The aurora borealis is migrating to the states. Hues of magenta, emerald and violet are mingling with the northwestern air, diluting magnetic storms. People are driving in herds to catch a glimpse. They are moving as far as the Sierra foothills, anointing the bay in symphonies of color. The Northern lights whisper a language, above music, even. I have a light that replicates them in my bedroom, and sometimes I pretend I can become one. , flickering and dancing in color, a flush of light, irregular and strange.. A spatial oddity with no fixed location.
One myth is that they connect us to the Otherworld, a dimension of unreality, of immortal beings and valiant armies of dragons and warrioresses. Others say they form an arch, a rainbow bridge, that transfer Odin’s chosen people towards valhalla. I imagine they are doorways, to different places in time
I hope this strange celestial song becomes a time stamp. A marker of when I made lasting promises to myself, to stop leaving doors to the past ajar, hoping the light will creep in. If I knew how to become the aurora bourealis, I would have anointed you with clarity. Brushed away your doubts, the thoughts that didn’t belong to you. My teacher said, Good Women with Pure Hearts can Time Travel. If I could traverse time and space, I would make myself little again, maybe visit you. Prevent anyone from ever hurting you. Try and prevent your heart from hardening. Ask God to work through me. Cloak you with a northern light.
I never got to be delicate, like I can be. Devastatingly soft. You didnt keep my secrets and you are lucky as shit that I kept yours. But that's what I am good at, holding onto peoples pain for safe-keeping. I am just a girl who seeks answers, who tries to fix everyones pain. I carry other peoples aches and I listen and try and let god pass through me. These lights are going to reach into me and burn up the past with a hungered velocity, and maybe make you my background actor, a terminally unique side character, who serves to hold contrast to someone with braver moves and kinder words.
Your mouth is massive and you have opinions you don’t pair with action. You say things about me that boomerang back to me through the grapevine, striking me in the heart. Cruel. It makes me feel sick and like a little girl. You talk a slick, quick, game about genuinity and then won’t look at your feelings without assuming they are trying to control you.
You have eyes that look like crazy frog eyes and you can’t be still. You are “crazier” than me. You have weird hands. You are good with them. You could’ve been a good sculptor, or good at finger banging. Wouldn’t know though, don't think we tried that. You can carve and play and type. Your fingers point in alternate directions and you flail your hands around with the velocity of someone who knows he is right.
You can continue to call me crazy, which I will continue to interpret as shorthand for:
Nuanced,
Interesting,
Nonlinear,
Bold
And
otherworldly
and I won’t say anything else about you, ever. When I open my mouth to speak about you I am feeding that invisible cord. Maybe it has supplied you with the most interesting lore, as you let my personhood be butchered as dinnertime entertainment. But discussing you left me with nothing. It may have taken a miracle, but I am being propelled forward. Towards the kind of certainty that deserves good time traveling women.
The Northern Lights are in California.