A Hole In History

interior_villon_thais

Nothing reminds us more of Mother’s Day, and a woman’s role  –  as the hole in history then the life of the Staint Thais. 

A sensitive daughter. Orphaned by parents who died in tandem almost instantaneously. Fortunate to inherit money without the intercession of ancillary extended family. Or male foreign invaders. Her life was an exercise that the elders approved of, she never married and remained devoted to Christ and generosity. When pilgrims hiked past her estate they were invited to take shelter. If the poor were hungry she interceded. Unfortunately due to a failure in bookkeeping. She was suddenly without recompense and broke. The scriptures tell us she looked for secretarial work but lacked the strength and dexterity for cuneiform. She had become like all other women without money and an aversion to excessive housekeeping, job seeking and exposed. In those days the only fair wage was prostitution. 

When the Elder’s of Sketis learned of her transformation and courtesan ways they sent St John the Dwarf to fetch her. But he was rejected. His entry was barred. The Dwarf St John employed cunning and trickery, “Tell the mistress I have something precious for her.” Like what dickhead she might have wondered? But Thais had a weakness for shiny pearls and suspected the Elders might have a gift remembering the good in her. John the liar Dwarf was ushered in to see Thais and began weeping. “How can I not weep,” he asked, “when you have forsaken your Bridegroom, the Lord Jesus Christ, and are pleasing Satan by your deeds?” She accepted his offer, a sentence of 3 years hard labor. 15 days after her release she died. Now they call her Saint. 

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1.

I liked her, but I didn’t know her. A friend of a friend. Kind of punk and butch. An open face. I was distracted easy chatter when she took my arm and brought it to her lips. A gentle sucking. Light. I said what are you doing? Trying to give me a hickey? She left a tiny kissed outline. So light that when the knife came out I trusted her. I noticed the nose on the end of it turned up like a Persian slipper. A silver bead. Just an underline she said. For the blood sisterhood. But the knife was blunt. “DO IT!” I said. I had to close my eyes. She was too gentle and sawing. UGH and when I peeked there was a deep convex cone of flesh missing from my arm.

1-Botany 101

Up at the T., where the most ardent students plant themselves. Ravi. With her anti-vivisection tee screaming on her back. I take note and fold up a sloppy crane. Nudge the shoulder in front of me to pass it up.

She turned. I grinned. Gave her a thumbs up. Waving.

At lunch I told her everything. Hating people. Except one homeless looking actor. But that I wanted to kick him too. We began meeting between classes daily in the upstairs lounge trading smokes. Studying.

I love plants. I tell her, animals too. That I’m depressed, a mope. Incapacitated. This bird just died that the cats nicked… Too terrible. The mighty spotted nape dove. Heroic measures failed. Droppers of flax seed didn’t work. Sugar water. I even tried cat pain meds to make it comfortable.

For days I watched it cripple and die. In rigor, I was the stiff, curling up with it into a maze of dust.

“Hmmmmmmmmm. Leslie you need to swallow. Find the spider the snake. Eat your fear without pause. Speed’s the trick to killing.”

“Hun??”

Mother yelled that I was a wild Indian. But Ravi was the nickel, the real mccoy. Not only could she poison a samosa, she had an army of zombie male slaves. They surrounded her bed. Slept on the floor. With her long black slick of hair, she whipped up a house. And we stepped in.

She did tricks. Stuff with her tongue. When guys wanted two women. The air between them. How easy it was to feign.

She thought I needed to buck up. And she was going to teach me.

“Les listen. Your not listening. We will begin at the bottom of the food chain, slowly with ants and Arrowhead water and sticks.”

I barf. Guzzle water. Nibble on ginger. I starve myself. Ravi has 15 cats. Mining food is as easy as attraction.

Simple recipe: Very hot pan. Off the cooker. Toss ants 1 cup of showered and strained ants. Toast quickly just a nano-second. Add salt and out.

“Just like vinegar and chips, only crunchy no?”

I wait for Ravi’s voice to waiver from the coo of seduction.

“All ants are one. So that if you nibble off a few, it’s like a fingernail.”

I feel better manicuring one disembodied monster.

“Look here Auntie. I am potentially assisting your soul in the reincarnation hierarchy. If you are a good ant and very delicious. With an especially peanutty flavor and just the right tang who knows what cast of Hollyworld?”

“You might get him again as a crab.”

“Thanks for saying him.”

My final ant I take slowly. Mindfully with a magnifying glass. I pick out Mr. Perfect. He had a soul. Or was part of one according to Ravi.

“Aren’t you a dear thing? A hard worker no doubt. A family ant?”

Ravi is impatient. “Jesus Lesss…”

No condiments, tongue. Slowly I allow him the baptism of my saliva.