Scrying In the mirror at midnight I am waiting for the future to arrive but I don’t know when midnight is. Oleg and Nadja practice traditional witchcraft in the middle of the Ukraine. I light candles and study my face and eyes in the mirror, black as midnight, I’m dressed in Ukrainian clothing.
Midnight eases past us. I see nothing in the mirror except myself. They tell me to look deeper. I am on my own future. This comes as no surprise. Even at 37. Why did I almost write 38? I am beautiful. Age is a transitory process. We are all tunnels of wind embodied into the future.
Oleg comes in. Is he my future? With the camera he records the past – a red light. Power, slow shutter speed. And I am writing sweet nothings, red cheeked. I give him instructions on how to use the camera. It is customary to take a bath at midnight. The only thing moving is this pen. Stillness in the air. Oleg admonishes, never sit with your back to the window, like the advice aJapanese woman once gave me – never sleep with your head at the foot of the bed. Luck is related to good health.
Nadja turns on the TV, hard rock and roll, the ghostly glow of the TV, spirits imprisoned in the past, travel through galaxies. Russian TV, American TV, the plethora of languages equates the soul of space. Andromeda watches this small patch of community via the electromagnetic spectrum. But Oleg came into the room after midnight, so is he Nadja’s future instead?
I am a little drunk, but I spent the morning crying, feeling sorry for myself, and feel I deserve at least this much. We drink cognac and eat German chocolate, telling fortunes. It’s too close for comfort. Sorrow, yes that stuff that epics are made of. Who am I here, again in Russia, in the Ukraine, an Irish-American woman writing small nothings in a journal in red ink at midnight. Bell, book, and candle.
Not sure of the date, Jan 9? 11?
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