The warrior queen asks me, as though I were a child with a new skill, when is it I learned to put warnings on the top. The better question is when did I begin to think of prose as anything. In any case, below is not for those who might be as glass just now.
It is difficult to write of the wild, not only because it is experienced in a way that words fail to shape, but also because once, the penalty was sharp: death, or near to.
But just now things are wild. When Avalon sank our altar beneath the waves, it was a suspension of the rites and rituals among us which channel the power into well-told tales. So it floods, crests, recedes, all inelegantly, all without bounds. It is not quite as before, for this daily life which once we shunned has its own familiar rhythms, its own meanings and delights. My son naps beside me and I chose to lie here rather than clean or sort. But still, within, it is like panthers lie in wait, to drop from trees, a dark shadow with teeth and claws.
So I remember today what it is to be fucked in anger with a branch, to go to the bathroom afterwards with blood and dirt and bark, and again in the bath, wondering how to get it out, and later the burning of the skin, and the need for silence in all this. That was nothing religious, except that I worried it was a sign I would be carrion, not blade. Now looking back I wonder that I worried, except it is one of my largest not-very-secrets; I have nearly always wished to live.