Fidelitoria: Fixed or FluxPlaylist by Candice Wuehle
FIDELITORIA: FIXED OR FLUX navigates interior landscapes, personal cosmology, and the manner in which language shapes our being and being shapes our language via acts of séance, tarot, alchemical interpretation, and psychoanalysis. These are poems written in the wild swing of the scrying stone, poems that ask how to create an identity in the way of perpetual change, constant self-interrogation, and ever shifting psychogeography. What does it mean to live in the orb of uncertainty? To be neither here nor there, neither fixed nor fluxed?
Another savory feeling in my mouth. Starless solstice morning. My dad Drops me At high school And I’m alone Again. It’s a snow day. I don’t care. I go to the dark room. I love the empty Gymnasium, journalism room. It’s ok. The janitor is also here and he has a set of keys and will give me access If I find him. I would have come Anyway. Me and dad don’t listen to radio in the morning. We don’t check in. It takes 15 years to stop dreaming of that day. I have to divorce a whole man to make the dreams stop. A whole one. Women can learn to swim now. I know that’s a dumb thing to say/ I say dumb things. I let people think I’m dumb. Stay safe. I love to be alone And I love to live underwater. I quit getting out of bed To go to high school/ Dad said whatever. Said/ end it early/ On to the next. And I did. Only I dreamed for 15 years. A whole one. In June I didn’t wonder what happened/ but now I wonder what happened. One thing you can’t do Is go back and draw the cards in the time before You knew how/ To draw. Most people I draw for are the same and draw the same: Energy. PAGE OF WANDS, CHARIOT, TOWER. I see the TOWER all the time. The rule of this poem Is I can’t give Advice/ okay? I want to say /Like/ only watch Diabolique with another woman You love in that one style /You know/ You can image her bursting Into gossamer scarves You let her wash her blood Y whites in your washer. Well, I won’t/ I’ll exit and say me and best-friend Watched Bewitched and never talked about Why. If I have to play Talent I still twitch My nose. Sincerely. A little of the h o t c h i t o t c h i b u n g a t o c h i is all I’ve got. Have you heard the phrase w o r k Your m a g i c?
Have you ever met a little boy Who found out Where babies Come from in the worst way possible? You can’t usually betwitch one of those. Bewitch. I don’t know myself or you / Very well. Wind wind water fire. I’ve been the President Of the Hierophant Haters Club This year. I’m so sick Of answers. Remember the episode Of The Simpsons when Bart finds a pregnancy test And also makes conceptual art? I’m not bragging But I’m an air sign. All I think about Is my right relation to others. Agamben says/ Gossip is the personal truth Which heals us. Geramium neroli melissa sandalwood Balm balm balm balm. That episode was important. Homer explained museums Keep the art away Because we hate it so much.
Has anyone ever asked you where your favorite place in the world is? If a man asks you this And THE WORLD And THE 2 OF CUPS or LOVERS Appear in your spread Some readers insist the rings of Saturn As expressed in the bounded Capricornian WORLD Will bind you to him. It wasn’t JANE AUSTEN AND THE MASTURBATING GIRL it was Something else where Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick says/ The best thing is to have no karma. Good or bad. Saturn Is the planet of invisible reins, retribution, it takes 28-30 years To circle. My favorite place was the black cylinder Which sealed the light So it never touched The gelantized papers flopped over in The 20 chemical baths. I went there in the middle Of that day Just to stand And breathe In the dark. / / / It was THE WEATHER IN PROUST. / / / The roads are iced up. The walls are made of tin. This is like being undeveloped film. I’m 17. I’m a platinum blonde Woman already. I don’t know what is going To develop But I do/ Really. I do occult Things in the cylinder. I can see Later/ later than now I will have to cover mirrors. Victoriana. To experience hatred I go to auctions And watch other women Buy the guilt-edged objects I want. If I throw the cards right now/ All PENTACLES. I was a mummy for Halloween As a child/ all Pins and tissue. I always came undone In an embarrassing way. Now I sleep the same. I tell men this Like it’s a warning In the worst way possible I say/ I sleep as if in a Grave Hands crossed Across my chest. Don’t undo me. Later When spring comes Best-friend starts calling Before dawn To tell me to Remember to come To high school, to spirit Assembly. I wonder If Sedgwick wrote on the tarot. If it breaks the affective sphere/ Ungoverns it gainfully/ you can call affect the secretion Which appropriates the future. I’d like to really end this. Let’s just read Žižek's cards. A sleeping draught/ Dream from late afternoon to dark. Gold sparks come from My solar plexus/ I get up. Sage. Sage. Amethyst on the edges of the deck: WHAT COVERS HIM/ ████████████ HIS OBSTACLES/ ████ WHAT CROWNS HIM/ █████████████ WHAT IS BENEATH HIM/ ██████ WHAT IS BEHIND HIM/ ██████████ WHAT IS BEFORE HIM/ ████████████ WHAT SIGNIFIES HIM/ ███████ WHAT SIGNIFIES HIS HOUSE/ ████████ HIS HOPES AND FEARS/ █████████████ WHAT WILL COME/ ██████ THAT WHICH UNDERLIES ALL/ ██████████ Energy and actuation/ No cups/ Inverted WANDS indicate bad faith. Bad messages. An entire element is missing. DEATH can negate this/ Rosebush in aftertimes. Underlying all is a teacher in a cathedral. I make it Through One last spring and 18 days of autumn. Everyone starts reciting the Auden that goes The lights must never go out/ The music must always play. The music must always play. The music must always play. The music must always play. The music must always play. I meet my husband He asks me if I thought there was But two or three pronunciations of the sound of my own name? I know that part is already Over. I draw The 3 OF SWORDS And I draw the inverted EMPRESS. I draw THE STAR/ Also. I draw
Everything the same Again.
Adult best-friend texts And asks if we’re going To meet our 2nd husbands at the bar tonight. Only the FOOL Can protect From the DEVIL. I thank I thank I thank For my MB in Atlanta For my PJR in Munich For my SZ in Iowa City For my ARB in New Orleans For my RM in Philadelphia For the cylinder. In which no must arose Only Absorptions of others Echoes.
I’m not asking For another snow day. I’m saying
/ / / / / / / / / / / It is okay / / / / / / / / / / /
I myself am
There are only a few lives I think you really could have done justice: deposed dictator, abused queen. The night our cat’s body is cremated, he informs me your response to the death reflected exactly your mother’s response to the death of her husband. She lost all composure. No, No, no, no, no.
I never told you this. It is Take Your Daughter to Work Day and I am reading a Sweet Valley Twins book when he taps my knee and smiles, points to the mouth of the telephone to the coast he is speaking to. Lifts a finger, and lets it drop. Then he rages. I laugh. He just flipped a switch.
My hands are my slaves. I protect and care for them and in return they articulate my will for me. What does Life mean to you who with your hands do not even brush your own hair? My slaves work past exhaustion. Shake and weaken. Send strong distress to the bicep, to the cervical centers and still I won’t let them down. I once lived under a bar called Ground X: so much slapping.
In your last texts you finally revel in apology: CAND, LOVEU LUVON5 I MESSED UP. You are the last one left who knows how to make me open my mouth to slavver nothing, who knows how to hang.
You said I was the only woman you ever knew well who was certain of her life and I wondered if you meant to invent your own monster just to meet me. I implore myself to imagine myself as you were in the aisle of St. Mary’s the afternoon of your mother’s funeral, a sibling upholding you on either side. If I knew you well I would tell you at the axis of my life, there is nothing. No hinge to come unhinged, from. Instead I imagine my first beautiful acting master repeating these words: Your feet are on the floor Your feet are on the floor Your feet are on the floor and you in the impossible audience a pile of unblown ash, odd Last Ember.
Dear, I talk less. Crowds happen and effort. Luck makes the words that cause listening. In the enclosure I wait for anyone to say in order there are only two possibilities and then I do it carefully. In the nail care salon a woman from a state I was once in told the television doctor she was held in a cellar for ten years. I put on an iPod and listened to Bruce Springsteen and paid money and left. It is fine to never experience murder emotions. To have medium-feelings. I am a thin woman. I can slip out of many constructions, I slipped out of that. In German I have long been a machine only to now be dead. How? Each completed digit creamed in bronze, lacquered decay and I think to say that when she saw her self styled in a mirror that woman thought her hair was beautiful. Fine. I too seek even now.
Dear, It means not twisting your head to look at your own back.
Dear, I write to tell you I saw a Ouija run in reverse. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Z Y X W V U T S R Q P O N M L K I want idiot words: learned helplessness. In the clearing I tell the story of your last telephone call. You said violence. I was in a Borders, I said I’m calling your twin. I am unavailable to you. I heard the Podcast: Dangerously Unqualified Dating Disasters which our friend now airs with whom you stayed that day in the city just today. My trapezius has ached since the yes-yes device.
Dear, Re-present your ear when slapped and the slapping is no longer an assaulting.
Dear, Are you an asterisk off the Word I used oftener once? Questions like the above are why star wishes are criminal. We cannot fall through space. I could step into a closet and close the door and after three days and two hours and six minutes step out and say that was three days and two hours and six minutes. No I couldn’t. I couldn’t know how much longer I’ve been here. I could if space were a through-construct; if when trapped I did not relapse and answer double.
Dear, I try to feel formal pressure but there isn’t enough. I have a wig which looks like my own hair I never wear it out. Not anything could make me send. Not all the arms, not any soldier in this zone. Anything could make me
Dear, Anything could make me want to add an end. Tend my life through amendment. I have avoided rule and offers and am still prosecuted by subject desire. The man who answers his mail can call it love. Never call one crushed royalty. Easy descent to indicative.
Dear, Life is for jobs and so What is the World For? Days. Days of effort until the original poem surfaces through a search engine.
Dear, To answer your text: it’s off to be returned. I saw a child in a mask with another mask with another mask with another mask. So many straps. I didn’t think of you, I thought of me. What drag—an after-event that won’t occur without the other — no, more like popular radio: I’m survivin’.
Dear, In the museum there is just one ash-man. One is all I need to remember all the space is not mine. My body is getting better at being my own. I’ve been breathing. Anyway I can and won’t erase your address despite you not not needing to erase mine over there not any time away, not needing to say: Dear, it’s the lungs and it isn’t the air, it isn’t count. I mean cut off the supply, I’m
My car must stop nine times before the Recreation & Wellness Center. All I really believe is in the center Of all other rings, an Emptiness. A workshop On Intuitive Eating is occurring, I Am also. Modern physicians Prescribe premeditated mindfulness But even the sauna is not safe For me. I am a waxen wicket. I have Illegible energy; I was once a poet Now I am a Burden. I mean I cannot not Restart. In the locker Room, there are no keys, Only those with quarters. Is it possible A drift like me expects nothing From another? I am often Alone, expect to exceed farther From any established eros, agape. 1000 miles From my imagined garden. All I really believe is act as if there Is no centre. Often, I desire A fence to float through, An institution to respect. Often I stretch and pleasure. Often I keep Repeating myself until I myself transfigure into my own archival instance. This one is my one act of artistry. On the treadmill’s loop I become my own Other and intuitively, I feel I know what it must have been to be the last good militia-man, A vault of chemicals even-stepping the squares Asking all others for identification Often asking also myself and honor-bound To endure a self-set curfew. Oh, yes. In this expenditure, I feel The foundation-fixed face I want to want and have Evacuating, sweating As the aura of the second asserts, Incomprehensible belief babbling That she is composed Of only words And will be awake all night And in any circlet of—obsidian, aluminum, inorganic—glass I will distinguish This un-cored brain. This matters. This chatter does not fill Hours, only Cities, suggests There is no inner Petal, and if no bloom Perhaps no Paradiso, and perhaps if there is no Center here, there is simply No inferno
Sort of error. My real hair, unhinged from my head. Was I a blonde-girl anymore or an experimental light, a way for others to see through water, ashes? I have already said what I am afraid of. Yonder. I ask my father on the other end about procession, peaceful parting: Candie, keep yourself and give your things. He means give up, give way. Keep falling from windows in order to assure the greatness of your own height, if only to be the wreck of your own pure lightness. Only on a second story hotel balcony, bonds can be broken with the world one can come to skim, to see as surface. Chlorinated, incalculable current unbearable without tallied reflections. Stop. In the rented room’s mirror, the face I deserve and under- neath, another atmosphere I have never endured: I doubt it is oceanic, operable by infallible salts or expanse of warm blues, cool blues. An indigo, a lapis, a lazuli. Instead I suspect a smallness No—a clarity No—a clarity No—a clarity, A cross at a crossing, A dryness delivering, upending as does specifically dirt in demand of a grave. Just a thin yield, as earth under blade, giving to pressure within freeze, shale. I know the odd dumb organ breaks beneath my breasts, never showing and only even aware of itself because of the occasioned hand pushing back my hair to comment I can hear your self. Have I already said what I am afraid of; I have already tried to fuse this, this bare flicker nude synapse