They call it the Lighthouse, although whether that name arose from its function or from its form I cannot say. I know only what I saw when I visited the lighthouse — what I saw, what I did, and what I cannot make undone.

I came lost, for a spirit that does not know where it is going cannot find its way to heaven or to hell, and how better to find your way than by the Lighthouse? When I saw it I thought I had found the Heavenly Gates at last, and that those burning fires were the bright-burning souls of its denizens. I was right in that, at least: the gathered, pressing lights of that many windowed-place were, after all, souls.

Or, at any rate, they used to be.

I weary of the warnings of dead men —
always they return to dying blossoms
in the cheeks of women no longer young.

For what are women but blossoms waiting
to wither, unpressed and unpreserved?
But then, God gave men tongues who have no taste

and fools’ noses will mistake their quarry.
They did so, who called that sharp note beneath
the springtime air Vanity perfumed

rather than recognize its bitterness
as that of fruit still young in its becoming.

Do you long to be a Prophet
To Burn with Sacred Fire
Like the Bush upon the Hill
Or Faithful on their Pyre?
Do you Yearn for Freedom
To Wander
With the breeze
To shed the Chains of Weariness
& Rise up off your knees?

Then know this: A prophet
cannot have his Freedom
Though Burden’d easy & Yok’d
Light
& the Freed cannot Worship
At Slave-Built Altars Bright
But must out of Darkness
Learn
Another Sacred Sight

You cannot twice be Made a Slave
(The darkness
seems to say)
& all your fear will dissipate
If only you
Make
Way

Deep in those glowing gardens
where wet leaves flame with torchlight,
Sita listens. Her face shines
with scooped water.
 
The demon king speaks
of Lanka, his golden city,
blinding in daylight,
that by night binds the eyes of jealous stars.
 
He speaks from ten mouths,
mouths whose silence once
stilled the universe’s wind.

When the demon king pauses,
saltwater brooks weep
in exaltation and in fear.
 
Sitting in the shade of the Ashoka tree
Sita smiles. With naked fingers she traces
the stars’ dance, and listens
for the crumble of stone.

The artist is a selfish creature
Indulgent, yet sublime
For those thoughts by day she dare not speak
She nightly marks in rhyme

Still, ever still, that silent voice
that does not echo or resound
but simply speaks, as though nearby
and says, “You know now what you are.”

How to Become Invisible in Your Dreams

Whether you want to become invisible to avoid parental or spousal expectations, the prying eye of corporations and the state, or just to escape society’s absurd expectations for female beauty, this handy guide will set you in the right direction. Don’t worry if you want to be invisible in real life, too–once you’ve done it in your dreams, the real thing comes easy. Let’s start with the basics.

1. Dismiss your other powers. No more fireballs thrown at old bullies. No more healing bitten apples and broken bones. To become invisible is to diminish. If the demons in your dreams see so much as a shadow, you have failed.
2. Learn to hide. In this early stage of your preparation, I recommend the deepest, darkest corners you can find. Follow one of your monsters home, when the poor sucker thinks you’ve chickened out and woken up. Don’t be afraid–at least not of monsters. If you stay with them long enough, they will acclimate to your presence, and consider you one of their own.
3. Learn to step out of your body. Leave it somewhere safe–six feet under should do–and slide into the walls. With your heart racing, flood the earth and become the wind that soars upwards screaming, that cannot be held, and aches at the thought of being seen. If the world were not a prison, you would have no need to become invisible in your dreams. Leave it behind.

Tips

If in spite of all of your precautions, you begin to change, fight it. Look in the mirror in your dreams every night, no matter how painful. Pull away your clothes from your back, and if you see something thin and white growing out of your shoulder blades, grind it back down to dust. Keep the scabs covered, and keep them hidden in a dark place. If you do this every night, you stand a chance of being invisible forever, and that’s what you want, isn’t it?

beauty, she knew, was skindeep

but so much deeper than skin
the bone which misshaped her
so much deeper than skin
the flesh that erased her

so she slipped needles skindeep
delving to find the combinations of colors
that might open the lock she spent
so long trying
trying to pick

from the corpse she coaxed a canvas
a Rauschenberg throwaway built in layers
a natural ivory a peach pink and a rouge
black all around her still blank eyes

reddened they rise
to meet the mirror
blood mixed with ink
under the skin

beauty, she knew, was skindeep.

This will be an unofficial blog post, so no word of the day for you this time. I’d like to share the dream I had last night with you, and see what you think.

I dreamed that everyone in the world carried around umbrellas, and an evil magician was tinkering with them. Whenever her spell hit someone, they would look up and see a second umbrella inside the first, and just above them, holding the umbrella, an exaggerated and perverse version of themselves. I don’t know if anyone else could see what was inside the inner umbrella but them, but I do know it was what they thought others saw them as. Thought, or feared. Near the end of my dream, when I had somehow managed to solve whatever the problem was (I think it involved killing seahorse monsters? I don’t know man), I left the room hidden in my old church where me and the others were hiding, the walls of the narrow room covered with electric candles, and spoke to a man in the churchyard.

“All you have to do,” I told him, pointing up at his umbrella within an umbrella. “All you have to do to make that go away is realize that the real you is the one holding the outer umbrella. The version of you up there doesn’t exist. Maybe it did once, in parts, but now it doesn’t matter.”

He looks up, at his umbrella within his umbrella and the mangled figure inside. He looks like some sort of odd balancing act in a circus, the second figure a solid ten feet above him.

Meanwhile, we seem to have attracted some monsters, and I pull out my sword.

…perhaps even putting it in the food. I have a placard that says that on my wall in California, a gift from my sixteenth birthday party, which really does not seem that long ago. I’ll have to bring it when I go to London this fall. It’s good to have things that remind you what has changed and what has stayed the same. That’s part of why old friends are so important, and so precious.

Your word of the day is Kintsugi, or the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with gold, platinum, or silver dust. Breakage and repair are treated as the history of the object, rather than something to be hidden. (Thank you, Wikipedia.)

But let us turn to life updates. I have been accepted into the Boston University London Literature program, for which I am grateful and excited. I can’t help but be curious what moving to a new place will be like this time. Coming to college was so stressful, but this time I’ll know people, I’ll know how to settle in, and I’ll know I’ve done it before and done it well. I know my niches, my needs, and I trust my instincts. I’m excited to see how much I’ve grown, and how well I’ll handle another transplant. I wonder how much I’ll have grown by the time I come back.

On the practical side of things, I’m excited to have a real kitchen and to be of legal drinking age. Hello white wine sauces, simmering mushroom sautéd and distributed on crisp sourdough that drips with Swiss, mimosa brunches. I have a budget grocery list all figured out, but I am looking forward to splurging from time to time. I have missed salmon, avocados, artichoke hearts, and dessert. I miss dark chocolate with raspberry, perhaps in one of those candy bars that look like postcards, with the love poems inside. I miss the steam that rises from hot chocolate after you put on the whipped cream.

I did my first interview for my literary magazine earlier this week and just loved it. I have yet to transcribe the forty-five minutes of audio, much of which was spent fangirling over fairy tales and literature with the brilliant, charming Alicia Borinsky. She has loaned me her book Low Blows, which seems to consist of Spanish (and English translations of) short stories, almost like vignettes. I look forward to reading them, and perhaps imitating them later. I plan on following up with Theodora Goss come March, and I’m very much looking forward to that. If you haven’t read any of her work, check it out here. Her website inspired me to make my own, and her poetry, especially her poems on ravens, is just lovely. I recognized a translated version of one of her pieces in a foreign language magazine of some Eastern European variety while interning at Locus over winter break, and was completely astounded to see the name of a professor there. I am only just beginning to realize how talented and hardworking and intelligent the people I am learning from are, and I feel more honored by the day. Which brings us to the shout out section of this blog post, because I am feeling pretty damn grateful to the people in my life. I don’t know if they’ll read this–they probably won’t–but I’ll find a way to let them know, somehow. Should I break down and buy Thank You cards, do you think? It would take some time.

Who I Would Thank, and What For (Non-Comprehensively, Clearly)

• I need to thank Zak Bos, for being so generous with his time, advice, and knowledge.
• Lord Nelson, for giving me B+s on my papers and making me actually arrive at class on time.
• Brendan Pratt, for giving me my first job as a technical writer and inviting my family to Thanksgiving dinner, on top of general life mentor duties. Does he know he’s my life mentor? Probably not, but I feel like he’d be about that.
• Lauren, a writing fellow who has helped me edit half a dozen papers, at least. She doesn’t let me get bullshit past her, and I’m grateful for that.
• Gabrielle Sims, an incredible professor of mine last year who took me out to tapas at a Spanish restaurant tonight and very nearly wrote me a second recommendation letter. She described me as “frankly eloquent” in her last one, and it still makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
• Sir Christopher Ricks, who wrote me a recommendation letter and who I still have to take to tea before the end of the year. I will not forget the time I met him on the street and he stopped me to tell me that I was “formidable,” and asked what I planned on doing with my life.
• Professor Prince, who introduced me to all the best people, and who gave me many B+s for failing at close reading.
• My sister, who has occasionally permitted me to download her brain to my own for my convenience, may soon write “The Gentlewoman’s Guide to Romance,” and who is a spectacular example of all the ways humanity doesn’t suck.
• My mother, for being so unfailingly honest and steadfast. My middle school friends called her “The Most Gracious Queen,” and the title still holds.
• Cristina Rischmoller, who has knitted me socks and gloves for this awful winter and for her unfailing cleverness and welcome. Also that Peruvian dish she made me that one time with potatoes dipped in mayo. It was perfect, and I need to figure out how to make it in my microwave.
• My soulmates, Giselle Boustani and Carlynn Hickenbotham, for no other reason than being themselves. They are both such a blessing. I’m getting my cartilage pierced with Giselle tomorrow, and I get to see Carlynn next week!
• My roommate, Rebecca, who is reasonable, loyal, kind, and generous. She’s my rock.
• Danial, for his messed up sense of humor and strange brand of affection. I’m lucky to have him.
• Kyle, for being so easy-going and wise. Also for this.
• Kamara, for always visiting, even if I’m never here when she does! Visit again soon, Kamara!
• Will Pearson, for that time he told me that instead of staying at my own claustrophobic and overcrowded party, that “Happiness is a choice, and your bedroom is upstairs.” I really hope he uses that line on a woman one day.
• Novruz, my RA, for being so quick to help out when Andrew, a guy on the second floor, got hurt. I’m glad he’s here, and I’m glad he’s good at his job.
• Michelle Webber, for her love.
• K.C., for letting me know that I am loved. Wishing her the best after her surgery.
• Bernice, for her consistence, warmth, and friendship. I’m not sure I deserve it, but I’m damn lucky to have it.
• Violet, for being her lovely, clever self.
• Spencer, one of my sort-of bosses at work, who has been very easy-going in light of some recent mistakes on my part, and who always makes me feel as though I belong.
• Alicia Borinsky and Theodora Goss, for their time and advice.
• Ashley from student health, for her gentle honesty and regard.
• The people at Locus, for letting me contribute to the wonderful product they create.
• All the people who took care of my mom this year–Giussepe Rischmoller, Paymahn, Marcus, Amelie, and Atana, to name a few. I get to be at college because I know she is taken care of, and I am so grateful for that.
• Shawn Felsch, for her hospitality, warmth, and love.
• Julian Goldman, for his unfailing decency.
• Chloe, for her incredible elegance, humor, and friendship.

That was a long list, and if you made it all the way through I am frankly astonished. Goodnight, and thank you all.