Waving wands, casting spells
A journal excerpt from 1992, two months before I stumbled into the big sleep and then the specialists would take over . . .
28 April: My mind is thick with clutter and
panic. I feel ill. I feel faint. I feel like a million
bucks, or not. . . I am a nightingale and my
voice is midnight. Soft and low. Momentum
strong, like a cat, feline and shadowy. What
is blue? . . . Shit said the dog. Dancing with
mahogany, losing the ozone, fearing death,
hoping for appendicitis.
~A witch casting spells over a steaming cauldron. Engraving by H.S. Thomassin after Demaretz, courtesy of Creative Commons.