Ganymede's Time-Loop
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by Julian Hand
GANYMEDE: Entertain, for a moment, the sound of pottery against stone- the crash, the hundred painted little pieces on the floor, clay bending to the floor like ocean waves break. Entertain the feeling of wind in your hair, as strange and as unfamiliar as clear skies, the force of it against you as you fall. Scuffle with the mountain as you tumble down it, dirty your clothes and feel the mud cake underneath your fingers, claw yourself to standing. Feel that swell in your chest like glory to the pan pipes and the trumpets and the joyful clamor of chains hitting marble like bells. Cry like a baby looking for his mother's arms. THE STORM: It's electric. It's over. GANYMEDE: Entertain, for a moment, the sound of pottery against stone- the crash, as strange and as unfamiliar as clear skies, the force of it against you, claw yourself to standing-- oh, familiar gilded cage. THE STORM: passes. GANYMEDE: Entertain, for a moment, the idea of disguise, a cloak as black as night draped over your shoulders, your face the rest of you. Entertain the ink seeping into your skin, letter to the queen of the place you'll never know, the rabbit-fast liar's latest truth. Sick of being halfway met, settle for the secondary option, better than nothing, better than no-one. You and her drink wine and she tells you about when she was your age or something similar, her feelings on pomegranates, you tell her about your dad. The scars on your thighs burn and go unmentioned. You drink, and loosely you let slip the caged bird's song. Feel the tile against your feet, the threshold like surface tension your hands like duck feathers you might never swim again. THE STORM: Sweeps you away. GANYMEDE: Lock yourself up and wish you were someone else. Dream of Nemesis and her blade, dream he might one day bleed, dream of your brothers and sisters, of horses. THE STORM: Again. GANYMEDE: Entertain nothing. Let it pass you by. Let your mind slip from your body and become what you've been-- a symbol, a trophy, a doll. The storm comes anyway. You dream of times before now. THE STORM: comes anyway. TROS & GANYMEDE: but the heart aches with the infection, TROS: It should have been me. GANYMEDE: This is the closest you will ever come to understanding your father The distance between you two is greater than you ever asked to know. It should have been me. This is the closest you will ever be with your father. THE STORM: Has killed him. GANYMEDE: Entertain the idea that one day you won’t feel the gap. In the meantime, entertain what you must. The peacock, her brilliant feathers, her terrible scorn, her claws dig into the fledgling, threaten to squeeze it lifeless. You watch with sickened fascination, the way the kaleidoscope skies make his blood look gold and beautiful. He comes back ten-fold, draped in the lion’s share, mane like laurels, blood vibrant like temple paint, the paws of his enemy hug him. His wings outstretch like thunderclouds, proud. He stands at the gates of your father’s land and suddenly- GANYMEDE & PRIAM: -you’re twelve and you’re standing in the field below Ida and the eagle circles overhead. GANYMEDE: PRIAM: You watch with wide eyes. You clutch your sister’s hand. A sheep grazes lazily at your side, The blood on your hands, the fire at your unbothered by the shadow above. back, they burn hotter than Hades, Rosy-fingered dawn greets your field last, GANYMEDE & PRIAM: casts the eagle in brilliant oranges and golds so bright they hurt your eyes, or perhaps you were crying before. GANYMEDE: PRIAM: Why? Your sister steps in front of you. Your brothers left you only for a moment. She outstretches her arm towards the eagle, in her free hand You squint. It’s bigger than any eagle you’ve ever seen. the flag of truce waving like a last resort, Golden, not quite like GANYMEDE & PRIAM: yellow, think of marriage, think of the sun. We do what we can, no? We had a good run. I feel you in me. I watch your face as the brother and sister called war take everything we’ve cared on. GANYMEDE: One day you won’t need to entertain anything, Bless this mortal earth beneath your feet. Scream to the tops of the trees, “I’ve been forgotten! The world is not mine; it never was! And the rain is just rain, a bird is just a bird, my skin is my own.” Let Ganymede, victorious, laugh in the face of the gods. Let him fall in the dirt, let him grow up, let him get drunker than manageable, and stumble his way towards a cab, and have to stop because he needs to vomit. Let him be more than a toy, let him be pleased and please as he wishes. Let Ganymede, victorious, act his fucking age. Julian Hand is an artist and writer based in Georgia. |