Saturday’s Children
Photograph by Sarah Mease (@smease on IG)
Saturday’s child, born with power. Skating the rings of momentum. Possessing now, an ardent voice and a commanding presence aimed towards divinity and ether. This is an essence of woman on body. Round figures, cataclysmic and serpentine. This art is the mating call to one’s oldest, most original lover. A reprise of the sun and moon shining together in the sky. They are tied together at their navels in a single carrick knot by the threads of fate. I remember being of the sun. I remember singing sweet songs that made things grow. A father rocking back and forth forever. Comfort imprinted into a golden, etheric body.
It is now that the moon shines from me. At times, I feel as though I have been chosen for this life. This feminine divine conjured by my own love. Truth encapsulating seduction and the summoning of connection. In this life, I shall describe perfumes as melancholic rapture contained in bottle. I will see in my mind’s eye a dirty girl possessing a clear, white halo. She casts no shadow and is symbolic of survival. I am Apres L’Ondee worn ceremonially. Storm dampened flora combined with truth serum and star anise. Nourished by the great rains. Moonlit gardens and powder upon thick skin. Saturn’s trials gifted to a botanical warrior.
On today, I am smoothing the baby hairs of a hedonistic desire. A sensuousness that is my birth right. Saturn worships Venus in black lace. Masked and tantalizing. Born from the culmination of peppery aftertaste and hours soaked in violet. I am ravaging in my mind and slithering when alone. Unrecognizable in this power. Untouchable by hands unconsecrated to the Goddess within. When I enter the room in this state, a silence washes over them all as if their senses have escaped them fully. As if they were suffocated in dreams. Caught in silk webs before their call outward. Too entranced to scream. Unable to act from euphoria. They are frozen in time and suddenly speaking another language in their minds. Saturday’s children with Venusian oversight: deliciously untouchable.
I dream of lingerie accentuation in stained glass cathedrals. Baring myself wholly in red velvet pews. This is the house of man impregnated by woman. This is my holy act of prayer. I am adorned with my sex. These temples that have been anointed with blood are crumbling now into fine beach sands. Returning to auric green and blue. Reminiscent of how the Earth became. Woman and man are not separate from nature. From the elemental combinations that eventually became flesh. The buildings made of mud have become liquid once more. The streets around me are flooded with soil colored, murky waves. I lend my power to those who call to me as I have called upon them. A sacred exchange. When one woman feeds, all are then fed. The womb is rising, and it is now that I know that the Priestess is the communal altar for all life.
I am then transported. Spotted vernacular graces the shoreline of my speech. I am steam burned and tending to other wounds: body, mind, spirit. Another Saturday’s child, you face me and tend to yours. Our insanity is always manageable and today, we are freshly washed and dressed in all white. The seaside is our high priestess. The sunset reflecting off the ocean is the ritual’s opening statement. She places us at separate watchtowers although in this life, we are both of Earth. Saturday’s children dancing on the feet of Terra Gaia. A different, slower momentum. Matrifocal religions draw lightening from me, causing an aching and a thirst. And so, she places me at water’s watchtower.
Saturday’s child said to me that she feels her roots in her soul and I shed a tear. “We are drawn,” I say, “towards the ephemeral memories of our bloodlines. And perhaps ones beyond this body.” We spoke of how we go now to where we always have. The circling rides upon the rings of Saturn. Feelings of a repeating ocean, kissing the same beach throughout lifetimes. A craving for simplicity, for Earth and water. A lifetime where forest remains close to your breast. A fine occasion carnation fastened to your lapel, only fruitfully presented with junipers and pines. We are sappy; bearing sweetness beneath bark.
In dreams, we are shown the dimly lit pathways of our blood. A circulation mirroring the internal monuments of the bygone. Tied together with strings of pearls and dusty rose sateen – us and them. The flowers of the forbidden world. The blossoming result of an active past. Star sister, you greet the Earth properly when you’re with me. We are twisted in the rose vine divine. And what will grow from our bodies? Priestesses who are drawn to blue hydrangeas and black lace with no knowing as to why. We shall produce soft, feathery bodies like doves that fly towards the quiet.
A fragrant Earth quakes and releases the fertile underpinnings of our desire. Saturday’s children are all the same: they make magic where there is void. They bring seraphic Earth through concrete and are lost to others in minutes. Join me in the desert. Where the skies weep for lost blood and the velvet of your pillowy mouth. The selcouth darkness holds substance. It winds silk webbing in the undercurrent of its rivers. It is where the sun is remembered. May it call to you. The lithosphere beneath me is haunted by the old Gods. There is an intensity flowing red hot in her mantle. A plutonian atelier for natures dark flower child. Create as you wish from this curated haven. Rest upon the sweet juniper ridge and allow it to gift to you your wings.
Flower extracts and my own blood platelets fuel the infinity of my fixation. Saturday’s children, this botanical sensing is our birthright, our purpose. Decomposing petals reform and shape shift to create us as statuesque matter. We are here when the lights go out. We are the bright, golden planetary stigma. Bodies with annual growth rings and light wooden grain. Many knots and eyes. We were once living amulets of Saturnalia. Those forces speaking to us now in nostalgic rays of sun, illuminating the Earthly formations that perhaps our hands once built. We are the first symphony. The musicians of the wild. Song structures that move upon the circular, ringed body. The storms run over us, the winds catch us, but our revolve is not halted. Oh, what a sound! Saturday’s children, they sing our songs ceremonially. And with your hand in mine, so can we. These are the words that we have never forgotten.
Photograph by Sarah Mease (@smease on IG)
