I, Priestess (2)

I, PRIESTESS (2)

I didn't know what to do with the cat, so I sewed up some mittens, a nice furry hat.

The butcher stood over his barbeque; the smell of kebabs left me feeling quite blue.

I trudged up the hill to Keele University campus. Usually quiet and devoid of rumpus, the place was a-buzz - with girls' dancing troops.

The mothers sat round in slovenly groups with their pop-music blaring, and all of them bingeing. Their daughters were both over-excited and -fed.

And, for the record, their routines amounted to little. (Their commitment to exercise was shamelessly fickle.)

The heftiest girls you ever have seen; all dressed up in pink, they acted like queens but their bodies lacked tone; choreography was poor. (Clapping loudly and whooping, their feet rare left the floor.)

Each troop had its van: white Mercedes or Ford. The dads at the wheels smoked roll-ups, looked bored.

Each van had a logo painted on the side that, I wrongly assumed, was ironic or snide for the names implied quality beyond the girls' reach (for the most part, resembling something washed up on the beach).

I might start my own group - an adolescent dance-troop - comprising fat girls on the verge of puberty. Not to sound disparaging rude or derogatory, but the name I'd christen them - all pastelled-up and pasty - is The Lazy Little Cows.

After all, it's the little lazy cows that always triumph.

I, Priestess (1)

I, PRIESTESS (1)

Well, the heatwave was killing, I'll bet you a shilling, you were glad as I was when it ended. 

Headache and nauseous, lethargic and langourous: my ankles were swollen, my stomach distended.

(Thank God, for the sauvignon blanc.)

When the sun left the sky, I watered the garden. I had to do something to stop the soil hardening.

The plants, for the most part, survived - all but one. 

But, the roundabout cats are too many to number. (They belong to my neighbour: the town's local butcher.) 

It distressed me to notice one evening (in passing) his ginger tom pissing on my ornamental grasses.

I decided to buy a shot-gun.

Now the cats number many and the butcher still loves them - minus one.

Nescio (31)

NESCIO (31)

The priestess decided to speak with the gods. The chance of them listening? Against all the odds. (But, she thought that she'd give it a go.)

She said:

'My Lords, I think that you probably know, the sister I mentioned is feeling quite low. I think I would like to reach out and assist her. She misses her lover as well as her brother.'

The priestess was anxious the gods would see red but - surprise and delight - they smiled and then said:

'You're right you old slut, the sister's quite sad. We feel in our gut we should make her be glad. Pray, tell us, just how do you think we should act?'

But the fact was the gods' kindness came just too late. The sister had already executed her fate.

The priestess lamented the loss of the daughter; she felt she had failed, not done what she oughta.

The priestess, she fell to her arthritic knees. She wondered how people kept faith; could believe.

And, then, suddenly terribly burst into tears.

The End

Nescio (30)

NESCIO (30)

Theough the priestess had wedged cottonwool in her ears, still partially blind she could hear very clear. The sister continued to wail silently; the priestess was shocked to shake so violently.

The priestess decided to form a women's group; damaged and down-trodden, they formed quite a troop. They met regularly in the priestess' herb garden and spoke of such things they would rather have forgotten.

Despite good intentions, her sympathy was lacking. She knew that her patient look was subsiding and cracking.

'For God's sake,' she snarled, 'will you me some slack here?'

Her only concern now: the miserable sister.

The priestess soon found herself back on the street. (At least the medicated corn plasters eased her sore feet.)

Nescio (29)

NESCIO (29)

The priestess was growing disillusioned with her house.

Historically (it has to be said) re DIY, she'd been negligent.

Bathroom and kitchen needed refubishing; the wooden window frames were rotten and spent.

She decided to call her mortgage company (based in South Wales, The Principality).

She decided it was time to borrow some money.

Turn her house into a home (even though she lived alone).

Potentially relieved of the mess she'd been living in, the priestess reached over and added a tin of diet tonic water to her pint-glass of gin.

The world suddenly looked a lot brighter.

Nescio (28)

NESCIO (28)

In the meantime, the priestess had taken up gardening to distract her from the fact that her arteries were hardening.

She loved her peonies, brilliant as they were.

She tried not to think of the suicidal sister.

Nescio (27)

NESCIO (27)

The sister disappeared underground.

Though her body appeared to walk the earth, her mind was forsaken; lost hell-bound.

Twenty-four/seven, over thousands of miles, she called for the man who'd made her life worth-while.

Twenty-four/seven, over thousands of miles, she searched for the boy who'd made her laugh and smile.

She stumbled through shadows, bruised black and blue.

Heart aching crushed and out of breath, she longed for reprieve amd willed her own death.

In the end, in misery, she made a pact with the gods: give my brother and lover back; I'll trade in my lot.

Nescio (26)

NESCIO (26)

And, then, suddenly inexplicably and without warning (no reason significance or valuable meaning) the sister's gentle man stopped breathing.

She fell to her knees. She hollered and howled and screamed and cried.

'When you're sick of all this repetition

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?'

Those were the last words the gentle man uttered before he died.  (Or, would've done if he hadn't known he was dying alone.)

(after Bob Dylan Queen Jane, Approximately.)

Nescio (25)

NESCIO (25)

And, then, suddenly inexplicably and without warning (no reason significance or valuable meaning) the sister's brother stopped breathing.

She fell to her knees. She hollered and howled and screamed and cried.

(Quite a list.)

'But there's one thing you missed.
You missed my heart.'

Those were the last words the brother uttered before he died. (Or, would've if he'd been given to saying how he felt.)

(after Mark Kozelek and Jimmy Lavalle You Missed My Heart.)

Nescio (24)

NESCIO (24)

You see.

The priestess had originally studied visual literacy (before she got into her idiot prophecies).

Once an avid reader of fictional stories, she'd subsequently turned to the practice of photography as an alternative way of making sense of reality. (She'd been known to quote Bakhtin's Discourse in the Novel - on Skype and Facetime, from her domestic hovel - applying to her medium what the man had to say, albeit in some strange and distorted sort of way.)

At least, it all made sense to the menopausal priestess.

So.

As she traipsed the streets (with blisters on her feet) the priestess cursed Szarkowski: his mirrors and windows. She longed for the days of documentary straight-forwardness. A photographic practice that eschewed self-reflection, nothing to do with a personal inflection. (The priestess still suffered from a deep sense of dejection.)

But, instead of working with the ethics of humanism the priestess now struggled with the vagaries of relativism.

She was starting to feel seriously fucked off.

Nescio (23)

NESCIO (23)

The priestess recovered, rose with the sun.

She knew she must finish what she'd begun.

Now, then.

The sister was happy: apparently complete.

The brother's contentment would yet prove a feat.

The priestess soon found herself back on the street.

Looking for signs . . .

The priestess' feet were blistered and sore.

She remained unconvinced she could take traipsing much more.

The street had become increasingly confusing.

The priestess blamed this on photographic modernism.

Of course, she endorsed Graham Clarke's reading, but the fact was Friedlander had made sign-reading bemusing.

Reflections were hampering her success.

Nescio (22)

NESCIO (22)

In the grip of uncharacteristic self-confidence, the priestess enrolled on an evening class.

Having always loved pottery she thought she would chance a slab-pot, a coil-pot; throw the odd bowl. (Like making bread, clay was good for the soul.)

But, though she appreciated fine porcelain, her own efforts were hideous; got under the skin.

Some kind of ceramic premonition?

The priestess considered the possibility. (Was the woman correct or just being silly?)

And, then.

Something inside her finally snapped. She'd had more than enough of countering bad. Her energy and optimism were utterly sapped.

The priestess felt suddenly wretched and tired; the world remained miserable despite how she tried. (And substance abuse had left her brain fried.)

The priestess lay down and curled up in agony.

The priestess finally accepted that life was a tragedy.

The priestess gave in and gave up and then, suddenly, the priestess just cracked up and cried.

Nescio (21)

NESCIO (21)

The priestess was pleased with her last intervention. The sister was now centre of attention from a man who considered her more than kindly; a man who knew better than to love her blindly.

His intention was only to love her for who she was. (It was a difficult task and a lot to ask.)

He succeeded in it.

The priestess revelled in it.

The sister really wasn't that bad. It was probably due to the life that she'd had. With the right kind of guidance, the girl would be fine.

The priestess reached for another bottle of wine.

Nescio (20)

NESCIO (20)

Inspired by a cocktail of champaign and coke, the priestess located an older bloke. A kind gentle man who knew melancholy: modest and loyal and wickedly funny.

The priestess contrived that the two come together: the older man and the child-like sister.

A marriage made in heaven.

The man loved the girl unconditionally. Once a troublesome child, she now functioned fully. Secure in his presence she learned true independence - dependent, of course, on his affection and patience.

She knew she was nothing without him.

Nescio (19)

NESCIO (19)

The priestess considered this new conundrum as she stuffed her face with Portobello mushrooms.

Convinced her enquiry had uncovered a lead, she poured a large gin and snorted some speed.

The key to her thinking was this:

The sister might demonstrate an academic intelligence, but her emotions were determined by a childish innocence.

The priestess concocted her plan.

Nescio (18)

NESCIO (18)

But one day while reading tarmac, the priestess was brought up short.

The priestess was all for empirical proof but when she encountered the drawings of children in chalk on the pavements of the nearby park, she found herself feeling out of sorts.

How does an adult make sense of the intelligence of innocents?

Nescio (17)

NESCIO (17)

But, the priestess continued to search with tenacity. (It was, after all, a case of great necessity.)

And, before long, reading tarmac became her preoccupation.  It was now the priestess' primary daytime occupation.

While she privately longed for her own salvation, she'd all but given up hope. But, the signs on the tarmac had provided her with scope for interpretation: skid marks and painted straitions.

She really appreciated the aesthetics of these configurations, too.

She was turning into a connoisseur.

Wherever she looked she saw significance and clarity. The semiotics of tarmac leave no space for ambivalence or ambiguity.

Nescio (16)

NESCIO (16)

The priestess lay comatose in her back yard.

Deciphering tarmac had always been hard. The meanings of road markings didn't come easy regardless of one's appitude for semiotics and theory.

The priestess had once known a thing about things but, as her knowledge increased, she'd also stopped thinking. Too often she'd sat with her heart all but sinking as her colleagues recited received information: contrived parley, convoluted hyperbole. All nonsense (as far as the priestess could see).

In the end, she'd quit listening.