The Harder You Throw it, the Closer to You it Falls.

A word about Contranyms. A word that contains its own opposite. Bound, Cleave, Sanction, Secrete, Quiddity, Buckle, Bolt, and Trim. I have a thing for them. My memories are intense like they have been written in tiny ink, hot and gold, and seared along the insides of my skin. I remember primary school and my little notebooks. And the scent of my new textbooks all six or seven or eight of them bundled in rubber band and pressed against my chest by my little hand. I remember learning things such as Mineral Resources and the great giant pyramids of Groundnuts in Kano, Nigeria’s north. I remember Grammar and I remember strange things, relationships between words. Synonym. Antonym. Homonym. Contranym.

As a child I liked antonyms. How my mind travelled the distance between difference. Black to White. Cold to Hot. Woman to Man. Later I will learn the greater power of antonyms, which resides in analogy, which resides in alchemy which is about collapsing the distance of difference. From Putrefactio Black to Albedo White, from Saturnine Cold to Solar Hot, from the White Queen to the Red King. From base lead to bright gold. A conjunction of antonyms giving you something magical to behold, something as potent as god.

Amour feels full of antonym. Indeed, love poetry, Petrarch’s particularly, is built on Cupid’s power to place us in the power of contrary things: ice and desire, cold hearts and tender loins on fire. Petrarch’s pleas: I burn, I freeze. Désire does such things, born of the distance between lover and beloved. The greater the distance, the greater the desire. I cannot have you and it sets my soul on fire. Coitus, the consummation of our Cupido, is the commencement of contranym. In coitus we cleave. Arms bound around our bodies. After coitus we cleave, break our embrace as we leave, bound for our day-to-day, our separate individual ways.

Contranyms are Janusian and are thus placed under the aegis of Janus, the two-faced god. One face young, the other old; one face looks to the future, while the past is all the other can behold. Patron of passages, doorways and duality, transitions and time. He reminds me of another deity one who long fascinated me and one who along with Janus can be said to be the patron of contranym.

…

When I was eleven my favourite person in the whole world, my Uncle, gave me a birthday present. He had lived in Paris in his late teens. He played the piano. He wore wine-red bow ties. Like me, he was quirky. We both loved Shakespeare. He was the first person in the whole world who told me about Oscar Wilde.

Nuncle promised to lend me his copy of Wilde’s complete works. Instead, he gifted it to me. It was an old, old book with strange, fantastic illustrations. They chilled me… I decided I didn’t like them. Especially the one of a woman clutching a decapitated head as it bled down into a black stream. I tried to read The Picture of Dorian Gray. I devoured the fairy tales. “The Nightingale and the Rose” still makes me cry till today.

One afternoon on a school excursion to a strange field I looked for a nice place to sit hidden away from my teachers so I could read the book nuncle had given me. There was a small rickety bench. I walked toward it and discovered a hidden entrance to the side. I walked through the airy open metal gate to find a courtyard, large with a small square of earth at its centre where stood a tall grass shrub. I smelt the plant. It was lemon grass. I looked up and saw these paintings on the wall. I walked around the courtyard and studied these large murals. I recognized some of them. I knew the burly man dressed in red, wielding an axe, with fire coming out of his mouth was Sango, the god of thunder. I recalled watching a Yoruba film with my grandmother and kind of laughing at the “special effects” where they show a highly pixelated digital fire coming out of the young virile actor’s mouth. I giggled. A woman painted with golden ornaments and a yellow dress. Duh, that’s Osun, the beautiful goddess of joy and sensuality. I didn’t know anyone else. My Yoruba was non-existent and hasn’t improved much since then, I’m afraid. I couldn’t pronounce the names of the other faces, nor place them. I had schemed my way into solitude to reread “The Nightingale and the Rose” in my Oscar Wilde anthology yet there I was mystified by these strange paintings on the wall. 

Was there a sudden laugh or did my memory at some time insert this?

I heard rather than saw the smiling young man. It was strange. Where the other gods and goddesses looked serious and sombre he had a wide grin. He was laughing. And it was weird. It was… a man, but it had soft feminine features like a pretty woman. Anyway, his hat was definitely curious. Funny, it was like a winter cap but elongated and flopped theatrically to the side. Silly. The ick-inducing thing was his toothy grin. Wide and inappropriate. Inappropriate because he was alive and informal and jovial in a way the other deities were not. Almost mocking their gravitas. I didn’t like his grin. And his smooth girly face. And the menace in his dark eyes. And the name written in red: Esu. 

“Let’s go.”

I remember the sky grew dark. It may have already been dark. How long was I standing there? It feels like I am still standing there though memory fades the scene fuzzing out everything except, his hat, his toothy grin, and his name.

“Let’s go!”

I realized my teacher, Mrs. Oni, was calling out to me, running towards me, at the same moment I registered the plop of rain on my forehead, then the fat drop against my eye, that made me blink out of my reverie, then the torrent. A sudden splash that soaked my jade jersey which clung like second skin to me. Her large white shirt was animated by fierce wind.  She grabbed my wrist and we headed into the large school bus. I shivered into a seat by the window. Clutching Wilde and fearing the sear on my soul – the smile of Esu.

…

He goes by different names. I guess the Greeks called him Hermes. The Romans, Mercurius. The Yoruba call him Esu. The Haitians, Papa Legba. To the Germans he is Wotan. To the Christians, the Evil One. To the Alchemists, Our Mercury.

…

In the Benin myth, in the beginning was boredom and the one God sunk in his self and his solitude. He had an idea to create, to emanate, and he made six gods and endowed them with specific forces and fates. One was given the power of lightening and thunder, the other the power of infectious diseases, the other the mysteries of iron and vegetation, the other the mysteries of the white cloth and purity, the other the secrets of the erotic and the life-giving powers of fresh water, the other the mysteries of the ocean and the seas and all the creatures within it.

God was disappointed as he watched each deity sink into the same saddened state of solitude he had longed to shed. Each god sat alone on a palm tree mute and guarding their power. So, he gave nothing to the youngest of the gods, the seventh, except for a strange object. According to myth the harder you throw this object the closer to you it falls. This young god brought the energies of eros and exchange. Merchant as well as thief, he established the crossroads of communication and commerce. Through his powers of eloquence and economic exchange, seduction, lies, and language, the gods began to share with themselves as well as share themselves. Now existence could finally commence.

…

Mercurius is my Man.

Try and catch him if you can.

He’s a willy, sneaky magician.

He is also the earth’s first musician.

Indeed, he invented the lyre.

Then became the patron of liars.

Lord of the Gemini who can’t stay mute

Singing of the gods on the first-made lute.

But there is to him a secret side.

Ah yes, a depth he loves to hide.

He reveals it only to a chosen few.

And if you’re lucky that person could be you.

…

Cleave rates highly as one of my favourite contranyms. Cleave: to adhere; to tear. To split; to stick. To bring together. To separate. It also reminds me of the word cleavage which brings breasts to the brain. But my favourite contranym might be secrete. To release. To conceal. To extract. To hide. Like the secretions of the Soul. Dripping myths, mysteries, and madnesses in our dreams. Concealing itself in the dark behind the bone of our skull. Our silent shadow, the witness to it all. Quietly, Soul places a banana peel of amorous fevers and synchronicities in our path. She awaits our fall. Blinking blankly at our Jungian slip as our feet fly into the air. Soul secretes in the shadows and hides in our subconscious stream. We land on our back, we awake as if from a dream, unconscious of her scheme.

Vertigo of Love: A Short Story

There’s a rainstorm, outside. I can hear the volley of drops as they pelt against the windowpane.

There’s a rainstorm inside. Thunder and downpour play on his speakers. All the curtains drawn, his vast flat in the dark. Shadowy and cold and sumptuous with its velvet sofa and wolf hide throws.

There’s a rainstorm in my heart. Lightening beneath my navel. Between my thighs. A tingling in my nerves. He holds me in his powerful arms. The scent on his skin. I press my back into him. I feel him harden.

…

I met Charles through a mutual friend, Sandrine, who invited me over to her apartment near the beautiful grounds of the legislative building. I know little about liquor, so I brought a bouquet of flowers – a vase of vibrant violas.

Sandrine opened the door. I heard the wine-soaked laughter of her friends having a blast. She took the vase. She kissed me thrice on my cheeks. My parka in her hand, she introduced me to the little crowd happily huddled in her sitting room.

“Rosie.”

“Eugene.”

“Josephine.”

“And where’s Sacré Charlemagne?!”

“Charles stepped out for a cig.” Rosie explains.

“Ah. I’ll introduce you to Charles when he comes in. What would you like to drink?

…

“I mean you could write a book about it.”

“It’s already been done!”

“Ah, bon?”

“One! One of the birds.”

“Two, actually.”

“Which ones?”

“The parrot.”

“Yes! By Julian Barnes.”

“Flaubert’s Parrot.”

“And Mozart’s Starling by one Lyanda Lynn Haupt.”

“Ah.”

“So, who’s going to write about the third avian aficionado?”

“It would make a wonderful trilogy Flaubert’s Parrot, Mozart’s Starling, Picasso’s Owl.”

“Who’d write the last one?”

“I call Sir John Richardson for Picasso’s Owl.”

“Naturally.”

“Obvious!”

“Obvious is alright.”

“You have to know how to write with your cock to write about Picasso. Also, you kinda have to be alive.”

“Living or dead. It doesn’t matter.”

“Viril et vivant.”

“Sacré Charlemagne, you should write it!”

A cackle of laughter.

“He can write with his cock alright!”

“I would love to pen prose on Picasso. Sadly, I have too much time.”

“As witty as Wilde, as macho as Mussolini.”

“Damn you.”

“It’s no put down, Charles! Every woman adores a Fascist.”

“The boot in the face, the brute, brute heart of a brute like you.”

“Oh girls, don’t quote Plath’s ‘Daddy’.’

‘Why not, Charles?!’

‘I think it’s one of the most exquisite expressions of psychosexual fixation.” Rosie says.

“Mmm… psychosexual.” Sandrine moans.

“Careful. Sandrine’s salon might devolve into something smutty. I’m kidding. Darling! The look of terror on her face. Oh, you’re sweet.” Charles says to me in his booming baritone. His posh public-school prosody, all hauteur and humor. He takes a sip of his Bordeaux. He winks at me.

I stop breathing.

…

Charles came for me the way God rushes for the soul. I need you, I want you, I must have you to be whole. I found him… distracting. And I mean the word in the original sense. To be distracted; to be made mad. Yeah. He was – is – maddening. Something satanic about him. His darkness. His sardonic baritone drawl. His sumptuous way of dress: midnight blue velvet suit, Gucci scarf. Dark velvet trousers. Olive green windowpane tweed suit. His long, strong legs clad in the obligatory burgundy corduroys of the well-heeled. Well out of my league.

Public-school educated. Charles went on to read History of Art at Oxford. Then completed his Master’s at the Courtauld Institute of Art. A brief stint as a journalist. If you call being flown out to exotic locales around the world and penning witty Waughesque words about this luxury hotel or that three-star Michelin restaurant journalism.

He moved to Canada when he landed a job as the Director of a major art gallery. Charles curated a show featuring an exciting new painter, Eugene Bluth. Eugene is married to Sandrine, a graduate student pursuing her doctorate degree in Art History. The three get along like a house on fire.

I quickly learnt that Charles or Sacré Charlemagne as he is called by his closest friends has slept with Rosie and Josephine. At the same time. Actually, Charles has a bit of a rep. A rake? I took a mental step back.

…

Sandrine and I had met at a lecture on Schubert. I know nothing about the science of music. But the poetry? Who with a human soul can hear the strings of sorrow in Schubert and not shudder at its sweet sadness? It was Sunday. Six of us in the classroom with its oak-paneled walls and low lighting. The lecturer, a professor of Musicology, excited us with anecdotes about his days in Vienna. Handouts of the scores. All Greek to me. I watched Sandrine with her deutsche-bright hair and her clean puritanical face free of make-up and her clear intelligent blue eyes read the piece. He played “Piano Trio No. 2 in E-flat major.”

I recall sort of blacking out. Aesthetic rapture, falling into a sea, a reverie. I lifted my eyes. Sandrine watched me rapt by Schubert. She smiled at me. I smiled back. After the lecture we wandered round the bookstore. I was flipping through a heavy tome about Marie Laurencin. I watched the light fall through the atrium hitting the leaves of potted shrubs and the carpeted floor. I turned around. There was Sandrine watching me. A book about El Greco in her hands. We smiled at each other.

Pleasantries, hellos, and full names exchanged. Seated in the café of the bookstore. Talking about music. We found we had similar tastes.

“You love ‘Luctus Mariae’ by Łukaszewski too?!”

“Oh, yeah. Talk about athletic listening.”

“Athletic listening?”

“Mm-hm. Like the opposite of easy listening. Had to splash some cold water on my face to cool the nerves. I was faint the first time I listened to it in its entirety.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Well, listening to it in its entirety is surely the only way to enjoy ‘Luctus Mariae.’”

“Agreed!”

…

“I’m an artist.”

“I love artists. I try to spend as much time as possible around them.”

Charles, brandy in hand. His mouth close to my ears.

Sandrine looks at me and smiles knowingly. She turns to Josephine. Both girls seated on the sofa talking. I lean back against the wall. It’s been a thing for three weeks now: Saturdays at Sandrine’s. A sort of salon. We bring gifts and ply her home with expensive drink and gourmet food and scintillating, stimulating conversation. That afternoon, after a feast of blinis, crème fraiche, and smoked salmon, we all lay down, some of us stretched out on the sofa, some of us backs flat against the floor as “Luctus Mariae” by Łukaszewski wafted through from the speakers to the ceiling. The winter sun bright and stringent. Charles’ eyes on me. A tight wet need between my legs.

“Why are sorrowful songs the sweetest?”

“There is no such thing as happy music.”

“The Ballroom Blitz.”

We all laughed out loud.

“It is a song about violence.”

“Cheerful violence.”

“A crowd throwing things on stage.”

“Shh! This part.” Charles snapped. His small blue eyes. His sexy jawline lifted. His eyes close.

And I thought there as I watched his tall, strong, strapping body, like a tiger at rest, laying on the Persian rug his legs crossed at the ankles, that there was nothing in the world I wouldn’t do if he asked me to.

My eyes traveled the length of him. His pale, large feet, his long, strong legs clad in burgundy corduroys, his black mock turtleneck. His beautiful handsome jawline, his piercing blue eyes watching me. He grins, wolfish and knowing. I look up at the ceiling, then I shut my eyes.

…

“You’re the last man on earth who calls on the phone.”

“I’m clumsy with my thumbs.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. I can’t quite craft a pithy text.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Well. I wanted to hear your voice.”

The memory of his scent. A fresh, dominant cologne. Fitting for his broad-shouldered six-foot four frame. His beautiful clothes. His cutting elegance and gravitas. Perfectly coiffured chestnut hair. The way he says things. Those hyper-posh bon mots and plum put-downs.

“Darling, you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Talk to me, darling. Let me hear you. I want to imagine all the sounds you make.”

“Charles, why did you call?”

“Call me Charlemagne.”

“I thought the whole idea of a moniker was to shorten things. Considered Chuck?”

“I have. But it rhymes so well with Cock… people get ideas.”

“My God, Charles, you are phallus obsessed.”

“Not at all.”

“No? You work the topic of your cock into every conversation.”

“Do I bring it up?”

“Well, no.”

“It’s the girls. They used to call me Cocky Chuck until I had them know my moniker from my school days was Charlemagne.”

“Cocky Chuck. Goodness. Why did they call you that?”

He laughs. Deep, baritone laugh.

“I’d like to show you.”

“What?!”

“I’d like to show you. Alas, there’s a method to these things.”

“What things?”

“Have dinner with me at the Hotel Hauerbach.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

…

Rain sounds. My apartment. Naked on my lavender pink duvet. The sweet warmth of my bed. I think about Charles and how I long to give him head. But I don’t dare. Instead I keep my distance. He seems turned on by my resistance. And that should be a red flag. What happens after he has had me in the bag? After a few thrusts, grunts, a cry, and release will he pat me on the bum and take his leave with ease? Terrified of being hurt. I could never give Charles what he wants.

…

“I finally have you alone.”

“We’re not alone. Sandrine’s right – where did Sandrine go?”

“It’s alright, darling. She took a different route to walk Bowles. He likes to play in that park.”

“I came to walk Sandrine’s dog with her. We are not alone.”

“Why so hostile?”

“I’m not being hostile.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Ah. Lovely weather, this. Clear skies.”

“It’s fucking cold.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Alas it is Winter. Darling, have you considered that we have a thing or two in common. We could acquaint…”

“I don’t have anything in common with you, Charles.”

“Why so sure?”

“You say poar instead of power.”

“Surely you can’t hold that against me. Je suis comme je suis.”

“Yeah. Charles, please don’t!” 

His body close to mine

“Then tell me.”

“I am telling you.”

“Tell me to stop. That you don’t feel, that you never felt, and will never feel these taut strings of desire between your body and mine.” He whispers.

A brutal wind hisses about my ear. The snow, cold and powder-dry, like Saharan sand.

The fur ruff of his parka around his face making him appear regal and leonine. His eyes, hawk-sharp, pierce into mine. And I open my mouth to lie.

“I don’t know what you mean. What taut strings between you and I?”

…

Charles’ boisterous laugh. Brandy-soaked. Josephine and some new girl, Daphne, by his side. His deep voice recounting those tongue-in-cheek tales about his Etonian days. Daphne’s hand on his long, strong, muscular thigh. The stinging behind my eyes. The need to cry.

…

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

Sandrine closes the door to her bedroom.

I’m seated on her bed which is made but messy with beautiful clothes and jaunty coats strewn on the silver-grey sheets. She sits beside me.

Tears. My cheeks wet.

“What’s the matter, ma chérie?”

“Everything.”

“Everything starts with one thing. What’s the one thing?”

“Charles.”

“Ah.”

“I think I love him.”

“Why, that’s wonderful! I know he loves you.”

“No, he doesn’t! No, it’s not!”

“Why do say that?”

“He just wants to use me. It’s just sex.”

“Charles is really popular. And very, very handsome, you know.”

“I know.”

“He’s sexy and many girls want to bed him. But he doesn’t use and dump women. He’s… he’s a… Sacré Charlemagne is a gentleman. If he told you he wants you, he means it.”

“But what does he want me for?”

“He wouldn’t fully know, and neither can you. Love is like a wave to the soul. A violent wave of emotion. You and Charles are like two bodies bobbing in the sea. Or like two bodies falling through air subject to gravity. You can’t control the ocean. You can’t control the forces of Nature. You can’t control Love. Let go.”

“I feel dizzy.”

“That’s good. It’s the Vertigo of Love.”

Knock

Knock.

“Who is it?” Sandrine shouts at the door.

I wipe my tears with the sheer sleeve of my pearly-white lace blouse.

“It’s Charles!”

Sandrine looks at me. I nod. She turns to the door.

“Come in, Charles.”

The sound of merriment, boozy and bruyant, wafts through as he walks in. He shuts the door behind him.

Charles, tall, strapping.

“Is everything alright?”

Sandrine smiles.

“Yes. I’ll leave you two alone.” She stands up.

She walks toward the door. She places her hand on the handle. She turns and looks at us.

“The Soul is heavy. It falls like an anvil. But in the sea of love it floats like a drunken boat. Don’t try to halt Nature, instead submit to her rapture. Two souls beneath the shadow of a heavy wave. To survive desire, learn to be a slave.”

Her enigmatic smile. The door clicks closed.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?”

“Hello, Charles.”

“Darling, I’ll take my leave shortly. I wanted only to know, are you alright? You looked rather queer.”

“I’m alright.”

“Ah, good. Good. Yah… Well, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait.”

“Do you need anything? A paracetamol or… I hear hot water bottles are a help.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Charles, I’m not… I don’t need any of that. I’m fine.”

“Good.” He smiles. “Well… I shan’t take any more of your time.”

“Charles?”

“Yes?”

“Stay.”

…

On my back. My legs on his broad shoulders. His heavy grunts and deep thrusts. This is what surrender looks like: I open up my heart, he tears me apart. Our bodies glistening with sweat. His powerful chest rising and falling. On our backs, we both stare up at the ceiling.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, Charles. It was…”

“What? My darling, why are you laughing?”

“You’re a bastard. No one’s ever fucked me like that.”

“And no one ever will. Except me, of course.”

“You’re a gentleman in the streets, a caveman in the sheets.”

“Well, civilization takes its toll.”

“Mmm… I love how you say things. Can you recite some English poetry?”

“What? Darling, I’m post-coital and drowsy. I’d much rather sleep with your svelte and lissome body in my arms.”

“Okay. Will you teach me Latin?”

“What?”

“You’re fluent!”

“I speak it well enough.”

“Teach me things! Teach me one word.”

“Irrumatio.”

“Oh? What does that mean?”

“Loyalty to the Crown.”

“Ah... What? Why are you laughing, Charles?”

“Mm, darling… you’re sweet.”

“Charles?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s do it again.”

Outside, the sound of rain. His mouth on my mouth. The tip of his tongue. My emotions like lightening: sinister and strong. I feel the full force of him. I scream in bed. The world whirls. And I sense it spin in my head.

Bare Bodies Cannot Lie: A Short Story

The thick shadows of my apartment. Our fourth date. I stare at the glowing numbers on the clock. 6:45. Beau will be here at seven.

I miss you.

I can’t wait to see you.

Our first kiss happened on our third date. His mouth on mine. He cradled me on the sofa. Beau was the kisser, and I was the kissee. I received the lilting lances of his tongue, tiny thrusts that made me dizzy with desire. A French writer wrote, “A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.’ If so, then, I was an appetizer. Today, I am an entrée. I have a midnight mind and a head full of secrets. When I met Beau a thundercrack went off in my brain. Coup de foudre. Love at first sight. But it felt less like warm desire more a nightmarish fright as he raised his dark eyebrows high with demonic delight and looked at me and held my gaze for what felt like an eternity.

He's in Law School. I graduated in May with a non-descript English degree.

“What sort of lawyer will you be?”

“The kind that makes lots of money.”

We walk side by side. Brown and hectic-red leaves fall. We walk between cold rows of head stones at the beautiful graveyard on the river. “I love the cemetery at sunset,” I whisper. Hours from night but the sky is already a deep grey. Smudges of bright silver beam through the clouds. The autumnal light fades, the most beautiful boy in the world by my side. I place my mittened hands on his jacket. The lilac of my gloves brilliant in colour against his black Canada Goose parka. My back against a tree. He lowers his mouth towards me. He whispers, “Have you ever had sex in a cemetery?”

I love the glamorous gloom of a shadow soul. A man with a midnight mind. Skin as white as milk, as clear as moonlight. Hair as black as a raven’s back, and eyes the colour of coal. A cold cold saturnine soul. I rarely fall in love but when I do it’s like the clouds part and a hammer falls through and drops on my head. Violent, quite painful, making me wish I was dead.

I have loved two men before. Human all too human, gentle, and warm. With them I had tried hard to hide my dark storm. The deep sea that churns inside of me making me yearn for something more profound than eternity. I sought it in poetry, I sought it in the agony of unrequited love. I sought it in philosophy, sought it even in things that are to do with the above, a brief foray into theology until my mind bristled and said enough.

Then I turned to the Shadowy and let lose my army of ghosts from my subconscious vaults. The skeleton in my closet creeped out, caught me, and spun me in a waltz.

I went to a spiritual store. Crystal stones, eagle feather, smudge kits, tarot deck. I felt a tingling behind my neck. The sweet, yummy smell of frankincense. I turned. Black eyes, cold, and intense.

Thunder.

Late August rain. I had taken a taxi to the store.

“I’ll be glad to give you a ride home.” He was gentlemanly. He wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and silver chains on the side of his black jeans. His trousers were tight, and he had a magnificent butt. And I stared and I tried not to stare. I told myself to look away, but I could not.

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” I said. He looked down on the ground and blushed.

His black Porsche Cheyenne. Dark leather seats. Newspapers and big black books in the back seat. A subtle scent of tobacco and a musky, powdery cologne.

“Where do you live?”

“Off Academy Road.”

He typed the address out on his phone.

…

“Guess whom I brought?”

“Whom?”

“Carl!”

“Salty Carl? Yum!”

The knock at the door. There he was back from hours of study at the Millenium library. My thoughts raced around like squirrels in Spring. Worries like what do I wear? How will it feel? We never discussed it or said we’d wait until the fourth date. I was overcome by his beauty and the intense kiss on the sofa was all I could manage before I began to dissociate.

He stood tall in the frame of the door. A black Safeway bag in one hand and a bouquet of pink carnations in the other. His strong, tight body. His broad shoulders. His pure, pale skin.

I watch him take his jacket off. I watch the way his back muscles move. So sexy and serpentine. I cut the stalks of the flowers and put them in a vase of water. We sit down and eat the Salty Carl ice cream.

“Thank you for the flowers, Beau.”

“You’re so welcome, sweetheart.”

Tonight, on the sofa. Heart rate speeding over. The sound of our metal spoons as they jackknife into the glass of salty caramel sweetness. Last time he was here we watched Lost Highway by David Lynch while we made out. Bowie’s voice a sort of psychedelic wallpaper. Beau’s tongue. Beau’s hands on my breasts. His Jesus and Mary Chain T-shirt on the floor. His subtle thrusts. Fabric against fabric. Our febrile flesh yearning for more. The scent of his cologne blowing up my brain like a thunderstorm. A torrent of rain. Ripples of dopamine passing through my body like violent waves of pleasure when you take a meth hit. We stopped. We laughed. He put on his shirt. On screen, the soundtrack played, “This Magic Moment.” I put on my silver bandeau top. He put his arm around me. And we finished the Lynch film.

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We put the jar of ice cream down still full. His muscular thigh twitches. His back against the sofa. He looks at me. He wears a black long-sleeved shirt with a deep V and black Levi’s. There’s a huge erection in his trousers.

“Beau, wanna play with my Ouija board?”

“Ha, ha! Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“What if an evil spirit were to come through?”

“I don’t believe in demons. Do you?”

“Well, I’ve had my fair share of darkness.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“It’s a maybe next time.”

“Okay.”

The quiet of my flat.

“Are you thirsty, Beau?”

“No.”

The silence was stabbing my ears like bad music, like too loud music leaving me cranked and on edge. And I began to feel cold though I wore a fluffy white cardigan over my mini baby-blue bandeau dress. He watched me with his dark eyes and seemed to tilt his head forward like a vulture. Felt like he was waiting. Felt like his entire body was coiled tight like a spring waiting to leap on me like a leopard does on prey from a tree.

I stood up and took off the cardigan.

“That’s better.”

“Yeah.” I agreed.

“Do you want some tea?”

“No.”

“Beau?”

I turned to look at his face. It was like the very first time I saw him. His demon black eyes and his otherworldly beauty. His skin like pale moonlight. The best course of action might be to…

“Wow. Okay.” He looks at me, his broad chest rising and falling.

I toss the blue dress on the sofa.

“Let’s just do it. I want it to be over.”

…

“You guys haven’t done it yet? What are you waiting for? The Pope’s blessings?”

“Yeah. Very funny, Johanna.”

“If you don’t want him, hun, just pass him right along. I’ll have his p in my v before you can say first date.”

“Nice, honey. Very nice. That’s exactly why I called you. To feel like the sane and measured one.”

“Babe! Beau is the most beautiful boy in the city. God handed you the most beautiful male you’ll ever lay your eyes on. To not sleep with him is to slap God in the face.”

“I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. There’s something about him.”

“Ha, ha, ha! He’s got that whole Goth thang going on. I dig it. What? You’re worried he’s gonna go all Marilyn Manson on ya?”

“Maybe.”

“You like ‘em dark and edgy. I mean you can go back to dating green boys whose idea of sex is the poison they see in porn. Or you can actually do it with a sensual, intelligent, fuck-stud who knows he’s own mind and can choke you just right.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. You know you want to. All I ask as a fee for being your bestie and advisor is, eh, lots and lots of details. Maybe a photo of his six pack?”

“Oh, shut up, you slut.”

“Hee-hee! So where are you guys going?”

“He’s taking me to Cibo. Then his place.”

“Yuuuuum! What are you gonna wear, babe? Babe?”

“What? I don’t know. I can’t do this!”

“Can I come over?”

“Yes, please.”

…

“You look magnificent.” He whispers into my ear and then kisses my cheek.

He was waiting. He stood in front of his car, hands in his pockets. That blank look in his black eyes. When he saw me, his eyes sparkled. I smiled.

…

“Thank you for dinner, Beau.”

“Our night isn’t over yet.” He whispers.

We drive into the underground parkade of his condo building.

We walk down the hallway. A wall of glass looks out into the frigid night. Skeleton trees, tall and melancholy.

“I love autumn.” I whisper.

He says nothing.

…

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He says in his low voice.

The mug warm in my hand.

“I like your place. Bauhaus in Black and White.”

He laughs. My God, what a beautiful smile.

He sits down beside me on the black and white Walter Gropius sofa. I like seeing him in his element. I feel I know him better and I begin to relax.

“Sorry about the other day.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Sweetie, I think you felt I was pressuring you into bed. You took your clothes off and said you wanted to get it over with. Sex isn’t pulling teeth. So, I apologize if I gave you the impression that I was impatient.”

“I was scared. It’s my insecurity. I feel kinda gauche and green about the whole thing.”

“You’ve never been with a man before?”

“I have. It wasn’t fun.”

“Were you unwilling?”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s years ago. I just. Wow. Here I go again. I just want to – ”

“Get it over with.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Beau. It’s not very romantic.”

“No need to apologize. Sex can be many several things. The bottom line is Pleasure. It has to feel good for us. For you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. What do you like?”

“Ha, ha, ha! Sorry, I don’t know why I’m laughing.”

“It’s okay. Everything is allowed. Fears, tears, laughter. Screaming.”

His eyes go completely black, a deep inky black like the surface of a dark well.

He takes a sip of his tea.

He sets his black and white mug down.

“What do you do for pleasure?”
“Oh, well! I like taking long walks. I love gardens. Cooking. I paint Nature a lot.”

“Sweetie, what do you do for sexual pleasure?”

“Oh, right….”

He laughs again. My God his face. Delicious like crack cocaine. Mm…

“Well…I …I touch myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you touch yourself, sweetie? Do you wanna show me?”

“I get naked.”

“Yeah…do you wanna get naked?”

“Yeah.”

“Take your clothes off, baby. Show me how you make yourself feel good.”

…

He played “Nos corps” by Jimmy Hunt over and over. He got inside my head. He watched me touch myself on his Walter Gropius sofa. And then he gave me head. He penetrated me. Deep pleasure like an electrical current went up my spine. I cried, I came, and then he whispered, “Now you’re mine.”

The Sea Goat: A Short Story

“Criterion Channel and Chill?”

“We do that all the time! Let’s do something different tonight, baby.”

“I think we have a lovely evening planned. Sit under the super full moon. Eat duck stew and riz de chou-fleur. A good film. My arms around you. Bed.”
“By bed you mean sex.”

“Course. Don’t make me out to be a caveman, darling. I’ve had a long day at work. I still need to put in two more hours. Then I’m home with you. It all sounds very comforting to me. How’s the stew coming along?”

“It’s prepared. What movie do you wanna watch tonight, baby?”

“La peau douce.”

“Not another Truffaut!”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“We watched Two English Girls yesterday!”

“You’re cute.”

“Come on.”

“Alright, alright. I call a truce, darling. You cooked the food. You choose the film.”

“Edvard Munch by Peter Watkins.”

“Oh, honey. Really? Fine.”

“It’s a great watch.”

“It’s a stiff psychological portrait of a tortured artist. Bergmanesque. A great watch if you go in for that sort of thing. Swedish Art house and bloated silences on screen. A little heavy on the voice over, don’t you find?”

“Don’t put it down. You’ve never seen it.”

“Touché. I’ve gotta go, darling. Kisses?”

“Muah! Muah! Muah!”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha! I love it when you do that. Later, darling. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

…

“Charles!”

“Just a minute, darling.”

“Charles, I’ve been waiting. Cease your work. I thought you promised me that you shan’t be bringing work home with you. It’s most unfair, you know.

“I’m sorry, darling.”

“You’re staring at your screen.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. Let’s go up to the roof.”

“Oh, honey. The moon isn’t hurrying anywhere, you know.”

“Oh yes, she is! Let’s go!”

…

“You know Charles, I always feel funny on a full moon.”

“How do you mean, darling?”

“Oh, I dunno. Like…”

“Ha, ha. I think I ken your meaning.”

“Not like that, stupid.”

“Well! Your hands are placed rather suggestively.”

“I was giving myself a belly rub.”

“Underneath your skirt?”

“Yes!”

“Alright. How do you feel?”

“You know something? Nurses tend to schedule vacation days on full moons.”

“Why?”

“The emergency rooms are always swamped.”

“Really? Hmm.”

“Weird, eh? The full moon does things to people. Some become sick, some become accident-prone, most are restless. We all wanna howl at the moon. Instead, we groan on a sofa. I’m surprised more people aren’t out here to see this. We met on a full moon.”

“Did we?”

“Yeah. It was winter.”

“I remember that.”

“The moon was in Cancer. The Sun was in the Sign of the Sea Goat.”

“Was it now?”

“Yes, Charles.”

“I remember that night. Meeting you. Intense. All I wanted to do was – ”

“Take me home.”

“Is that bad?”

“I dunno. When a man is like that with a woman, she thinks he wants only one thing.”

“Well, turns out I wanted many several things. It’s our four-year anniversary in September, darling. We’re still together.”

“I can’t believe we’re married.”

“I knew I was going to marry you the second I saw you.”

“Oh please, Charles.”

“You believe in astrology, yet you deny me my precognition. It turns out I was right. Love at first sight.”

“I don’t think it was your precognition. I think it was your prick.”

“Well! My prick and my precognition agreed. Remember the first time?”

“My God. You were an animal. You still are.”

“You wouldn’t kiss me for weeks. Playing hard to get. How quaint.”

“No. I wasn’t playing at anything. I really did not trust you, Charles. I thought you were a cad, a rake, and a bastard.”

“Wow.”

“I wasn’t going to open my heart or my legs to you.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing sudden. You were so patient. And I thought…maybe he likes me.”

“I was frigging day and night, darling. Twice on our date nights. Just to be sure there wasn’t a possibility of a stiff one.”

“Well…glad you kept that all to yourself.”

“What changed?”

“That night?”

“Yah. Why that night?”

“Can you remember what else we did that night?”

“We did a lot of things.”

“I had you come over.”

“Right. It was my second time at your flat.”

“The first time we had tea.”

“You did a portrait of me.”

“It was a Saturday afternoon.”

“Yah. Right.”

“The second time you were there, Charles, it was night. I prepared a curry.”

“Yes. You cooked for me. That meant you liked me.”

“Call me old-fashioned but I believe that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“And his cock, darling. You musn’t forget that.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Idiot.”

“I remember that night, darling. I close my eyes and I can still see your flat. The white walls. The books on the shelves. The little dining table. The bright neon candles. The food was incredible. The feel of the soft, pink sheepskin on the sofa. And that film.”

“Closer.”

“God, I loved it. Intense. Raw. Like my love for you. When the film was over. I got up to leave. I remember thanking you and putting on my coat. Then you got silent.”

“I asked you to stay. You took off your parka. We sat on the sofa. I didn’t know what to say.”

“I began to kiss your neck. Then my hands were inside your cardigan.”

“Our clothes were on the floor. And it started on the sofa.”

“We finished it in bed. But it was long before it was over.”

…

“Delicious! Pass the bread, darling.”

“Here.”

“Thanks. This might be your best stew yet.”

“Aw! Thanks babe.”

“Mm.”

“Babe?”

“Yah?”

“Did the full moon make you feel funny?”

“How do you mean, darling?”

“Do you feel different?”

“Not particularly. It was beautiful. Close to earth. Large in the sky.”

“Luna under the aegis of the Sea Goat. Full moon in Capricorn. I should have asked you to recite Sir Phillip Sidney’s ‘Sonnet to the Moon.’”

“Why the devil would I do that?”

“Because I love your accent and the moon would to.”

“Ha, ha, ha! You’re adorable. You know, darling, I much prefer your poem to the moon. Mmm…How does it go again. She causes surges in the soul and sea – ”

“Mm-mm. No, babe…”

“Well, recite it, darling.”

“She causes surges in the Soul,

Surges in the Sea,

Surges in Men,

Makes them explode their semen.

She.

Madness-making, the Silvern Woman.

A balance of Light and Night.

Pretty, Evil, Round-faced, Bright.

“Brilliant.”

“Thank you, baby!”

“Is that how you see the moon?”

“Would you like some more riz de chou-fleur?”

“Yes, darling. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Uh… yeah. I find the moon really eerie. Maybe it’s a woman thing. My cycle syncs up with the moon’s. When I start bleeding on a new moon, it feels like an intense psychic shed, you know. A deep emotional rebirth. When I’m ovulating on a full moon…well, you know.”

“Do I?”

“Oh yes, baby. I come on to you. Strong.”

“Hang on…the Sunday we went to Blink for Eugene’s show.”

“Bingo.”

“My God! You were pawing me all night in your skimpy little dress. I thought you had snorted something with Sandrine in the lavatory. I had to look up your nose to make bloody sure she hadn’t given you anything.”

“When we got home…”

“Epic.”

“Luna and the Lunatics who love her.”

“Maddened by the Moon.”

“Your moon is in the sign of Capricorn.”

“Is it, darling? I thought that was my sun sign.”

“Your Sun and your moon are in the sign of Capricorn, Charles. You were born under a dark moon.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

“I think it makes you très sexy.”

“Oh, does it?”

“Yes!”

“Well, I’m glad I can tickle your astrological fancy once in a blue moon. Bedtime?”

“No! Movie time! We’re watching Edvard Munch by Peter Watkins.”

“Oh, right.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot, Charles.”

“Oh, darling, it’s been a long day. It simply slipped my mind. I’m happy to watch, Edvard Munch by er…Peter…”

“Watkins!”

“Sure! Let’s go to the sitting room, darling.”

“You go, I need to clear up.”

“Thank you for dinner, my darling. Kisses?”

“Muah! Muah! Muah!”

“Ha, ha, ha! I love it when you do that.”

…

“Alright, baby! Dim the lights. I’m so excited about this film.”

“Yah. Me too.”

“Ha-ha, very funny, Charles. I saw you roll your eyes.”

“Oh, darling, come here. Come to me. Come to your Capricornian Chuck!”

“Ha, ha, ha! What? Scooch over, wierdo!”

“Sit on me.”

“Charles, you really don’t want to see this film, do you?”

“Well, it is rather late, darling. I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow, Charles! And you promised we would go out for pancakes, then go to the Butterfly Conservatory, then go to the English garden.”

“Yes, yes, darling. That’s exactly why I needs must wake up early. I have a meeting – ”

“Oh bother! Workaholic.”

“Well, my workaholism is what’s keeping you in pretty dresses, darling. In case you don’t know, you’re rather expensive.”

“Don’t turn this back on me, Charles! You’re a workaholic because you can’t bear the thought of your emotional depths. You avoid the churning of the subconscious sea inside you by turning to your latest effort at socio-economic supremacy.”

“What?”

“You heard me! I’m going to bed.”

“What about the film, darling? You were rather keen to watch it.”

“Oh, screw you! You don’t care about the film. You were just humoring me so we could fuck before bed.”

“Why are you hostile to me, honey? I’ve been up since six this morning. I’m beat. Yah, I want sex. I want to feel good, don’t you? Tell me the truth, darling. Why is it important that I see this film with you?

“It’s not important. You don’t have to see it. I’m interested in Munch right now. He’s influencing my paintings.”

“Alright. You were home all day. You could have seen it. You want to share it with me. What exactly is it, darling? Tell me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“No. No, it’s not. Not if you’re…upset. I’m willing to discuss this. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

…

“It makes no sense, Charles.”

“Tell me. I’ll try to sense your meaning subconsciously. Begin with a word. Any word.”

“Sea Goat.”

“Alright.”

“Jack.”

“Jack?! Your ex.”

“Well…he isn’t really my ex.”

“You dated him!”

“I never slept with him.”

“Alright. Jack. What about him?”

“Can you recall his face?”

“Yah. Vaguely.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Why would I? I’m not interested in him, and I’ve never met the chap.”

“I’ve shown you a picture.”

“A while ago, I suppose.”

“Here.”

“When did you take this polaroid?”

“Last week.”

“What?”

“I met him.”

“Where?”

“First, I met him at the park. He was walking his dog. He had moved away to Alberta. Settled there permanently, I was sure. But he said he had moved back and was living downtown.”

“Then you met him again?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Does he look like anyone you know?”

“No. What? Why the hell are you crying?”

“Because you can’t see.”

“See what?”

“You.”

“Alright, darling. I’m done talking in circles. Dizzy, in fact. Do you have something to confess? You’re carrying on in a bizarre manner and quite frankly it’s beginning to bore me.”

“He looks like you.”

“What? This? I look nothing like him. You don’t need to show me more photographs. How many photographs did you take of him? How long was he here? Did you fuck him?!”

“No!”

“Then what the bloody hell are you on about?!”

“Munch. Look at him. Look at this picture of him. And this one when he was younger. Does he remind you of anyone? Does he look like anyone you know?”

“I see a bit of myself in him. The small eyes. The jawline. So what?”

“Look at this picture of Jack.”

“Alright. We both look a little like Munch. And?”

“Look at this man.”

“Who is that?”

“A writer.”

“Okay. I look like him.”

“And look at this man. He’s a composer.”

“Alright! We all look alike! Are you inching towards an hypothesis here?”

“I checked all their astrological signs. Each man has either his sun or his moon in the sign of Capricorn.”

“And somehow, this has turned you into a madwoman. Why?”

“Because you all look like the Sea Goat. Saturn as the sign of Capricorn.”

“Oh, darling. I don’t know if I can help you. If you’re spiraling…I can’t”

“I was mad with desire for Jack. I was nineteen and he was twenty. Just his face filled me up with love and lust. I wanted him. But we couldn’t be together. Then he moved away.”

“Why couldn’t you be together?”

“We couldn’t have sex. I was so scared, my cunt clamped shut.”

“Alright.”

“Then three years later I meet you. And you looked just like him. Like my Saturnine dream. And you opened me up. And I was glad because your face made me feel things. Deep things. Dark things. But I was still yearning. Yearning for someone. Then I saw this image of Munch. A photograph and there he was.”

“Who?”

“My Animus. The man I’ve been searching for in every Capricorn. When I saw Jack again. It felt like an attack. My heart, my head. A rush of love to my brain. It hurt.”

“You fucked him. Did you fuck him?! I can’t believe it, you – ”

“I didn’t fuck him! Stop shouting! I didn’t! I thought about it. But I would never do that! I would never do that, Charles.”

“Why do you need Jack or Munch? You have me. Your Sea Goat. Your Capricorn. Why are you bringing them up?”

“Because they can see the darkness inside themselves. You can’t see you.”

“Oh, God. Another tirade about my so-called emotional unintelligence and workaholism. I don’t have time for this. Rather intriguing segue into your favourite rant. You had me mystified at first until I realized it’s the same old route and it’s the same old end. Screaming at the top of our lungs at 2:00AM. Well, darling, not tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“To a hotel!”

“Please.”

“Don’t. Don’t, darling. I can’t do this tonight. I told you I have to wake up early for a zoom meeting and you do this?”

“Why do you run away into your work?”

“I said, I’m not doing this.”

“You’re hurting me!”

“Then stop latching on!”

“Charles! I feel so alone in our marriage sometimes. Why do you love us less than you do work?”

“I find it irritating. Your woolly words. Your manipulations. Trying to get a rise out of me by bringing Jack up. Was he even here? Let me see these photographs. Didn’t you take these years ago? Did you make up the whole story of meeting him so we could have a talk about my work? Are you mad?”

“I did see him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, Charles. Believe what you like.”

“The Sea Goat. My God. When I met you, I knew you were mad. But that was alright. You were a poet. Giving to airy nothing a local habitation and a name is the name of the game. So, I tolerate your insanity. But you’ve pushed me too far tonight, darling. What is this darkness in my soul that obsesses you, that intrigues you, that wets you? Clearly you like it. You’re drawn to me. Hm? The Sea Goat. Half goat, half fish. One part of me climbs the craggy mountain of the social ladder, the other half swims in the subconscious sea. I’m a lustful goat. Yes, you say I’m more caveman than gentleman. I want sex every night. I’m a cold fish. I can’t share my feelings with you. I keep them bottled in. You want to make love. I want to fuck. Rough. I’m terrified of what lies beneath me in the dark waters of my soul. So, I climb higher and higher but no matter how high I reach I remain half-fish. Still in water. Cold. Alone.”
“I love you, Charles. I can’t change the way you are. I know. All I ask is that you whisper to me the words sometimes, ‘I’m afraid,’ ‘I need you,’ ‘hold me.’ That’s so much more nuanced than ‘take your clothes off, darling, and let’s fuck.’ I don’t fear the depths of your pain and sorrow. I want to know you. I want you to share with me. I want to be by your side as you swim the subconscious sea.”

“Why didn’t you just say this, darling? Why the whole charade?”

“I didn’t know I had something to say. There was a stirring in my soul and in my sex. As we lay under the full moon, I placed my hand on my womb. And I felt so strange. I knew something was going to happen, a subtle, yet wonderful change.”

The Myth of the Moment: A Letter to Patrick Harpur

Dear Mr. Harpur,

I was watching an interview you gave to Jo Hickey-Hall where she asks what god is behind modern society.

I think the psychological perspective of Pluto underpins our modern madness.

There have been many cases of assault and violation in the media today and a general distrust of men in power. There also seems to be an erosion of secrecy and with that its powers to transform the psyche.

As you write, the Soul is inhuman and pitiless foisting upon us whatever misfortune or misery that will drag us down into the labyrinthine depths of our selves.

Pluto is the god to do with depth and death, and secrecy with his Hadean helmet that hides the outward nature of things.

We live in a society suspicious of secrecy. Every slight must be aired in the open like a soiled singlet. We live in a society that dreads death and fears depth and the darkness it brings. We live in a society that hates Pluto and the pain he caused Perserphone.

The great Soul-making myth of the Western world is a rape narrative. There are other soul-making myths like the Passion of Psyche or Odin swinging upside down from the World-tree like the Hanged Man of the Major Arcana. A self-tortured sacrifice of himself to himself, his pain so powerful his psyche splits open and snatches the runes.

Gruesome.

Yet society can come to terms with extremes of self-sacrifice but I think our age, uninitiated and immature, rejects the very idea of the Soul finding value through violation.

It reminds me of the scene in your novel, The Stormy Petrel, when a young Søren sees an image of Jesus. A sort of image of worldly failure so unlike the Classical hero. The vulnerable man. As the Germans call him Der Schmerzensmann — the Man of Sorrows. Half-naked, crying, and beaten by the World.

Our times has a similar revulsion to that tale of feminine vulnerability. The violated Kore is not encouraged to go inside herself or to go down into the dank depths of her soul and be transformed into the Queen of Hell  — Persephone, Bringer of Destruction. Society prefers the sexless path of empowerment —Athene. Rather than the inward soul-making journey that drags one down into the hot epicentre of pain and shame, now society encourages the outward crusade. Today accusations of assault spring forth from the lips of survivors like new-born, full-armoured Athene from the head of Zeus.

Athene has a complex relationship to rape victims. Athene’s priestess was violated by her rival Poseidon (angry over being passed as patron of Athens now named after Athene. Can you imagine if he had won?! ‘Poseidonia the cradle of Western civilization’ sounds rather odd).

At any rate, Athene is so livid with her priestess’s vulnerability that she curses her and she becomes the Gorgon Medusa.

It is the Classical Herculean, Egotistic fear of vulnerability rearing its rational head again.

Before the MeToo movement women who were violated were shut up in shame and silence, their souls in shock. Their experience, a secret. Yet it is these very four horsemen of initiation, Shame, Shock, Silence, and Secrecy, that shatter the self so that the Soul may live.

As you write in your books learning how to keep a secret opens you up to other secrets such as Alchemy which is a gem of knowledge hidden in the Underworld. And who rules the riches of the Underworld? None other than Pluto — The Rich One.

Lulu