friday refrains · brigit pegeen kelly
Sunday 19 October 2008 | 2 cookies in the jar
It was not a scorpion I asked for, I asked for a fish, but
maybe God misheard my request, maybe God thought
I said not “some sort of fish,” but a “scorpion fish,” a
request he would surely have granted, being a goodly
God, but then he forgot the “fish” attached to the
“scorpion” (because God, too, forgets, everything
forgets); so instead of an edible fish, any small fish,
sweet or sour, or even the grotesque buffoonery of the
striped scorpion fish, crowned with spines and
followed by many tails, a veritable sideshow of a fish;
instead of these, I was given an insect, a peculiar
prehistoric creature, part lobster, part spider, part
bell-ringer, part son of a fallen star, something like a
disfigured armored dog, not a thing you can eat, or
even take on a meaningful walk, so ugly is it, so stiffly
does it step, as if on ice, freezing again and again in
mid-air like a listening ear, and then scuttling
backwards or leaping madly forward, its deadly tail
doing a St. Vitus jig. God gave me a scorpion, a
venomous creature, to be sure, a bug with the bite of
Cleopatra’s asp, but not, as I soon found out, despite
the dark gossip, a lover of violence or a hater of men.
In truth, it is shy, the scorpion, a creature with eight
eyes and almost no sight, who shuns the daylight, and
is driven mad by fire, who favors the lonely spot, and
feeds on nothing much, and only throws out its poison
barb when backed against a wall—a thing like me,
but not the thing I asked for, a thing, by accident or
design, I am now attached to. And so I draw the
curtains, and so I lay out strange dishes, and so I step
softly, and so I do not speak, and only twice, in many
years, have I been stung, both times because,
unthinking, I let in the terrible light. And sometimes
now, when I watch the scorpion sleep, I see how fine he
is, how rare, this creature called Lung Book or Mortal
Book because of his strange organs of breath. His
lungs are holes in his body, which open and close. And
inside the holes are stiffened membranes, arranged
like the pages of a book—imagine that! And when the
holes open, the pages rise up and unfold, and the blood
that circles through them touches the air, and by this
bath of air the blood is made pure . . . He is a house of
books, my shy scorpion, carrying in his belly all the
perishable manuscripts—a little mirror of the library
at Alexandria, which burned.
—Brigit Pegeen Kelly (via avoiding the muse)
2 cookies in the jar
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The universe is funny! I turned on the computer, after dinner with two small boys and a molded plastic scorpion and a long discussion of whether it was more like a spider than a crab and recountings of living in Austin before either of them was born how only one brother and I got to experience the scorpion sting, and the time their father caught a scorpion and threw it in the garden spider’s web just outside the window to see what would happen, (the spider won and we all watched out the window for ever so long) and so I thought, I should look up the taxonomic thing just to make sure I wasn’t speaking authoritatively wherein I ought not to (my pre-wikipedia father, I think, made up the facts frequently, but with greater authority than I think I’ll ever have) and before I go to wikipedia, there is this, more lovely. Thank you thank you for Friday refrains, refrained on Sunday, even.
Also? can I say? That now I’m reading it like “art objects” as Friday is refraining. Yeah.
Anyway. As you were.