Saturday, November 23, 2002
One day, after being alone for 32 years with her family, friends, and lovers, she decided it was time to just go.
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It had to be someplace cold; someplace isolated. It had to be far from anything that could distract her from the absolute silence and invisibility. She wanted her voice to drown in empty space, and to go down into the roots of a turf covered house, with a root cellar. She wanted to write. Her first poem would be called root cellar, and she imagined the deep, Jungian significance it would have. She would be unlocking the the secrets of her mysterious soul, and in silence and isolation, she would think of it alone.
She wanted cold and snow. She wanted to be snowed in so that all the windows were covered by crystalline drifts of melting white. There had to be a fire and a tea kettle; and a pantry filled with dried meats and friuts, canned vegetables and potatoes. It had to be spartan - absolutely plain, and all would have to be done by hand.
The days would be long and so bright that that she would have to shield her eyes, and the silence would be vast and complete in an epic landscape, so silent, that the smallest sound would be a shock.
Maybe there, in that place, he would stop calling to her. Maybe there he would stop assuming form to silence her, and instead of hearing him, she would hear herself. Maybe there, everything she is would find the voice to whisper to her, and tell her her own name, and the sound of that whisper would take on a significance that could not be ignored. Even he would hear it.
Finally, in absolute silence and in the absence of any other, she would finally become manifest.