The ghosts live behind the walls. They live in the space
between...
The ghosts live behind the walls. They live in the space
between the ceiling and the floor. That’s where some of them live. A place
feels fine, regular, then the walls get bashed. That surface gets removed, tossed
out windows; dust swells, floats, falls, coats everything (floor, throat, stairs,
my hair), and a new space is exposed, dark and splintery, and the energy of the
room shifts. Not every house, of course. But this one, for sure.
I met a cat recently who maybe is actually a witch. I mostly
detest cats, for their haughtiness. This one had a ferocity in her eyes that
made it tricky to be in the same room. I lost a staring contest with her and
felt, in the aftermath, that engaging in it put me under a curse. I should’ve
known better. I admired the creature, and feared it.
There’s power in strange places these days. In between old
joists above the head, in the space between old studs in a stretch of wall
that’s just been opened, light touching places untouched for a century or more.
In the fierce eyes of a cat. On a sand dune which swells and shifts and
presents itself wide to the sky. Do you buy it? That once something is opened
up, things get altered, new energies swirl, enough that it registers as a buzz
in the blood? It’s August and the breeze is drying and the shadows are
shifting. Light finds its way in, even into windowless rooms.
