Drafts of Ecology/ Psyche Interior

Text by Caroline Ballegaard The Cast: Psyche: born (year undisclosed) to Greek parents with royal ties (according to the rumors). Those same whispers croon of a sight for sore eyes, and none seem to have dared to steal more than a glance at her. She was last seen, in tears, alone on a mountain peak; her current whereabouts are unknown. Myself: The author. Time: Today. Place: The pleasure house of some god. You might, as I, wonder about the choice of furniture. Interiors are questions of acquired, if not purely personal, taste—and who knows about the preferences of gods. There should be no kink shame, green is a lovely color with so many properties. Nature! Progress! Rebirth! No, I’m not tempted to mention that other obvious one, so human in nature (there it is again!). The grass is always greener, and what is life without desire and its flipside. Like other things in this house not easily kept, it has a tendency to rub off. So, I warn: Be careful with the green you see. Small environments that stick to me, sometimes leaving my fingers damp and sweet to touch with a tongue. Temperature is of dire importance here; wind, weather, the will of the current, the rays of the sun. You stifle your soon to be burning passion for the lowest of mankind, staying still surrounded by cabinets of containment. Think of them as tokens of your own. Let yourself sit and be served. In ancient holy books, I find prosperity and abundance in my search for nectar. It is a sacred gift, both wild and domesticated, always luxurious and sweet. Surely delight can be dangerous, I feel the temptation lurking at every corner to let myself go in favor of earthly pleasures. What did he put in this wine? Maybe I’ve changed my mind. I’m exhausted by the ruinous demands of our hearts. Can’t we flee as we did from the ash of the torches extinguished by your father’s weeping? The need to fly in the face of any and every thing doesn’t necessarily mean freedom, though I heard you were a mortal lover and a serpent that bites with one or both eyes closed can look like the sweetest of beasts. Dearest Psyche, have you found out how the monster isn’t hiding under your bed, though he still hides in the dark? Not only kind things come with wings, a plague does too. Alas, to be a human lover. Like holding matches to a forest fire, I imagine someone trying to catch you. At least he deems you worthy of hanging on the wall. Did I forget to mention that Nabokov was a well-known collector of butterflies? Lepidopterist, light of my life, fire of my burning blaze. No one told me to be careful with your hot wax, your drop of oil, and I adore you to distraction. A touch of skin by trembling lashes—might I, clinging, catch wings by proxy, if only for a second. He wants what will also mean the very death of me. Or the becoming something else and more. Maybe the wild grass. For who says anything ends at dying. You can try to close your fist. See, I told you I was a no-good human.