The Purpose of Ritual
By Melissa Broder
When you fled I disappeared
into the abscesses of my brain.
We are both impulsive humans
and perhaps my disappearance
was premature. To reappear
I had to grow younger. I began
consuming images of boys
at a very rapid speed, never
their bodies just reflections.
I distorted all the mirrors
in mucus, oil and blood.
When I say that I consumed
I do not mean that I ate the mirrors,
only that I stood beside the boys,
dowsed the glass and incanted.
I chanted you love me you love me
to 3000 boys but none said yes.
What does it mean to be so sick
with want that you create rituals
which lead nowhere? Only to be
human, I think, and less ok
than animals. I don't want
to be human anymore
so I have covered the mirrors
in blankets. You returned to me
but never uncovered them.
My Monday was a Monday, by which I mean I had trouble getting out of bed, didn't get nearly enough work done, and haven't managed to fold the laundry yet. We had some rain, I only saw one bunny (and he was upset because there was a moving van blocking him from hopping away from me), no one has solved ISIS or global warming or ebola or any of the other things stressing me out on the news.
In happier news, Sleepy Hollow managed to be hilarious and have kick-ass women while facing the apocalypse (Gotham was merely okay -- it desperately needs some humor, if not Adam West-style Batman jokes, then at least Martha Stewart cracks like the former). Sadly I hvae to pay taxes to Amazon.com starting tomorrow. Some pics from the colonial fair at Mount Vernon the weekend before last:
Ship's Company sings sailor songs.
Ladies negotiate clothing prices.
Otto the sword swallower plies his trade.
Potters sell their products.
The rat catcher lets his rat rest in the shade.
A puppeteer demonstrates that he can move a puppet with his knee while using his hands to play a pipe.