rachel (ohruby) wrote in nightdaydreamer,

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black madonna

I don't know WHAT to say about this. It was written to: "Idioteque" and "In Limbo" by Radiohead, "Song For Holly" by Esthero, and "Juniper" by Noe Venable.

This doesn't really make sense, and there is some wierd crap with the tenses and I very much dislike some of my phrasing. But this is a part of something that's been brewing in my mind for long, long time.

You cannot deny her. You cannot deny the pull of her hand on your glove, the feather of her fingertips on the curtain of your hair. She wears dark sunglasses at night and keeps you beside her always, silent in the empty seat on the subway with her hand around your wrist. She is not your mother, and most people do not mistake her as such. There is a harshness about her that defies any kind of maternal instinct- She greets any children the two of you ever come across with a roll of her eyes and a step in the opposite direction.

And yet She will not leave you.

Your memories are fragmented, floating silent on the surface of some dark abyss that you do not want to explore. There was Something, and Someone hurt Someone Else. But who and when and where and why- all of those are hard to figure out, somehow beyond your (currently) limited comprehension. There was a time you understood much of what was said, and you could repeat it all. There were People- no, you are not even sure that they were people. Sometimes when you think of them they appear with the heads of lions and horses, bulky creatures tearing the fine clothes they wear as they move. Sometimes they are shadows dressed in lace, pearls spilling from their eyes and mouths when they spoke to you. But whoever and whatever they were, you remember that light always shined from behind them. You could laugh and they would shower you with applause and chocolate coins and paper flowers. Then there was that Something, and now you are silent, and you do not laugh. She came along with her angry, jerky movements and long scarves worn over her mouth. She took you from the places you were left behind in and brought you with her.

If you go back far enough, you can remember the day She found you. You were standing outside of a building- but maybe it was not made of metal and stone. It could have been leaves, or even the very pearls you imagined the People crying. Maybe they buried themselves in a tomb of pearls, and you were visiting? It does not matter. She found you standing outside of Somewhere, and you wore a red coat. It is possible that you only remember that because She told you so, but that doesn’t matter either. She took your hand and did not ask you for your name (You are no one anymore.), or your birthday (You do not remember being born before She found you.), or who your parents were (They. Are. Not. Here.). You walked through the city with her, stepping over shards of pinkish-green glass and broken doll parts, dodging telephone poles plastered with ads for a circus from a time Before you remember existing- except no, you do remember those ads when they were bright and yellow, your hand in Someone’s, skipping into the glowing golden lights and waves of candy-colored fog that spilled over the trunks of trumpeting elephants. You remember all of that and yet you do not know who held your hand, or why you were there, or what became of the circus at all.

She did not stop to comfort you when you stumbled, but She would slow a bit so that you could catch up. You sometimes lost sight of her when she hurried ahead, her black coat fitting tightly against every limb and her white hands stuffed in the pockets. She has black hair and it does not blow in the wind, lying flat and smooth against her back. But you can feel her ahead- the weight of her movement sends ripples through you, and you somehow make it to an open doorway, glowing with the warm light of the room inside. At first you are reminded of the circus, but there is no candy-fog, here. There are beds lined up against every wall, huddled people in corners and no, you don't want to look anymore. She leaves you standing in the doorway as she speaks in words that your brain will not process, will not begin to unfold and comprehend. You do not remember which bed you slept in, but it was not warm, and She did not remove her sunglasses.

It went like that for a long time, didn’t it? You moved from bed to bed, sometimes sleeping in abandoned and quarantined houses. It is strange to you, as time goes on, to realize that your red coat is now a grayish-pink from the dirt and the dust and the damp. You are somehow no longer anything like what you once were. She goes before you, checking always for mirrors and covering them with bits of cloth or turning them on their faces. You hair has grown wild, hacked to shoulder-length with a pair of dull scissors found in a drawer somewhere.

There are other girls that go with you sometimes- Alice with her soft golden hair and hands wrapped in bandages, Mary who could not see but sang like a bird and broke the hearts of anyone in range. Except She never seemed affected, obviously. She was who She was.

And it never occurs to you to ask her name, does it? You shadow her in the dark corners of a bright city, and you do not ask anything of her. You cannot speak but there are other ways of making yourself heard- you refuse them.

She does not enjoy anything- She does things because they need to be done.

Do you never ask because you think you do not think you need her mercy? She aids things like you because it is what she must do, but somehow she has been brought to care for you. You want to ask her about Before, about the pieces that you cannot grasp that slip ever further every day. You want to ask her why sometimes when you sleep, you open your eyes to find her wearing a veil and black robes, staring out the window at a city that wants to deny her.
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