musings 002: THE GHOST, MY GHOST

I deserve it all, October realizations.

THE GHOST, MY GHOST

I woke up in the middle of the night, a book had fallen off the shelf, a picture frame fell off the wall too. Was it a ghost? Not a ghost but a thought, banging my head, banging the door. I was so sure it wanted to tell me something, maybe to write again, maybe to talk to my father, or to send that email.  I listen to low volume music in case it wants to whisper in my ear and I lay on the floor in case I get to see it under the bed. Many ghosts live here, the ones inside the house and the ones under my pillow, the ones opening windows and closing doors, and the ones I think about while I do the dishes. 

Lately I think a lot about my grandfather’s house and about a girl I knew who passed away young. I think of the crown moldings, the tiles, the cold room, I think about the phone nook and about how she died alone.  “Why do I think about her that much if I barely knew her?” I asked my therapist. He told me she represented girlhood, in my head, and that now my girlhood was gone and so was she. 

But the ghost that follows me around this house is different, it knocks down books, bursts light bulbs and plays John Lenon live. I suppose I scare it just the same, when I sing by the stairs or leave the cabinets open. We both live here trying to get a hold of each other, only ever hearing faintly what the other tries to say. Don’t Let Me Down, Rooftop Concert, 1969, full volume at 6:24am, I woke up to the sound of George Harrison’s guitar, all alone. Does my ghost feel the same chill down their spine when my mother calls and I don’t answer, I let the phone ring, ring, ring? Does my ghost look under pillows and tables trying to find where the ringing comes from the way I reached blindly for the stereo in the dark as John Lennon blasted in my ears?

My ghost reminds me of someone I once knew,  we both live here trying to get a hold of each other, only ever hearing faintly what the other tries to say. 

AND I DESERVE IT ALL

My grandfather is a dramatic man. Tall and broad and chatty and far more lucid than I am, he quotes Othello over coffee and wears the same outfit everyday. He visits me and sits down, more heavily each time, today he is somber. I put water in the kettle and unprompted, he tells me,

“The spirits are haunting me, and I deserve it all…”

“Why? Did you see a ghost?” I try to lift his spirits.

He sighs, a tired sigh.

“I am the ghost myself.”

CHARCOAL HEART, OCTOBER REALIZATIONS

The last mindful act of subjugation.
The wind is rushing, the devils are twirling, and I don’t want you under my boot anymore.
        the wind told me, the wind told me
                                  “try and love something
without holding it down
         with trembling hands.”
I do this, I’ve always done this, I invent the one I love, I invent him and then I love him. Like an Alchemist, alone, making things out of thin air: carnelian, brown eyes, moonstone, a beating heart. Emeralds, tourmaline, a listening ear, a helping arm.
I keep my eye on the microscope, I keep careful watch.
I’m sure you’ll fit the carnivorous, marble-like archetype I’ve carved for you, I’m sure you’ll shimmy your way into place just fine. 

notes…

Thank you for reading this frantically written compilation. I did not intend to write with October in mind, but October has a way of finding beauty in the darkest things, and who am I to not let that happen? Today I leave you with a couple of ghost stories, all real, none of them ghosts.

p.s. since I’m already in the spirit, an unprompted October song recommendation…

from the heart,

nicté xx