A Plasm


A desire to live as more than one species is a protest against the stinginess of genetic inheritance, but how feeble. Fine to imagine myself manbat or merman, and stitch words and surgeries to make a multicarnal carnival, but natural law in the end forbids the survival of hybrids. Strange, because if our souls could step out into view for a minute, take a turn on stage, we could see a whole life history written there in the form of spiritual gills, spines, brains, tails, coattails.

Perfectly fitted inside my plasm, my physical cavern, is my ghost, translucent as Casper. Not actually a perfect fit because the head is antlered, in honor of the diversity of life and in apology to the several deer (not a lot) that my father shot down in the mountains of Utah and we ate at the kitchen table in Salt Lake. From such celebrations it’s not hard to move down the path of shamanism (in my case via mormonism and magic) to the Gundestrup Cauldron and its depiction of the horned god. My own spiritual antlers are newer than that, still in ghostly velvet, but are growing, growing, heliotropic, rooted in the brain.

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