A man’s mother died, and when she was well-buried he went about disposing of her things. Emptying her house. Making it ready for a sale. Her? She’d arrived after the Second World War, from Europe, a refugee, a voiceless woman. She got married. She gave birth to this boy currently erasing her. She hummed while cleaning, or washing, or shopping, or she put on the telly and sat silently staring at its endless consumerist conning. She baked palačinky or deruny (she learned to knead the dough for the pastry before what happened, happened), she got fat, grew whiskers, got old, wore slippers to the corner shop, ignored the cat, was forgotten, and seemed never to know, not once, how to speak.
Almost everything was cleaned up or taken, or thrown away. There was only what he hadn’t known. He lifted the manhole cover to the space between the ceiling and the slant of the roof. The flooring was covered in flat, schoolbook-type diaries.
His mother, nameless woman, had been the mistress of Eduard Roschmann, an SS Obersturmführer, called the Butcher of Riga, and she recorded EVERYTHING he did to her, and EVERYTHING she witnessed. The terror. The humiliation. The almost elegant lies and Wagneresque style.
No one, once she finally escaped, and finally landed — a refugee from a futile Europe — in Australia. Not one person, living, in her lifetime, knew what she knew. Her son did not know who his mother really was. He’d never thought of her as young. Or beautiful. Violated, molested, tortured, horrified. She’d just baked, disappeared, died. So…
I know how it’s been, or is, for most of you. Wildlings in boxes called houses. Upright, windowed coffins for us privileged, while some, on the streets, ask where their next fix is coming from, or where’d ya score the tent, mate? People being weird… I mean, fearful or lovely, when for most of your life they’ve been strangers who’ve ignored you. The confusing maelstrom of media exploitation. But I guess, just for a moment, all that exhaust, and all those big-mouthed bullies telling you what to eat and how to look better than your beautiful born bodies already are, shuddering in their rhinestones, their botox needles looking somehow redundant, have gone as quiet as the dead woman.
Furry bits finally, or momentarily, get their liberation and reprieve from the wax or the razor.
Yes, we’ve known this was coming. Me, and tarot, that scammy bastard that throws up the Devil card like a random fungal thing between summer toes, where sand and sunshine should be. And yes, I’ve got my car trunk packed and a chainsaw beside my bed for the next fucker who decides to try breaking in.
Stay the course, lovelies. Keep that wildness keen. Hone it. Train. Be as real as you’ve always told me you are. Cook and plant, stitch and draw, write by hand in some forlorn and abandoned to-do diary. Because to-do is today. Be covert cabals of witchery and wisdom.
I want to tell you what I know is happening but to do so is a really long rant. So I’ll save it for a coming post, but… again… this was all predicted. This glitch. This is destiny. I haven’t got to Ethiopia yet, but I probably will, if that helps hearten the confused among you.
I’m exhausted. Getting all the images together for the new tarot book (excerpts and explanations to come). It will be published here in Australia, through LothbrokSigurd, and I’m running with color and considered rebellion, all the more to make it really ready for you. Because it’s YOU, travelers who’ve sat with my cards in hand, the weird, the pierced, the inked, the porcelain, the polyamorous, the artistes of flesh and song, the travelers of abused and forgotten places, the lawyers defending the rights of greyhounds and thoroughbreds, the trans, the thief, the mother and the battered, who have inspired me with every, every story you have shared, or that we have exposed. You are all so courageous and so fucking gritty!
I’m considering teaching some more tarot, and talking story, myth, and its relevance or the lack of it, if you want.
We’ve been groomed, Wildlings, into submission. How about that? Look in more directions than left or right, because they are not changing. Only in and out and down are open now.
Your bravery is what is required of you now. And me. And the person, whose name I never knew and was never destined to know anyway.
What are we to make of all this, hmm? Something rare, my darlings. Something of a treasure of tales, and a raven-chair of storytellings. I know you have, hidden, that which you dare not say aloud. So here is a moment…
Write. It. Down. Who you are. What you dared tell no one. Then hide it. Let tomorrow’s child find it and wonder who the fuck you really were.
I’ll be back…