Letter to a Future Lover by Ander Monson

Letter to a Future Lover by Ander Monson

Author:Ander Monson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55597-338-4
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Published: 2014-07-03T16:00:00+00:00



—D. H. Rawcliffe, Illusions and Delusions of the Supernatural and the Occult (The Psychology of the Occult), Dover Publications, 1959 (BF 1031.R3 1959)

Found inside: an envelope, or a photo of one, or a sort of photorealistic drawing of one, white on a black card, covered by a gritty dust, and hard not to think a specter evanescing from the book, a sort of joke, one thinks, investigations of the occult tough to take seriously except that statistics show more than half of Americans believe there are things beyond what we can see and touch: angels, for instance; demons, ghosts. Waking fears include the haunt of terrorism or infidelity, or our children taken without trace while we were sexting our sexy exes, how we failed as parents as evident as anything on our faces, and the dreamlike litany of the things we could have done, the ways we might have paid more attention, fixing our lives around their stars, immobile until the gravity’s gone. Also the spells of drugs, elision of waking life and dream, online predators or exes found on Facebook after decades of embedded, superpowered fantasy. Photographs of axes gleaming along barn walls in rural Michigan, evidence of hard work or else cultists, pervasive satanic ritual from the 1980s. The nuclear melt: our faces sloughing off in dreams. The labrys, the double-bladed ax that lends its name to the labyrinth where we bury what’s most important to us. The ghosts we fuck and are fucked by at night when we leave our consciousnesses at the door. Whatever’s hidden in the basement, the casement window sound wound through the empty home on windy nights is evidence enough of what’s beyond, killers, maybe, rapists, or the sublime, or both, and god we know there must be field beyond field after this, something must come after this, because this cannot be all, and if we wait and nothing does, if all our demon dreams are random chemical fire filtered through the sieve of brain that must make meaning out of everything, then what?

Even now we try to chide it, shut it off, the fear of nothingness, the fear of somethingness, bad habits, blood trails on snow into the winter carnival maze where the girl was killed, we fail so slowly in this way: into the boring dreams of our common age, to be so typical, the limited range of sexual fantasies and frustrations or, worse, the loss of those drives into slowly draining swimming pools our teenage daughters tan themselves alongside, gorgeously courting cancer, and it’s hard not to fear them too, those girls, ourselves, bearing drawings of envelopes addressed to us and sent from the beyond. Inside are the secret things we punch down below memory, those we failed and how, our wailings, where the trails led in our childhood yards, our wallings-off, the screens we throw up in front of the world to keep it off our lawns, away from our homes, the


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