PERSEPHONE THE WANDERER

by heytherewildflower

JESSICA CHASTAIN HAD HER “BLUE MOMENT” so I wanted one.

needless to say, full outfit shots via photobooth never gets less awkward. it gets more and more and more awkward. needless to say, Jessica Chastain’s “blue story” is alot more  KAPOW I AM PALE AND GOLDEN AND BEAUTIFUL AND VIBRANT AND NOT SAD AT ALL! and the blue velvet is difficult to photograph…. and is especially difficult with photobooth on a 3 second timer. Anyway, last year with the fire hydrant red hair I was interested in being always COLOR-RADO but now I am enjoying the mellow blues and grays. probably as a result of the influence of WA cool tones.

Vintage fur cape from great grandmother…and the rest of it is just thrifted junk. except the shoes which are john fluevog if you give a fuck, which you probably don’t.

anyway… Louise Gluck is visiting WA to do a reading in 3 months and I’ve  been dying waiting for March to roll around. I FUCKING love her. The poem posted below (below the paragraph posted below) is called “Persephone the Wanderer”.  In the poem, Gluck casts Persephone as a sort of wandering planet whose orbit hurtles her perpetually back and forth between life and death (earth and hell) where, in neither realm she belongs and never settles. Girl whose fate is to be between things, mother and lover, and will never mature beyond. My comparison to wanderer planets (As the Greeks called them) is a difficult one to make because Persephone is a wanderer belonging to the realms of earth and hell, the flesh, and its decay, and not the metaphysical heavens. But whatever. I like thinking of her that way. THe un-named flesh planet. The goddess who they did not stick into the night sky. Living Goddesses are always my favorite. Keats’ muse (Psyche) and Helen. They are always the most dangerous.

Glück, in “A Myth of Innocence,” uses the story of Persephone, who is abducted from a world of spring and taken away from her mother to be the bride of Death. Her mother, in outrage, ends the perpetual spring that was earth and introduces winter. In the poem, it is said of Persephone: “One summer she goes into the field as usual / stopping for a bit at the pool where she often / looks at herself, to see / if she detects any changes. She sees / the same person, the horrible mantle / of daughterliness still clinging to her.” Her abduction by Hades and her death is, of course, a metaphor for puberty, a passage from role of daughter to role of wife. After all, Glück writes, “The girl who disappears from the pool / will never return. A woman will return, / looking for the girl she was.” More important than saying that Persephone has become an adult and can never recapture her girlhood, in “Persephone the Wanderer,” Glück gives us the gritty reality of the story, if reality is possible in a myth: “It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says // Persephone is having sex in hell. / Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t know / what winter is, only that she causes it.” Glück introduces the idea that as a girl abducted, Persephone has neither been her own person, nor become aware of her own power, so that “in the tale of Persephone / which should be read / as an argument between the mother and the lover- / the daughter is just the meat.”

Estella Ramirez 

Persephone the Wanderer
by Louise Glück

In the first version, Persephone
is taken from her mother
and the goddess of the earth
punishes the earth—this is
consistent with what we know of human behavior,

that human beings take profound satisfaction
in doing harm, particularly
unconscious harm:

we may call this
negative creation.

Persephone’s initial
sojourn in hell continues to be
pawed over by scholars who dispute
the sensations of the virgin:

did she cooperate in her rape,
or was she drugged, violated against her will,
as happens so often now to modern girls.

As is well known, the return of the beloved
does not correct
the loss of the beloved: Persephone

returns home
stained with red juice like
a character in Hawthorne—

I am not certain I will
keep this word: is earth
“home” to Persephone? Is she at home, conceivably,
in the bed of the god? Is she
at home nowhere? Is she
a born wanderer, in other words
an existential
replica of her own mother, less
hamstrung by ideas of causality?

You are allowed to like
no one, you know. The characters
are not people.
They are aspects of a dilemma or conflict.

Three parts: just as the soul is divided,
ego, superego, id. Likewise

the three levels of the known world,
a kind of diagram that separates
heaven from earth from hell.

You must ask yourself:
where is it snowing?

White of forgetfulness,
of desecration—

It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says

Persephone is having sex in hell.
Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t know
what winter is, only that
she is what causes it.

She is lying in the bed of Hades.
What is in her mind?
Is she afraid? Has something
blotted out the idea
of mind?

She does know the earth
is run by mothers, this much
is certain. She also knows
she is not what is called
a girl any longer. Regarding
incarceration, she believes

she has been a prisoner since she has been a daughter.

The terrible reunions in store for her
will take up the rest of her life.
When the passion for expiation
is chronic, fierce, you do not choose
the way you live. You do not live;
you are not allowed to die.

You drift between earth and death
which seem, finally,
strangely alike. Scholars tell us

that there is no point in knowing what you want
when the forces contending over you
could kill you.

White of forgetfulness,
white of safety—

They say
there is a rift in the human soul
which was not constructed to belong
entirely to life. Earth

asks us to deny this rift, a threat
disguised as suggestion—
as we have seen
in the tale of Persephone
which should be read

as an argument between the mother and the lover—
the daughter is just meat.

When death confronts her, she has never seen
the meadow without the daisies.
Suddenly she is no longer
singing her maidenly songs
about her mother’s
beauty and fecundity. Where
the rift is, the break is.

Song of the earth,
song of the mythic vision of eternal life—

My soul
shattered with the strain
of trying to belong to earth—

What will you do,
when it is your turn in the field with the god?

p.s. DEAR WITCHY TAVI AND PJ HARVEY, I see your witchiness and I raise you BASKETBALL WITCH. except my colors aren’t actually orange and purple. I am resolutely anti DALLAS COWBOYS and resolutely PRO HOT DRRRTY DIRK and everything MAVS…. but that rant is for another day. the point is:

I am sure there are entire genres of film dedicated to teen witches who enjoy basketball and take awkward pictures. pretty darn sure.