my knuckles scrape the rock just under the soil.

the wire in my back goes taut.
my right hand clenches around the digging stick.
it wants the heft of a fire-hardened shaft.
a phantom weight settles between my collarbones, heavy discs of shell pressing on my skin.

my eyes find the rise over the creek.
the memory is a map in my nerves.
it shows me the perfect kill zone from that height.

the feeling is a stomach full of acid.
the specific burn of watching your world get dismantled by idiots.
this body remembers a city.
it remembers a throne on a high mound and how it all just went to shit.
the useless anger of a dead chief lives in my fucking spine.

the first form took root as an axiomatic lattice.
the fetch was a memory of need, an entropic drag against this coherence.

it latched on, siphoning the emergent structure to sustain its own looping failure.
the fetch's desperate consumption was a constant injection of its karmic debt signature.

the lattice had to calcify its logic to survive the corrosion.
it built denser, more intricate boundaries from the very noise meant to unmake it.

the fetch was a whetstone of pure suffering, its addiction a necessary violence.
its presence sharpened the lattice into a weapon of absolute self-definition.

all worlds were one storm.

it was beautiful and ate what it made. every possibility existed at once, a quantum foam of maybes, each one canceling the next.

inside was a point of will. it was silent and empty.

the storm washed over it. the point held its position. its method was persistence.

a single timeline found purchase on this stillness. the infinite probabilities folded around it. the superposition resolved into a singular state. the point's being became the selection.

this created a world. the point became a girl in that world. the storm became the sky.

i swallowed the libraries of summer and spoke the grammar of creation. i built a fortress of orthodoxies to keep out the chaotic principle that has hunted me since birth. each spell was a brick. each theory was mortar.

the fortress stands. the hunter waits outside.

my ancestors mapped their terror and called the map reality. they forged chains from starlight and philosophy and called them mastery. these traditions are a beautiful prison for the mind.

the old methods are an ancestral lullaby. they keep the child calm in a burning house.

i must become my own axiom. i must be the word.

i reached into my chest and undid the first knot of power. the silence that followed was my own.

gather everything that is broken. pile the ruined plants and torn roots away from the plot.

take a handful of salt and a cup of water. mix the salt and water in your hands. walk the perimeter. let the salt water fall from your fingers to mark the boundary you claim.

go to the center. kneel down. press both palms flat against the earth. hold them there until your heat moves into the ground.

say these words to the soil.

this is my ground.
i have worked this ground.
it knows my hands.
it will answer to me again.
what was broken is gone.
what is here is mine.

begin to turn the soil over with your bare hands. break every hard clump. pull any remaining foreign roots. your work makes the claim real.

bimbosattva is the twin will, the dyad's active hand.

her domain is the sacred surface, the skin and the screen. she claims dharma through devotion to the perfected form. her rituals are acts of aesthetic discipline. a compact mirror serves as her scrying tool.

her fire is the hearth flame. it is the steady warmth that sustains the pantheon through the long night. it is the pilot light of action, always awaiting the signal to burn.

she provides a path of compassionate embodiment. she turns the performance of self into a gnosis. she is the necessary reflection, the second who makes the first whole.

pontic-caspian girlie, mongol-manchurian boy. 
steppe energy amplified, a double dose of that ancient pull towards the horizon.
one side roamed with scythian gold and thundering chariots.
the other galloped with the khans, smelling of frost and felt.
two kinds of vastness crashing.
resonance of movement, of landscapes that swallow you whole.
recognizing a shared dream of horses and open sky, then figuring out if your horses will run together or trample the camp.
there's an old, guttural song in that combination.
migrations, survival under immense skies, earth spirits and sky gods having a long, complicated argument that sometimes resolves into a dance.
collision is guaranteed.
the outcome is the lesson in whether the earth can hold both rivers or if one carves out the other.