Anna M. Drzewiecki: “Stigmata at the Fish Market”
About this Work
“I looked too hard at the lobsters.” - Anna M. Drzewiecki
Stigmata at the Fish Market
PART I: RIGHT HAND
AT THE FISH MARKET, ON A TUESDAY, I RECEIVE THE STIGMATA.
[GASPS]
THERE’S A PULSE BETWEEN MY KNUCKLES. FLASHES OF CRIMSON. AND THE BROWN OF BLOOD. THE WET SMELL OF CONIFERS IN THE TAIGA. OF LOW GROWING FERNS.
THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME.
I DECIDE I SHOULD KEEP BETTER RECORDS.
[STARTS RECORDING]
HERE’S HOW IT HAPPENED AT THE FISH MARKET.
BEHIND THE COUNTER, THE MAN WITH THE ORANGE BEARD IS STRIPPING OFF HIS GLOVES. HE IS CUTTING FILETS OF HAKE OR HALIBUT. I BARELY NOTICE HIM, THOUGH WE SAID HELLO. HE PAUSES, HE LOOKS AT ME. HIS EYES.
“I NEED A MINUTE” I SAY, THOUGH I DO NOT.
ON THE ICE BED, THE NAKED SCALLOPS, THE FLOUNDER, THE SALMON, THE MUSSELS. OH, THE MUSSELS.
IT HITS. I DROP DOWN. MORE ACCURATELY: I DESCEND.
HE THINKS I AM TYING MY SHOE LACES? HE THINKS I AM TYING MY SHOELACES.
I WILL NOT TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. IT IS NOT WORTH IT. JUST PICTURE THIS: MY RIGHT HAND CLUTCHING THE TURQUOISE TANK, WHERE THE LOBSTERS PACE FRANTICALLY OVER ONE ANOTHER’S BODIES.
NOT BABY’S FIRST VISION. THE EXPLOSIVE ECSTASY OF THE INTERNAL IMAGE. MAKES YOU WANT TO PEEL OFF YOUR SKIN AND RUN AROUND RAW. I THINK ABOUT SNAKES AND CRUSTACEANS MOLTING. I THINK ABOUT MY THUMB AGAINST THE BACK OF A SOFT-SHELL CRAB.
WHEN I GET HOME TO THE APARTMENT, I SIT IN MY SHOES AND COAT BY THE WINDOW. FROM THE FLOOR, MY HEAD IS LEVEL WITH THE JUNGLE TABLE. THE CONSTRUCTED DOMESTIC BIOME. GERANIUM AND SORRELS AND SPIDER PLANTS. NERVE PLANT IN A SILVER TEAPOT, BURRO’S TAIL. IT IS SO WARM IN THE SUN.
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IF I AM GOING TO KEEP RECORDS, I SHOULD REALLY MAKE A POINT OF IT. WHAT WILL I CALL THEM, MY NOTES ON VISIONS? VISIONARY NOTES? A HAGIOGRAPHY? I LAUGH AT THIS. I LAUGH INTO THE GLASS WINDOW, THE ICED RIVER BEYOND IT, BLINDING ME WHEN I DARE TO LOOK BACK.
I LIE TO MY DOCTORS ABOUT THE PSYCHIATRIST. I TELL THEM NOT TO WORRY, THE APPOINTMENT IS NOT CANCELLED, JUST POSTPONED. WHY DO I TELL THEM NOT TO WORRY? WHY AM I CONSOLING THEM? WHAT KIND OF MOTE DO I MAKE WITH MY BODY, AND AROUND WHICH CASTLE? MOAT, NOT MOTE. E-MOTE. I CAN’T HELP BUT PICTURE THE TINY DIGITAL FLOW OF TINY DIGITAL WATER.
WHEN I SPOKE TO HER LAST, THE PSYCHIATRIST DEMANDED A BETTER RECORD. SHE WANTED THE JUICY DETAILS. BUT ORDERLY. ONLY SO LONG AS THEY DID NOT CONTRADICT.
CONTRA-DICT. I SPEAK AGAINST MYSELF AGAINST MYSELF.
THE RECORDS ARE FOR NO ONE, NOT EVEN MY BEST FRIEND’S FUTURE BIOGRAPHER.
ELECTRIC. CHEMIC. A DREAM BESTIARY. EROTIC, TIDAL. A SINE GRAPH, PARABOLIC. AQUATIC, LABYRINTHINE, PROPELLED.
I KEEP DRAFTING, KNOWING I MAY NEVER WRITE IT DOWN.
PART II: LEFT HAND
I AM NOT VERY RELIGIOUS.
ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA RECEIVED THE STIGMATA AT AGE 28. I LIKE ST. CATHERINE. I WEAR A PENDANT WITH HER FACE EMBOSSED IN GOLD. YESTERDAY, A FRIEND I HAD NOT SEEN IN MONTHS SAW ME IN THE NECKLACE. SHE ASSUMED IT WAS FROM A RELATIVE. IT IS NOT. I BOUGHT IT ON EBAY, FROM A WOMAN IN UPSTATE NEW YORK. SHE WAS ITALIAN THOUGH.
I LIKE ST. CATHERINE. I LIKE HER SHORN HAIR. I LIKE HER REFUSALS. HER DEVOTIONS. I EVEN LIKE HER SPIRITUAL FASTING, OR, HER ANOREXIA. I LIKE HER CONVULSIONS. I LIKE THE DIAGNOSTIC ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN SCIENTIFIC JOURNALS CENTURIES LATER, WITH TITLES LIKE ‘TEMPORAL LOBE EPILEPSY AND ANOREXIA NERVOSA IN ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA (1347-1380)’ BY PSYCHOLOGISTS WHO DO THE THING WHERE ONLY THEIR FIRST INITIAL IS VISIBLE. I FIND THIS HILARIOUS AND POETIC. RECENTLY I LEARNED OF HER ADVOCACY FOR THE CRUSADES. I DO NOT LIKE HER ADVOCACY FOR THE CRUSADES. AT ALL. I TRY TO HOLD THIS COMPLEXITY.
I HAVE A VISION FOR THE FIRST SCENE IN THE VERY FIRST FILM I HAVE NEVER MADE. IN THE SCENE, I WRAP A TOWEL AROUND MY HEAD AND FACE THE BATHROOM MIRROR. THE SKIN ON MY CHEEKS STILL WET. I COVER ALL MY HAIR. THE TOWEL PULLS THE SKIN ON MY FOREHEAD, I PULL THE TOWEL WITH THE SKIN ON MY HANDS. MY FINGERS. AVE MARIA. THE MIRROR IS FILMING ME. HOW TO FILM THIS, HOW TO LOOK INTO THE
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MIRROR AND STILL FACE THE CAMERA, SURGERY, HOW TO EXTRACT THE MIRROR FROM THE CAMERA. MY MOUTH. MY LIPS. I SING AVE MARIA LIKE THERE’S A GUN TO MY CROTCH. I SCREAM. I AM OPERATIC.
OR MAYBE IT IS NOT ME.
I GET TOO EXCITED TALKING ABOUT THE SAINT. I TELL R. THAT MY TATTOO IS FOR HER, IT’S THE FORESKIN OF JESUS THAT FELL ONTO HER. “OH.” R. LOOKS AT ME, RATHER PROFOUNDLY. R. CONTINUES TO WALK WITH ME, THOUGH SILENT.
THE GOLD IN RENAISSANCE PAINTINGS OF ST. CATHERINE ALWAYS REMINDS ME OF A CERTAIN KIND OF SHELL. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A PERIWINKLE THE COLOR OF YOUR OWN DEHYDRATED URINE? THEY WASH UP ON NORTHERN BEACHES.
I WALKED ALONE ON A NORTHERN BEACH ON MY BIRTHDAY LAST YEAR. IT WAS ON THE BALTIC COAST.
IN WARSAW, I LEAVE THE APARTMENT. I WALK FOURTEEN MILES EVERYDAY. I BLEED IN MY STIFF BLACK SANDALS. WHEN I GET BACK TO THE GATE WITH ITS STRANGE MAGNETIC BUTTONS, I LOOK UP AT THE FLAT. MALGOSIA IS GONE. SHE IS IN THE COUNTRY. I AM SUPPOSED TO SLEEP IN THE GUEST ROOM. I HAVE BEEN SLEEPING IN HER BED. I LOOK UP AT THE FLAT. I AM THERE WAITING TO GREET MYSELF, IN A SHORT BLUE SWEATER AND MATTED HAIR. THERE ARE PEONIES THAT NEVER BLOOMED IN A VASE BY THE ENTRYWAY, BEHIND ME, WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR TO THIS STRANGER.
I BROKE THE SPELL. I BROKE THE SPELL?
I HAVE NOT BROKEN THE SPELL.
ON NEW YEAR’S EVE, I CONVULSE AGAIN. I CONVULSE ALL THE WAY INTO 2022.
I AM AGNOSTIC TOWARDS THE DIAGNOSTIC. I TRY TO RECOUNT, FOR THE RECORDS OR NOT. ALL MY WORDS FEEL AS PROTRACTED AS THE LENS ON MY BINOCULARS.
I WALK HER TO THE WORD: ABYSSAL. SHE THINKS IT IS VERY ORIGINAL. WE DRINK GIN WITH SOME KIND OF SYRUP, KNEES AGAINST THE WHITE ACRYLIC TABLE. LEAN BACK, SHE SAYS. LEAN BACK.
THERE IS ANOTHER WORD THOUGH. NOT ENLIGHTENMENT. NOT ECSTASY. NOT ENTRANCED. RUPTURE? NOT RUPTURE. BUT YES, A RUPTURE.
I FINALLY RECALL THE WORD: RAPTURE. I REMEMBER BECAUSE I AM WATCHING RAPTORS DIP IN AND OUT OF THE BLUE HARBOR. SOME SEA SMOKE AND BOATS.
RAPIDS. TO BE DESCRIBED BY AN ADJECTIVE ALONE.
I GOOGLE SCUBA DIVING SCHOOLS FOR THE FIFTH TIME IN AS MANY DAYS. I MUST LEARN HOW TO DIVE.
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PART III: HEART
VISIONS OF—
I. THE HORSE
II. THE SURFACE (WATER)
III. THE RAFT
IV. THE LAWN CHAIR (YARD BANGS BOOMBOX)
V. THE TATTOO
VI. THE BOOK (THE BOOKS)
VII. THE BONFIRE
VIII. H.
IX. THE MIRROR
X. THE TAPEWORM (MISCARRIAGE)
XI. THE SNOW (DEATHBED)
XII. THE LION
XIII.THE SEA LION (SOPHIA)
XIV.THE OSPREY (THE SILK ROBE )
XV. THE CILICE (THE DYKE)
XVI.THE INTERVIEW
XVII. THE BURNING WHITE LIGHT
PART IV: LEFT FOOT
I AM TRYING TO KEEP BETTER RECORDS AND FAILING AT MY OWN DIRECTIVE. I SAVOR THE PARTICULARS TOO MUCH. ‘HORSE’ IS JUST A SIGNIFIER, A CONTAINER.
IS THERE LANGUAGE FOR THE LIQUID PLACE I BELONG TO WHEN I STOP BELONGING HERE?
I AM STILL HOPEFUL. LANGUAGE IS ALSO THE SMELL OF CUT GRASS.
MOST LINKS ON THE ANIMAL LIBERATION FRONT’S WEBSITE LEAD TO THE WAY BACK MACHINE, THE PLACE WEBSITES GO TO DIE DIGITAL DEATHS. THE SADDEST PART IS HOW HARD IT IS FOR THEM TO DISAPPEAR. I SEARCH FOR ANYTHING ON HUNT SABOTEURS THAT DOES NOT LEAD BACK TO WIKIPEDIA. I HAVE SEEN A FOX. A FILM STILL. LIKE ONE SINGLE PHOTOGRAPH. BROWN AS GLASS, COLORED WITH TITANIUM.
THE ASTROLOGIST TOLD ME I WAS ONCE A SELF-FLAGELLATING NUN. THAT WAS SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO. OR THEREABOUTS. I ONLY KNEW SHE WAS RIGHT WHEN I MET THE WITCH. MY CHEST SPLIT OPEN LIKE A FRUIT. I HEARD THE CRUNCH OF MY RIBS OVER THE FIONA APPLE PLAYLIST AND E.’S SMALL TALK. THE WITCH LOOKED ME DEAD. DEAD IN THE COSMIC HEART.
THE NOT-WITCH. FREUD’S NOT-MOTHER. TAXIDERMY AS THE NOT-ANIMAL, THE NOT CREATURE. THE NOTS’ ADJACENT PRESENCE. OBLIQUE PRESENCE. OTHER PRESENCE.
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SHE REFUSED TO LEAVE ME ALONE. WE GOT COFFEE. HER PLASTIC BOTTLE OF PERRIER KEPT FALLING OFF THE TABLE. “STOP DOING THAT,” SHE SAID. I NEVER TOUCHED THE BOTTLE.
YOU KNOW YOU CAN TRACK A POLAR BEAR ONLINE? YOU CAN SEE EVERYWHERE THE CREATURE HAS BEEN, FOR MONTHS.
SHE WAS A TRACKER. SHE WANTED SOMETHING FROM ME. SHE WANTED MY LIGHT. THAT’S WHAT A. SAID WHEN I CALLED HER. ALL I SAID WAS “HELP.”
I COMPOSED A NEW MANTRA: TURN TOWARDS YOUR INTENSITY. IT FELT RIGHT. IN THE KITCHEN, I PERFORMED MY MANTRA FOR MY FRIENDS. THEY DIDN’T GET IT. THEY ASKED ME WHAT IT MEANT.
THE GERANIUM LEAVES ARE THE MOST EXQUISITE SYNTHESES I HAVE EVER SEEN. I COULD DIE NOW. HAVING SEEN THESE GERANIUM LEAVES. EACH ONE TURNED PRECISELY TOWARDS THE SUN. FULL SPREAD.
TRANCES.
THERE IS A PARTICULAR MEME OF AN AIRBRUSHED WOMAN WITH HER ASS UP TO THE SKY. LET THE LIGHT IN!!! REMEMBER WHEN PERINEUM SUNNING WAS PROMOTED AS A WELLNESS TRICK? HOW CLOSE WE MIGHT HAVE COME TO SELLING SUNLIGHT. AND PEOPLE STILL CAN’T WRAP THEIR HEADS AROUND EXTINCTIONS.
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DREAM AN ANIMAL THAT IS EXTINCT? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THAT?
STILL SEARCHING FOR CRACKS IN THE DELUDED NORM.
I PICTURE A BONFIRE BEHIND ME. NOT ACTUALLY. I FEEL ITS HEAT AND ITS BRIGHTNESS. IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO FIGURE OUT IT WAS THERE.
I THINK ABOUT BON-FIRE LIKE A GOOD FIRE, LIKE A BONBON.
SNAP. THE SOUND I WANT MY SPINE TO MAKE WHEN I TURN TOWARDS THE LIGHT. FULL-TWIST. PARANORMAL. CAMPY. A REAL CAMPY TURN. INSTEAD, IT WAS A WHEN I TURNED TOWARDS MY INTENSITY, I TURNED TOWARDS THE SUN, WHICH HAPPENED TO BE A BONFIRE . HOW HEAT CAN BE SO SICKLY AND SO CLEANSING AT ONCE. OH, HOW THE HEAT. SNAP.
I STILL MISS THE TAIL WHERE THE SPINE PETERS OUT.
PART V: RIGHT FOOT
[INHALES, STOPS SPEAKING]
[HOW TO WRITE CATATONIC MUTISM—IS THAT AN APPROPRIATE THING TO SAY?] 5
[TO NOT SAY—FINGERS PULSING DEAD MEAT, THE BUTCHER ACROSS FROM THE FISH MARKET, WITH ITS SIGN ‘NO ANIMALS’]
[LOBSTERS AS CRUCIFIX, AS DEAD JESUS]
[HANIA TALKING ABOUT THE LOBSTERS AS CRUCIFIX, AS DEAD JESUS] [NOT WRITING ANY OF THIS—THIS IS MY NOT-WRITING]
[PICTURE MY BODY IN BLOOD + COATED IN SCALES—ARE THEY MORE INDIGO OR SILVER? NEON? GOLD?]
[WHAT DID I LOOK LIKE TO THE FISHMONGER? WAS HE WATCHING, DID HE MIND? AND IF I GO BACK, WHEN I GO BACK, WILL HE OFFER ME SOME SACRAMENTS?]
[TAKE BACK THE PLASTIC BIN FOR RECYCLING—TAKE BACK THE TRANCE] [A WOMAN IN A PINK SNOWSUIT—ON THE BRIDGE—SHE IS TALKING TO A LOON] [AND SO MANY—SEAGULLS]
[I AM GETTING CLOSER TO AN ICONOGRAPHY THAT TRANSLATES—BUT INTO WHAT EXACTLY]
[THE RAIN CAME IN FLASHES—THE RAIN CAME SUDDENLY—I FORGOT TO WRITE ABOUT THE RAIN BEFORE—I DUCKED INTO THE FISH MARKET FOR SCALLOPS AND SHELTER— FROM THAT RAIN]
[OR WAS IT JUST HOT LIGHT, SUDDENLY AND UNBEARABLY VISCOUS ON MY GARMENTED BODY? I WAS WALKING—I WAS DRESSED IN SOME COTTONS, FLEECE, AND FUR—THE SYNTHETIC KIND OF FLEECE—NOT GOLDEN]
I HAD NOWHERE TO BE.
[BURPS, SURPRISED, EYES WIDEN THEN SHUT, HITS THE SCREEN TO STOP RECORDING, BUT THE PHONE HAS DIED]
[INHALES, SIGHS]
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