks of himself.
His only gender bender. He knows, and sees, and feels what he shouldn’t feel. A woman through migraine.
You will be more powerful than me, he thinks, I must endure! He thinks only of himself. This other, growing, grown inside him, is just an other, separate, made of other.
A silver goddess bursts forth. The Other. Cloaked, clinked, clinking, angry. Submerged in loss. Her Mother so wise, inside, as sister, as one, no more. Father as mother. Without milk. He cannot touch her, her figure, ready for children. She speaks, is speaking as he speaks. Ready for war. Two generations, face to face. All is there. And so is loss. They battle, head to head, like bucks. He, larger than himself, with her, a symbol, an unknown, a child that isn’t a child. A child without mother. He cannot consume her, not again. Nor annihilate, nor conquer. To no avail. Her loophole locked, guarded. There is no loophole he can wiggle through. She is not made for man. Things are lost between them.
She only knows man, can only mirror man. Controlling. Strutting. Wombless. She remains special to him. Daddy’s little girl, born from the head, the mind, the strongest sexual organ, the sexiest, the most looked at. Men look at her. Ogle. Threaten her maidenhood, her maidenhead. She wraps her head in furs, covers herself, covers her thoughts. She thinks she doesn’t want. But the silence, the stillness, the hiding, are unnatural, unrelenting.
Relent, her blood pumps. Reinvent. Change the word, alter the ideal, rename. She ignores. Offers an olive tree. Defeats her uncle, the amorphous sea. Erect the Parthenon!
Blood still circulates, pulsates. Bleeds a suffocating blue every month. Betrays the conception. The conceived notion. The past. Father without mother, daughter without lover. Never touched, never nursed, no need. Un needed. Self-sufficient. No one to think about her. They forget. Forgot. The ideals forgotten. Memories turned to stone. Ideals turned to symbols. Representing another time. So long since one uttered, in gesture. Her name, spoken as an afterthought. No one can really believe now. Now. Thousands and thousands of months. Now. Chastity, now a complex.
Someone thought of her. Someone prayed to her. Under an olive tree.
She came to him. As beautiful as the day she was born. She came with him. Bursting forth. Again. Re birth. A small death. Ecstasy. Love. Breaking rules, bending her name. Change. The past is dead. But she is not. The ebb flows within her, his seed flows within her. Shame. She comes again. She swallows him. Shame. Time circling back around.
Her secret ingested. Festering inside her like a wound. Growing. She can’t stall it, only move it. Womb to head. Walk of shame.
Then, she waits. The others can’t know. Daddy can’t know. No one will know. She can’t undo all that she has done. Now and then. Now is not then. She can’t make them understand. She can’t make herself utter, tell them. Let her be full for eternity. Ignore the movement within. Ignore the pain. Ignore the slight cranial edema.
This can’t last forever, she thinks. But it must. Like her Father, she consumed her secret, and it turned on her. But unlike him this has lasted for fifteen years. Fifteen years of light, heavy white light, obscuring her sight. Asymmetrical scotoma. Imbalance. Sharp, penetrating pangs to the temple. Every ten or so minutes an interruption. It’s lonely. The baby’s lonely. The baby that’s not a baby. He’s like her. He can walk through her memories. Pluck objects he needs from her imagination. She writes stories for him, creates characters.
People, their walking, speaking images remembered, conceived, are the only toys he has.
He, too, fashions himself armor. He, too, clinks and clanks. Mother! Mother! He can’t see her, only feel her, ask her for sweets. He can only live vicariously. Asking for more memories of parks and teddy bears. Begs her to stand in the mirror, so he can see her face. Through the mirror. Through her brief glances, he can stand next to her. He can’t touch her here. He can never touch her. Mother. Mother.
His anger bursts forth. The mirror, the repertoire, the analogon, shatters.
She has a choice. The past is dead, for all, but for her. She must change. This. Cannot go on. She’s willing to sacrifice herself. Sacrificing her name is harder. Pride at what could be. Shame at what could be. No longer proud of her silence. Her head pounds, stretches, splits, hatches.
(She withstood longer than her Father. She split not for herself, not out of fear, but for the other, for the part of herself that is not herself. Out of love.)
A mighty god bursts forth.