Salome Starfire

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The teleporting mad woman

I am going to teleport, she says. And they watch, and she does and she is in the same spot.

Did you see it? she says. And they didnt’ because she teleported way too quickly.

I thought you were going to teleport somewhere? they say

I did, I went all the way to Istanbul and back, but you missed it, she says.

Yeah, sure you did, and they turn away from her to talk of important things like universal consciousness, the regularity of buses and the business of getting shit faced.

The house smells like a dead lizard. And you can’t find the dead lizard, small leaking body rotting under a lounge somewhere, happily on its back oblivious. My house must be haunted by dead lizards that the cats find. I’d say the reptilian race of aliens aren’t too fond of the cat race of aliens. I have found clothes, buried deep like avalanche victims in a washing basket that is bursting its plastic corset. I have managed to pull on a clothes with no regard to anything other than cover. I have cried on the phone to a stranger. I have changed my mind about moving into a house twice to a real estate. I refused to see my mother who came to my door with that look of a needy child and a desperate woman. She says she would die for me, that she loves me so much. Her loving crushes me into a pile of ashes. And it takes a while to resurrect. Did you know that? It’s not so mystical and pretty, the resurrection is painful, it’s like being underwater and having drowned with lungs aching and full of water and telephone calls to friends where all voices are under water.

The business of resurrection. Warning of impending identity shift and personality death. Warning! Alert to the voice of my mother in me, her tenderness, her love, and her manic merry-go-round histrionics. A mother that longs for her daughter to love her with the same intensity of love I have for my friends. A mother who cannot see beyond her fear and motherly role, her paternal instincts and fears, and not the joy or the adventures, just the security and the safety. Because yes, she does it out of love. I know that.

And all those mothers who sympathise with the plight of my mother…please do. And my terrible fear of being a mother, of carrying the family madness, blind to it, seduced by the rightness of my position, giving and giving and never just being. The love and comfort of my mother without the neurosis and the ‘realism’. I am not wrapped in cotton wool. I am not devoid of the realities. They inform me and often paralyse me.

The business of resurrection and I go it alone. Here inside this cavity birds fly. Inside is a nest made of stolen gold threads, walls made of prescription glasses, dolls of varying origin, half-animal, half woman-half-building.

The sink looks cool. I fill it up and hold my head underwater just for a minute. The cats are mad as well. They mew in the night, they long for affection and I cannot sleep. I brush their fur whilst I am half-asleep.


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