The Fields of Mag Tuireadh

This is the new blog of Morrigana. Her old blog located at www.tuathadedanann3.blogspot.com is not currently accessable for new posts. You can still view old posts at the above site, but until further notice all new posts will be made here. Thank you.

Friday, December 30, 2005

I'm reading A Novel of Stones, by John Purroy Jackson (look for it in a year - cross your fingers) and it simulateously makes me want to scream and dive into the pages and become every feminie pronoun John caresses with his pen.
But I am silent. I don't want to arouse suspicion. I don't want foot steps running up the stairs of his house. I don't want these voices asking if i'm alright. I would lie. They could not save me.
And what I am being rescued from? myself? my dreams? images?
Words?
I should not run from words. They do not scare me.
But I scream silent screams and I think in pictures.
I want to possess words I want to make them my own, inhale them, breath them, swallow them, pour them on to empty broken white trees and tell fabulous stories.

There are trees outside the window of my bedroom in Los Angeles. There are also trees inside my window of my bedroom in Los Angeles. The trees are the only thing i miss when I am in New York. There are so many trees, wild trees in Los Angeles, trees who defie their space, who scream in saturated greens against the greying of the sky, the ground, the houses, the people. I dream that one day the trees will reclaim this collection of suburbs, these lost people without a center, without a focus. Immergrants from native places, places named by american tongues with foreign names. Immergrants whose dreams have been crushed and smeared on the sidewalk to mae it sparkle. The glitter brings more dreams to itself. The city feeds on dreams. Dreams of gold and lush fruit trees and stardom and warm sun shine. Dreams that crumple at night like the plastic fender on the brand new aluminum car reared ended on the 405 by paparazzi chasing their own dreams of ruin.


A hummingbird darts in and out of a hibiscus plant. Red and green flashes, between red and green growth, life christmas. The little bird shimmers and flits. How does it live here? I can not do it.
I want to scream. Scream and break this silence. But I've never been able to scream in LA. I can barely breathe here. A scream needs air.

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