I should have been happy: as I had dreamed, I was alone with her, that intimacy with the Moon I had so often envied my cousin and with Mrs Vhd Vhd was now my exclusive prerogative, a month of days and lunar nights stretched uninterrupted before us, the curst of the satellite nourished us with its milk, whose tart flavour was familiar to us, we raised our eyes up, up to the world where we had been born, finally traversed in all its various expanse, explored landscapes no Earth-being had ever seen, or else we contemplated the stars beyond the Moon, big as pieces of fruit, made of light, ripened on the curved branches of the sky, and everything exceeded my most luminous hopes, and yet, and yet, it was, instead, exile.
I thought only of Earth. It was Earth that caused each of us to be that someone he was rather than someone else; up there, wrested from the Earth, it was as if I were no longer that I, nor she that She, for me. I was eager to return to the Earth, and I trembled at the fear of having lost it. The fulfillment of my dream of love had lasted only that instant when we had been united, spinning between Earth and Moon; torn from its earthly soil, my love now knew only this heart-rending nostalgia for what it lacked: a where, a surrounding, a before, an after.
~Italo Calvino, The Distance of the Moon.
Death may be the wildest thing of all, the least tamed or known phenomenon our consciousness has to reckon with. I don’t understand how to meet it, not yet — maybe never. Perhaps (I tell myself), though we deny and abhor and battle death in our society, though we hide it away, it is something so natural, so innate, that when the time comes, our bodies — our whole selves — know exactly how it’s done. All I know right now is that something has stepped toward me, some invisible presence in the woods, one I’ve always sensed and feared and backed away from, called out to in a tentative voice (hello?), trying to scare it off, but which I now must approach. I stumble toward it in dusky conifer light: my own predatory, furred, toothed, clawed angel.
We have no dominion over what the world will do to us, all of us. What the earth will make of our tinkering and abuse can be modeled by computers but is, in the end, beyond our reckoning, our science. Nature is not simply done to. Nature responds. Nature talks back. Nature is willful. We have no dominion over the wild darkness that surrounds us. It is everywhere, under our feet, in the air we breathe, but we know nothing of it. We know more about the universe and the mind of an octopus than we do about death’s true nature. Only that it is terrible and inescapable, and it is wild.
~ Eva Saulitis, Wild Darkness, 2014
Reliance on the shoulder blades of my pillow…
We keep the blinds closed all the time, now
(our love has become something to keep indoors)–
we used to not care
peeling each others’ outsides off in the light, by the mirror,
uncovered for neighbors to watch behind their computer screens
Our skin begged for an audience then,
sharing the heat from the napes of our necks with the cold pavement
We sigh under the cracks of closed doors,
quietly whispering in crannies
conspiring with the dark and dust,
hibernating affections enclosed in the shells of each other.
Home life, softly taken,
the ivy creeping up the sides of our bedroom as we lay and watch each other
frost coating the places we used to kiss
Not a heartlessness, but
the suffocating of ourselves with the knowledge that this happiness can only last until the shedding of our skin.
So we close the curtains,
and choose comforts that won’t exhaust the fuel of our gasping breath.
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
“I’ve played a lot of tricks on myself,” she says. “I’ve made it hard for me sometimes, especially in my teens and twenties. I had an attraction to drama. Most of us have that, especially if you are an artist—you feel like you are tempted to explore the darkness. I could not be less interested now. For me, the most attractive, charming, cool, fun, interesting thing—how could I call it? A plan.” ~Penelope Cruz, Esquire