Guest post by Nathalie Bléser, part three in a series of 5
At Jennifer’s Monday Writing Session, you are first invited to listen to the seven rules. Rule number seven is that there are no rules. Also, we are allowed seven minutes to write stories. Maybe that’s why the vintage mirror in her space took me back to a time when I was seven years old? Out of the blue, I am remembering that the seventh prophecy Moctezuma received before the coming of the Spaniards was delivered by a bird resembling a black crane. Its head bore a mirror where the Aztec emperor saw his people fighting among themselves. Do the Vulcan salute and Spocks appearance in the mirror, hopping dimensions in this reminder of the Aztec Smoking Mirror, mean that I need to take care of the feminine from the Mexican past? I will let Jennifer’s prompts pave the way to my literary mission.
The first writing exercise of that Halloween night is a classic: we pick one of the single-word prompts from the table. I choose the word “hunt” because it might be good for me to work on a concept which my inner contradictions still struggle with. But here comes a trick: we have to exchange our first pick with the person next to us, so I trade “hunt” for “enchant”. This New Mexico lover, unafraid of its clichéd nickname, is rather delighted about the switch. The new prompt leads me to a trilingual piece that plays with the last four letters of enchant-ment. In French, “ment” means “[(s)he] is lying”. Something to do with the Translator Traitor? The next prompt will give me more hints. As we listen to a song we must write along. The title of the song is Let the Mystery Be. I do let it be, and the pen runs on paper to produce something that only partly feels mine:
Let the Mystery be / Let it be / under its mask / and also without it / Let it feed you / nurture you / carry you / and whisper to your ear… / All its tricks / if you’re strong enough / are indeed treats / as sweet as Heaven’s nectar / from Life’s precious tree… / Sure, to reach such bliss / you’ll have to walk naked / at least 3 Halloween days and nights / in what others might call Hell / Hell no! / Even if you’re knocked out for a bit / by a downpour of fire and ice pounding on you / know that all those ice spheres are true sky sapphires / here to oxygenate your mind’s atmosphere / Stretch your legs as you wander in wonder and awe / at how long it took to finally let your brain frolic along the corn pollen line / the smooth golden cut that faked a big divide between your two hemispheres / He-mi-spheres / Hey-Me-‘Sin’-Fears… / I know how to make them whole again / Full circle / full gear / full sphere / holding fast to Mystery.
The mysterious thread woven under a dark New Moon pulls us under a new light in which our text must begin with… There was no Moon.
There was no Moon / no Falling Leaves Moon / no Hunter’s Moon / no Blood Moon… /-Well, let’s not get too graphic here, yuck! / -…You know what? F…rack that! / Go back to the womb of the Earth / to remember that she’s the mother / and we, women, / barren or full, / mothers to humans or ghouls, / are extremely powerful / no longer scared but sacred / when on our moon. / So don’t give me your crap ever again / of ‘No Moon or Sun Allowed’! / I embrace my moon / I embrace my Sky / I worship my blood / which remembers its birth / nurtures the Earth / gives strength to the warrior… / So you, pathetic excuse for a fading conquistador / Do not ever forbid me again / to touch the eyelids and hair / of my Mother the Earth / when I’m on my moon / Because, yes, there was a Moon / there is a Moon / and there will always be a Moon / to remind me of my Goddess power / my poem garden / my Mercury scrying ball / having a ball as she sees me / smiling at her there above / smiling back at me below.
The “pathetic excuse for a fading conquistador” that showed up in this seven-minute story is not (entirely) a figure from History. He is the very familiar embodiment of Spanish machismo that once invaded my life story. But I can’t help feeling there’s something else, something more, something ancient, bigger and deeper that led me to feel another woman’s anger against the prohibitions of machismo’s archetype… For now though, we are being asked to respond to Neruda’s Book of Questions: “Why do my faded clothes flutter like a flag? Am I sometimes evil or am I always good? Do we learn kindness or the mask of kindness?” All I can see as I let my pen go with the flow of automatic writing is a pink bearded mask that gives me the creeps and a Llorona-like silhouette whose long white gown endlessly flutters along silent rivers. Again I am reminded of a prophetic nightmare in which Moctezuma saw la Llorona crying for her lost children before Tenochtitlán-México fell, partly because of the coming of the Conquistadors… I deliver the last poem of the night and off we are in the noche burqueña.
That Monday Writers Session took place two years and a half ago, and only now have I heard loud and clear the feminine voice who wanted to break her long silence and speak through my virtual plume. She is the so-called “Malinche” and so-called mistress of Hernán Cortés. Her real name was Malinalli Tenépatl, Braided Herb / Talkative One (Skunk’s Lip). She was called Malintzin by the indigenous peoples of the Mexican Gulf Coast, and baptized Doña Marina by the Spaniards. At first she could not pronounce the Spanish ‘r’ and called herself Malina. Ever since that Halloween session of Jennifer’s Monday Writers when her spirit arrived in New Mexico, Malina knocked on my soul’s door to try to give her version of the story of the conquest. That night she traveled all the way from the “navel of the moon”, symbolic name of Mexico, to Albuquerque, the mouth of the giant’s head in New Mexico, to ask me to write on her behalf. I was quite deaf for some time, but now my heart’s ears are open to channel some words from her. I am eager to hear and write what Malina wishes to say to the world…
Do stay tuned to see where this story lands…..