Things get hidden in weird places at Castle Wit. We have a strange mnemonic system of storing things in their just-so place that is so unconsciously motivated that the entire collection, over years, and man--over the places--still waits in its entirety to be unearthed, all at once, all over, in split screen manner by strangers oh so unsuspecting. They hold the things up, squint...But hey! That's my shit, and I want and must have it all still!
Some of you might know the lovable and lauded old lady scholar of ancient magic and olde mental rhythms Frances Yates, who first described how orators remembered before writing. By systems of thought-pictures she said: "human figures wearing crowns or purple cloaks, bloodstained or smeared with paint, human figures dramatically engaged in some activity--doing something." They dressed things up, sent them out that way, so vivid they recognized them when they came back.
And so it happens I often twist my hair up out of laziness into a blonde snail's shell behind my neck and fasten it with an elastic band. Later, when I take the all-day elastic out, perfume is released like some newly minted silver coin, bright and oblivious and ready for spending.
Really, it's quick like Merlin stepping nimble from the tree where witch Vivan had "eternally" imprisoned him: You rang, motherfuckers? And Serge Lutens foresty-fiendish fine pine fleur peur (flower power en Anglais) Chypre Rouge would almost knock me down if I didn't descend into the archive of terrible memory pictures so bravely and so voluntarily, unlike, let's face it, you.
So the incredible fruit gum and the needlike kneels needles (read back from your notes, Dr. what'd I just say) carpeting the prickle-place (huh-wha) are both right there then.
And how the hell did they know? You chasing me through the apple orchard, blooming, alive everywhere, an Alps moving upward, and yet in the dark night it's snowing on the flowers. Because that's spring in Michigan, isn't it, and we were, let's face it, magic. That fruit gum from climbing trees, falling, running some more sticks on your hands and even thighs, or was it the pine tar or some sticky else?
This too in a shitty working class town where everyone knows how to count other people's pleasure with mean measuring auto factory eyes. Hated for this sort of thing still: hogging two seasons sometimes whenever pleases.
Under amber and patchouli also, I remember you, bloodstained or smeared with paint, in crowns, in purple robes, running under white on white. Human figures engaged in some dramatic activity--doing something.