[This is not all, but it is all I am posting--for which you may be thankful]
I’ll describe the house to you first. You’ll like that, won’t you. Think of places where the plants are free to grow wild. Where the climate gives them all the rain they need—these plants are plants of the woods and they do just fine in the cloudy climes of upstate New York or the Northwestern United States. The plants grow wild around this Victorian era house. The shape of it is below:
The paint peels a bit, but the color scheme is a purple-blue and red. I lived there once.
Bring she who is Garlanded with flowers to me. I offer my first incision.
There are broken brick-colored pavings leading up to the wood stairs. Each step you take on the stairs creaks, that is what they are meant to do.
The power of the pox is upon and within her. I offer my second incision.
A grand old wooden door, painted a bright red, with a handle and keyhole. You can peer in and see the flicker of lights.
She asks only to consume. I offer my third incision.
It isn’t good enough that you should want to live here. My boy fled very quickly. Someone was locked in the attic for a long time, hiding there. Someone was a little black cat. This place smelled of fear and being trapped. A small space, step only on the beams and you might keep from breaking through the roof. You can see where they live in the insulation. You can. But these holes are so deep and black it is impossible to reach far enough in.
Wake the lady with the sunken breasts I offer my fourth incision.
But I digress. Perhaps I might describe some action. Something that happened there. Perhaps if I do this I can open the door, without leaping hither and yon into disjointed spaces. They all connect. The spaces, I mean. At least I think they do, although sometimes, when I was in the house, I’d be by the attic, cleaning up the refuse from the creatures hiding and then, without knowing I’d done it, I’d be outside by the back door, trying to fit myself under the overhang to keep from the rain.
Feed this drop to she who will torment for sixteen years. I offer my fifth incision.
Bella is a fine name. She was pretty too, if that makes you feel better. Bella lived in the house with two friends. They divided the rooms so each had her own. Bella lived on the uppermost floor, with her own bathroom and a second little room.
Hold the wrist of the mother of nymphs I offer my sixth incision.
It was on that floor that the door to the attic was. Bella loved her little black cat, Chiquita. This little black cat learned something about the attic because she fit inside, fit in like hand in glove to speak. The little black cat vanished. Holed up--whole up, so to speak.
Bring she who dances on corpses to me. I offer my seventh and final incision.
is this true? The cat exists in the interstices between me and you. The cat intercedes in the interstices--she holds the dark at bay. This particularly cat held it at bay because she had an attachment to the girl, to Bella. But here is the question: Who, if anyone, intercedes for the cat?