Earlier this week I woke to find the top half of a torso, all twisted like a jack-in-the-box, sitting on top of my dresser, waving its arms and wagging its head. I stared and stared at it, waiting for it to do the usual thing and resolve into shapes and voids and a regular case of nighttime crazybrain, but it refused. Just kept sitting there, waving, creepy.
Fortunately, it disappeared when I turned on the light. As unnerving as the thing was in the dark, it would have been seventeen million times weirder in the light.
I have been reading the letters of Henry Miller and Anais Nin. In one of the letters, during the early times when they mix love and books and before anything has had a chance to go wrong, she mentions the legend of the quena. Of all the tales that there are, one in which a person makes a flute from the leg bone of their dead loved one is maybe not the sweetest, but there is something about making music from such an unexpected place that makes sense. They say that the sound of the quena is sad, although probably not for the reasons we would expect.