Year of the Wound
Ananda Naima González
This is the year of the wound. I’m declaring it now. I believe if we feed the wound well, we’ll be granted fifty months of warmth. Fifty months of good living. I prayed to the god of mist before I drove to set today. I asked her to guide my hand as I applied my ninth coat of mascara. I needed the extra support. You all have lovingly declared me your nighttime prophet, sent to deliver messages through your TV screens to help you sleep. Trust me when I say I love this dynamic with my every atom. I absolutely do. But, as of recently, I’ve begun to feel the mammoth weight of this role. You all dial in every night, 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., looking for a companion to cure your insomnia, to tell you the hard truths everyone else is too terrified to approach, to guide your dreams as you drift into dark sky. But this marathon of witching hour sermons in front of cameras has left me threadbare. The blush that once added a touch of heat to my cheeks is beginning to look like an open sore. I’m not too vain to admit it. My hair is beginning to thin from hours of teasing. My jaw is slowly dislocating from all this talking. By the time I arrive back home in the early mornings, I’m such a different creature; I’m too frightened to look into my bathroom mirror. I can no longer greet my beauty and say, “Hey, little sister, hey. There you are.” Every time I wash my face off, I watch as the day just lived eddies down the sink drain, and I like to imagine I’m rinsing away years of my life until I’m four again, and Mother is waiting to feed me fresh-cut plums in her lap, and the light never fades.
I wish I was the kind of television host that could boil fifty pounds of wet petals over fire, until all that’s left is a flowery syrup meant to be drizzled into tea. But instead I’m gripping the mic, dancing across this cheap set with cosmic bodies painted on the walls. I’m listening to the noises you all make as you sleep. The low growls released from your throats and the strange words you whisper and scream. I’m recording every detail because I know these sounds aren’t nonsense but rather coherent expressions of your primal lives. Here you are, revealing your pre-uterine truths, letting loose all the wisdom you carried right before you were born into this world. Perhaps some of you fear the release of such secrets and untamed intelligence. It’s hard to let go. To be seen. Many of you even turn to fighting off sleep like it’s some sort of demon. Instead of resting, you rearrange the magnets on your refrigerators, and hold tight to all the rotten kitchen fruit turned so soft so quick. If you can survive the night and hide away from me successfully, you imagine the morning will taste even sweeter. Yet every sunup your tongue searches the corners of your mouth to find only tart reminders.
Let me show you how nice it feels to release all that primal insight into the atmosphere and through the TV screen. Just the other afternoon, I dreamt I was somewhere in the world and a white-haired man sat beside me on a mat of woven leaves. I laid on the ground in front of him, splayed out like a fileted fish. He grabbed a stick with a thorn attached to the very top of it, and dipped the thorn into a bowl of sooty ink. He began to knock the thorn into my skin, hitting the base of the tool with another piece of wood, much like a hammer. As he began to mark up my thighs, I felt so warm, so at ease, so absolutely devoid of pain, that I fell asleep. When I awoke, the old man had finished. I stood up and saw the symbols wrapped around my thighs. On the outside of my left thigh was this thin, stretched out eye that looked like the optic of some god dripping down to earth. A snake twined around my right leg, mouth unhinged and gaping. I couldn’t believe my body. I was happy yet panicked to have changed so quickly, so all at once. I asked the old man why he decided to mark me. He said, “It’s what you need.”
Lately, I’ve been thinking about starting a soul retrieval business. Just in case any of you would like to have your spirits fished out of your bodies for a moment. I’ve been experimenting with different methods of extraction and the results are simply sublime. Give me a call and we’ll figure out the details. We’ll see where it all goes. Would you believe me if I told you that last week I woke up and found twenty dead ladybugs scattered on my bedroom floor? What a headfirst fall into destruction for those tiny things. They had successfully un-alived themselves. I didn’t know what to think at first, so I went on a walk. I moved into the winter mountains and found a woman perched on a rock, quietly sketching something. She waved. I saw her open face and felt I had found a friend. We talked a bit about the soil and the state of our muscles. She reached out for my hand and we walked down the side of the mountain to take a dip in a snowy stream. We agreed we’d just let the water touch up to our knees. She coached me through the cold plunge. She said it was all about breathing and control of the center. About the acceptance of pain and the ability to convince your body that it’s safe. We took off our shoes and rolled up our pants. She walked ahead and said, “The water’s fine. Not so bad really.” Soon I was up to my knees in the stuff, the suffering creeping in, and oh my god, this woman kept walking out further and further until she said, “I think I’m just going to do it.” She slinked out of her sweater and pants, handed her clothes to the nearest rock, and dove in until all that was left of her head was curls bobbing above the current. She was a powerful animal. All I could do was stand there, contort my face in discomfort, and watch her plummet into winter’s belly like it was light work. After a full minute, we both hobbled out, bodies devoid of feeling. She laid out on a fallen tree, a red swell moving up her skin. I struggled to pull socks back onto my dead, wet feet. I said, “Next time someone asks if you’re an artist, you have to tell them yes. Don’t waste any time in telling them yes.” She said, “My name is Yucca and I am an artist.” I said, “Yes, exactly like that.” Then we walked out onto a trail and stood beneath the mountain, waiting for our bodies to return to us. She told me about her theory that our brains are really contained in the soles of our feet. How nice it is to be young and to think like that. She was so hungry and sweet. I gave her my number but hoped she wouldn’t use it. It would devastate me to have access to her soft genius over the phone. I keep meeting all these fascinating people but don’t have the energy or time to love them. They end up taunting me, flickering before my eyes with their shine, making me think of all the glorious things I could have but don’t. I’m so threadbare these days. So breathless and in the process of decaying. Becoming less human by the hour. Feeling more akin to skunk or stump. At my best I’m fungi, stretching out under the earth, looping trees into all the forest chatter, working hard to break down fox tails and deer throats. I’m terribly rhizomatic, you know.
The human body is so unusual to me. Despite my age, I’m still trying to figure out how everything works. I recently took a photo of my tongue and sent it off to some doctor. He sent me a message five minutes later declaring I had stagnant blood and a buildup of heat inside me. This is the cause of the enflamed feeling that often leaves me thirsty and doubled over with pain flashing down to my ankles. I used to hate being told there was something wrong with me. I used to find any diagnosis quite distasteful. But I’m changing, and this time I’m delighting in it. To be clear, I want a tongue that looks like raw meat. There’s no denying I want the perfect mouth. But perhaps I can learn to enjoy sipping all these bitter tonics in the meantime. It’s sort of nice knowing that absolute health might be right around the corner if I do all the things just right. You see, I want doctors to invite me to international conferences because I’m a wonder, a medical miracle, someone who manages to sleep, smile, and defecate just the right amount each day. I want a body so aligned it’s nearly terrifying. Turn me into the nightmare of the health industry, because for once, here’s a being that doesn’t need any pills or fixing. I want to glow from a distance, glimmer a little more with each new breath, and have an X-ray of my skeleton decorate every magazine cover.
We’re all so sick all the time. We’re taught to beg for our healing. Just the other day, I was sitting on the subway, and a young woman dressed in a hospital gown and hospital socks walked onto the train. There was a spot of blood towards the back of her gown from an open wound I couldn’t see. The woman was holding a lit cigarette. She kept to herself and didn’t speak, simply walked back and forth along the train with the cigarette slowly burning. I kept an eye on the blood stain on her gown, but couldn’t locate her wound. I wondered how anyone would let her walk out of a hospital like that--no shoes, no clothes, no ID, no keys--no signs of worldly life about her. Several of us stayed on the train, largely because she wasn’t a threat, but also because I think we wanted to protect her. Her hair was combed and she looked so clean, and we had no option but to stay a while. She dazzled us with her presence, and we felt quite tender towards her. But as she continued to pace back and forth, moving into lap ten, the rigor of her repetition created a sense of collective dis-ease among us. When she then began to untie her gown, we all stepped off the train at the same station and shuffled into the next car over. We were sorry to have to leave her that way. So unceremoniously. But once the gown began to fall, we felt the need to remove ourselves. We weren’t doctors. We shouldn’t be looking. So, we left, still unsure of the location of her wound. I couldn’t help but feel a shade of empathy towards her. I know how hard it is to keep a gown on. I myself have been trying to play by the rules and wear dresses that are two sizes too small just to get the attention of anyone at all, but I’m quick to rip the fabric at the seams and free myself of that misery too. I don’t have the heart for that particular charade. No matter how human or how woman I try to be, every dawn I find myself in my neighbor’s garden, pawing about, digging holes and sticking my head into the soil. I need the earth so bad, you see. And I know it’s terrible practice to rip into Mother like that, but this is as close to stepping inside her body that I can get while still living. Seeing as I’m not yet a carcass, not yet about to be buried, this business of digging holes and resting in them for a moment is all I have.
My body is a magnet for the earth. I’m guided by this vicious pull that starts in my gut. My feet move in whatever direction brings me closest to the soil. Just yesterday, I had every intention of walking home when my body dragged me to an exhibit downtown. As I walked down a long hall and rounded a corner, there it was--a room filled to the brim with dirt. Dirt on the floor, dirt up the walls, the windows streaked with fog and the sweat of soil. A sign stated emphatically, Do Not Touch. I began to tremble. This room full of earth was staggering. Once the initial excitement passed, it proved challenging not to touch the very thing in front of me. I strained in resistance for a while, looking around to make sure there weren’t any eyes on me. I didn’t see humans or cameras offering their surveillance, so I slipped my fingers in, dirt up to my nail beds. That wasn’t enough though. I wanted to roll around in the earth and sprinkle it in my mouth. I wanted my palms and cheeks stained with dirt--dirt under my tongue, dirt behind my ear, dirt inside my navel. I needed it so badly, I had no option but to rush outside and leave at once. If tempted with a wonderful time for just a second more, I knew I would soon do the very thing my body called for. But I didn’t want to cause a scene. I didn’t want to be escorted out by some tired guard as tourists looked on slightly repulsed at the state of me. So I left. I walked out dispirited and dissatisfied but perfectly human. I still don’t understand how you can place earth before any creature and ask that they keep their composure and not grow possessed by the very sight of it. How can you even think of saying Do Not Touch when touching is the only form of devotion we have left? I see the war on holy things persists.
I’ve gotten into the bad habit of designing new deities to preside over my life and grant me my very specific desires. It’s a terrible routine, I’m aware, but so what if I crave a house overtaken by vegetal chaos and a thicker mane atop my skull? I know a few of you would dance for the devil for nothing in return. I cast no judgment on my end, really. In fact, I think that scene would be quite alluring. You, galloping about, legs lifted and neck exposed, as a heavy presence looks on with neutrality. You should tread gently inside your body. You should come to terms with the fact that everyone is smarter than you, their faces more symmetrical, their wallets heavier, their tongues so much more elegant. That’s okay. Let the golden ones squeeze into their silk-lined suits and claw foot tubs. Let them enjoy their delicate charms and royal suites. We will have everything they’ve left behind--the mud, the talking creek, the four leggeds and the gills, the sun and its roasted heat. If I were a believer of superstition, I’d tell you about the man who walked around with a tusk. A tusk engraved with images of big-bellied beasts from the world before ours. I’d tell you how every night he drew a circle around himself with this tusk before he fell asleep. He didn’t seek to defend himself from any outside forces. He sought protection from his own mind. His thoughts had a way of twisting into the most wretched shapes that threatened to destroy him. The drawn circle was a hope that his mind would stay upright and proper through the night, and not betray him as he dreamt, dragging him into the underworld. This is why I always say you shouldn’t shake the shoulder of a sleeping man before his spirit has had a chance to return to his body. If you do, he will turn into a corpse running about without a soul, owned by grisly thoughts, thrashing in all directions at all times.
The mind can be merciless. I know it. I myself am capable of the very worst, but avoid evil at all costs, so even I don’t know what depths I can actually descend to. I prefer to zero in on the good stuff instead. To dedicate my powers towards nourishment and animal laughter. Just the other day, I watched this show about a chef who caught laryngitis and never recovered. Now he spends all his time whispering or simply not speaking. He said he’s grown a lot internally because he can no longer afford to waste words. He’s so beautiful it pains me. The warm lull of his voice, the way his muttering makes jokes seem like earnest pleas. His most famous dish is inspired by the smell of milk on his infant nephew’s skull. It’s enough to make me weep. I know a few of you have written into the show, wondering why I’ve started speaking in low tones lately. I’m fine, thank you. I just can’t shake this chef and have begun talking this way out of solidarity, or perhaps I’m slowly becoming him and can’t stop the metamorphosis. The point is, I’m tired of all these men who say, “I’d die for you.” I’m not interested in watching you die. You only have to do that once. What I really want to see is you live for me. Day after day for decades on end. Such a tireless pursuit. Would you do that for me, over and over and over again? Stranger, lover, ancestor--whatever you all call yourselves, are you real companions or aren’t you? Where does the limit of your devotion lie? The reason I bow at the end of each of my shows isn’t to dodge the jealous spirits that rush about my head. Let’s lay that rumor to rest. The reason I bow is so that after I’ve made myself perfectly breathless and hideous from performing for you, when you whistle your bravos and encores, all your admiration should fly past me. I wish that none of your praise should stick. No stench of hubris on me. Untouched and melted down, when the curtain falls, I return to my domestic sphere and doggish existence, waiting for another night to rush into your bedrooms once more, so I can tell you all the things I’ve been seeing as I pace the floor of this cheap set. And once again, there’s a woman you can’t stop staring at, and you know she’s bleeding, but you still can’t locate her wound.
Ananda Naima González is a writer, educator, and performer residing in Harlem, New York. She carries a BA and an MFA from Columbia University, in poetry and fiction respectively, and has taught at Gotham Writers Workshop. Her words have appeared in BOMB, McSweeney's, Catapult, Apogee, The Southern Review, and Lampblack. She was shortlisted for Bellingham Review’s 2023 Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction and is a 2022 finalist for Gulf Coast Journal’s Barthelme Prize for Short Prose, Indiana Review’s 1/2K Prize, and SmokeLong Quarterly’s Award for Flash Fiction. Her mission is to honor the inherently sacred ritual of living. In addition to writing, she is also a professionally trained dancer and an accomplished choreographer and filmmaker.