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selva oscura
the wind bellows, the wind shrieks. the wind squawks the bathroom ventilation fan into a frustrated monologue about unimaginable things. our apartment: three stories up, on a hill, no remaining shield from the wind after they took down our beloved sheltering pine in 2015. i had no idea, no idea, no idea how bottomlessly exhausting it can be to fall asleep to wind wailing, to wake in the night to wind wailing, to wake in the morning to wailing, whining wind in a perfectly still room. not until we moved to this space.

just after dawn, just after synthroid, i ignite a stick of balsam incense, securing it in the cast iron koro on the coffee table. i light a seven day vigil candle i’ve dedicated to a current working. after fighting with the butane torch and owning that the wick is too long to be lit as-is by a responsible magic practitioner,* i find the wick trimmer and trim the wick. softly reciting the intention, i light the candle. i return to the bedroom, placing the candle on the altar. the flame is low, the wick too short, which is ideal. i put on dark muse, adjusting the volume on the speaker dock slightly louder than i normally would at this hour. “the red room” plays, cycling repetitions of echoing voice. the circle is cast. the space changes, the space deepens, but the wind is still in dialogue with my inner tensions. i put on a hooded sweatshirt and pull the hood up over my head before climbing back into bed. i weigh myself with blankets. i bury myself, trying to muffle the sound, trying to convince myself it’s a sonic environment i’ve found something like comfort in before. i stare at the candle, the only accountable source of light in a slowly brightening room. i don't sleep. i can't sleep. ben sleeps, breathing in shifting tides.

after he leaves for work, persistent gusts of 50mph wind are my only companion. the bathroom ventilation fan is a desperate catastrophe, but it’s only noise. i try not to get worked up about it. i chastise myself for getting worked up about it. it’s only wind, after all. i’m indoors. i’m three stories up. on a hill. there are things that could happen, wind-related mishaps. but i’m high up and sealed in and as long as i stay this way, most of them are unlikely. the wind doesn’t stop. we have a lot of windows. the wind doesn’t stop. i’m from the midwest. the wind doesn’t stop. there’s a sensory component, a constant irritation, an irritant, a creative irritant, an irritating irritant. i want to walk, channel some of this irritation into motion, but advisories advise against outdoor activities, at least until the early evening when the wind once again starts observing city speed limits. i’d really like to avoid any harsh confrontations with airborne tree branches, you see. anyway, the wind bites this time of year, and i’m not up to date on my rabies vaccinations. at 50mph those teeth will tear right through even a very good scarf.

i drink ginger peach ceylon with probably too much honey from the shino ware mug, unconsciously gravitating toward interior walls. i try not to get worked up about it. i chastise myself for getting worked up about it.

it’s only wind, after all.


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*a component of my current pathwork has me questioning my relationship with the title “witch,” so, for now, “magic practitioner.”
 
 
music: the tunnel singer - lost