Calendar Body
Calm down, calm down. Put the language away. I ought never have found these calendars.
I have cracked it: at last: I’ve fallen open: fallen in love with my brood of selves, my schools, my pets, my lice. Strangers that nestle, friends that desert. This strange heaviness. The creatures who’ve never left and those who never will. Bless them. This is what changed: I slipped — fell — split — and nuts poured forth. A gull flew from my lips. A frog escaped the ass. Don’t look at me like that!
Oh, it feels wonderful, I tell you: Ok, fine, I’ll tell you. (Don’t be daunted… I’ll describe what you don’t know. All you have to do is listen. I can send a diagram later. Rather, I’ll send you scans. Plenty of them.)
I’ve made movements toward finding the language lately. Hair a nest. Eyes like the bodies of insects when the shadow falls over my skull. And today shadows did fall. 1pm in an airless space, obviously migraine hits. One eye is too hazy, too light. Still, you’re following thus far, I imagine. So am I: plundering on, pulling at cabinet drawers. Treading hesitantly between the shelves. Allow me then to further elaborate. Indulge me this.
When I am woozy I have learned to raise a limb to alleviate the rush. To my delight the skin follows. Glows rosily. Small black blistering polka dots emerge. I take flight. Of course… I am lady- and sparrow-like. I ought not be surprised — pleased by myself — oh: what’s this? You can’t condone the silliness; poor furrowed brow when I make mention of our evolution from the dolphin. I glare at the sky. You cough with discomfort. Look down at rock. Wet the flaccid lip. Tug at potato, afoot in tooth. Summon language… Ummm. I don’t know. Where did you read that? Forehead in palm, rocking on a sage podium. Gripping at an oval, six weary pages glaring back. Bowed strings and spread tips. A negative. What’s this? You’re disturbed and I’m disgruntled.
Oh, please. Ask me not how my head is or where it hurts. You don’t know me at all. Were we suited, you’d know better. You’d enquire after the goat… Mmmmm. How you’d linger and savour the feeling of your palm on my tusk. Mmmmm. Ask me how the gems do. The babes; you’d stroke the babe’s fleshy little legs in order to get to know the bones in my arms. Pull at their sweet ankles. Yes, you would. You’d ask after the scorpion; is she sore? I ask after yours, and leave the debris of what were once mice strewn across the mattress when you answer: yes: her fangs are a little dull: he feasted all too readily. His belly hurts. Sorry, his scales. I did that for you.
My poissons, do they ache? How weak they appear after the pounding. You’d fill a small bowl with salt and dribble… wet your tongue; gather and take it to my sweet deer. Sweeter even still, the wolf. How lovely she looks with her hair slicked back. Such a noble forehead. You’d long to taste their activity. You’d care that their growls remain audible. Love, worry less on your thinning crown, it’ll only allow you to swim faster, lest your horns fail to set in, as they might not, since you will against them. Worry less on your inability to misbehave. Trust your innate ability to pinch and bite. Still, I know — you just don’t get it; so don’t ask for what you don’t get. A seaside musing fallen on blocked lobes I could overlook, but your inability to read me as Regiomontanus’s calendar in German is unforgivable.
I contain tables of the phases of the moon… I don’t think you heard me. I contain tables of the phases of the moon.
I am a rare astronomical book printed in an extraordinary small press. Fine copy with large margins. Slightly wormed in some places and with a few stains. Only the first three leaves are wormed… the text has not been affected by it. Thanks. First edition in German; an important astronomical work. The first part, printed in 1518, re-edited and united with the second part in one volume in 1522. A splendid piece of typography. I am 1994. Am I? I am 1493. Find me under: Medicine: Diseases: Anatomy: Rejuvenation: Astronomy: Love: Love Sickness: Misc. Actually: don’t. I noticed your ambivalence to the kitten’s hop. I saw it all. We’re simply not compatible. Apologies.
Five earthlings, one mermaid. No, six mermaids. No, two fish. Two scorpions: one to flutter and one to pulsate. Both, to bite.
Calm down, calm down. Put the language away. The diagrams back in their hiding places. Brown paper slips between furry old folders. I ought never have found these Calendars. You liked this full dial better when I was… oh … so… alone. All human, pills and logic, without season. That is alright — I have a home; right here on the square. I have bedfellows aplenty, also of my disposition.
Oh, Mr Zodiac! You don’t know me at all
Flo Josephine Goodliffe is a writer and artist who works through essay, poetry and sound to investigate care, representation of unwellness, narratives shared and choral voice. She has previously written for Spam zine, Worms and published with Silken Reference collective, among others. She currently studies MA Writing at the Royal College of Art, London.
