Alien, Part IV, Local Types Let us off and search, and find a place Where yours and mine can be natural lives, Where no one comes who dissects and dives And proclaims that ours is a curious case, Which its…
Our last name is close enough to Spanish that we get half or our mail and most of our wrong numbers in that language, the one my old-world neighbors still call the language of the enemy, my mom and I. At the…
Call to Worship: Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need. ALL: “Lord, Grant Us Mercy and Grace” A…
Alien, Part IV, Local Types Let us off and search, and find a place Where yours and mine can be natural lives, Where no one comes who dissects and dives And proclaims that ours is a curious case, Which its…
I. Dad left us alone. II. Dad left us with brothers and sisters, with a mother and aunts and cousins, and billions of creepy strangers to be frightened of. Dad left us with a stepmother, a stepmother tongue that we…
A path leads,
to where wild grass grows,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
Along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swooning,
tickling ankles,
swaying to the lilting bird-song,
in a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing the remnants of pain away.
Let us off and search, and find a place
Where yours and mine can be natural lives,
Where no one comes who dissects and dives
And proclaims that ours is a curious case,
Which its touch of romance can scarcely grace.
In the depths the sounds about precede the coming scene. The brooding echoes and groans of giants somewhere out in the shadows. Flashes of bubbles ripple, released to the surface by some darting fish. Beams of light thread through hydrogen and oxygen molecules, falling through the water as though some holiness might be found in the cathedrals of the ocean.
The most powerful memories are often the most simple. I can still see my small hand reach up to grab the oval bud of a camellia. My barefeet stretching to tiptoes on the cool brick walkway to reach the bud in sight. I had to be careful in my choice, if the bud was too closed I couldn’t get it open with my fingers and I would have to toss it aside.
My mind is starless and
As blank as a white wall.
The moon feigns white
Brightness and love.
I cannot trust it.
It drags the dregs
Of the sea behind it like
Dark amputations.
Excerpt from The Exilist by Will Cathcart
Exile is breaking away from the fire, from the warm glow of the circle and creating your own narrative alone in that faceless cold. It’s about embracing the darkness and joining the night, becoming intimate with fear—seducing fear—wearing out fear. Exile is howling at the moon’s numinous question mark. Exile is the boldest of thirsts. It’s about overriding boundaries both external and internal. We are all exiles from a past, from innocence and from a home. So embrace your chronological banishment. Own it.
