Orpheus and the Tar Pit

As if he had been poured

in tar, he lies

on a pillow of turf

and seems to weep

the black river of himself.

– Seamus Heaney, The Grauballe Man

Orpheus as an adult is a different person from Orpheus as a young man. It’s the bridge between the two, made from little more than knotted string, that can at times be precarious, the kind that folds in on itself and tangles in near-permanent ways.

What Orpheus seeks as an adult is internal, no longer bound to a self contained in others. Orpheus as a young man seeks love, and only external love, to make up for the widening, crumbling emptiness at work inside him. Orpheus as an adult has constructed an inner citadel in the spirit of Marcus Aurelius, one whose spiralling towers and metamorphic soapstone structure is impermeable. The citadel reassures Orpheus with its timeline intimately tied to his: while people, objects, riches, and even ideas, exist on shifting, tectonic levels and will either outlive Orpheus or disappear from his presence for any reason or none, the citadel will exist exactly as long as Orpheus will, is so inextricably part of him that it has become the only reliable thing in life. There is peace to be found in this idea. 

Nietzsche, more bearded than ever, rests his dirty feet on Orpheus’s pillow and waffles on about the importance of forgetting, and of digesting one’s past properly.

The body and soul, which are in a sense one and the same in that their boundaries blur and pulsate between the visible and the concealed, are here, are his, and whatever they digest or are drawn to, no matter how intensely, will eventually pass through them without causing them to disappear. After the digestive process, drawn-out as it may be, the body is still there with its stomach and bowels. 

Nietzsche seems concerned that digestion is something people have abandoned for the sake of wallowing, of an eternal practice of chewing the cud. Orpheus can’t deny this; much of his time was spent in such a state of rumination, turning his face more and more into the long muzzled mask of a cow. For a while, taurine horns sprouted from his head. 

Orpheus has undergone so many metamorphoses that the limits of his self feel unclear, smeared with the grease of otherness. But this otherness is of a particular kind, more ethereal than a person’s simple presence. Orpheus is backed up with ideal selves, which have undermined and torn through his digestive organs for years, have made him incapable of releasing what kept accumulating. 

The mind turns life into memories, but when the soil that should cradle these memories in its darkness is overrun with writhing bodies, bloated and undead, the memories have no choice but to fall in heaps onto the surface, rotting there like Antigone’s kin in the blazing sun. Orpheus is dizzy with the fumes of slow decay. 

“You need to become empty so that you can fill yourself again,” says Nietzsche, unhelpfully. 

Franz Stuck, Orpheus, 1891

Orpheus, whose oral fixation is considerable, takes bites upon bites of the world, sucking and gnawing on it to find the precise combination of sensations and tastes that will still the rumbling inside. 

Orpheus has heard of a man across many mountains, perhaps even across many chunks of time, who suffers from the opposite problem, the inability to stop excreting. Losing control over his body has trapped that man in his own hell of increasingly destructive dreams. Orpheus wishes he and the man could meet, speak to each other of their afflictions, and find a middle-ground in which to attempt a mutual healing. But Orpheus knows that such a desire is selfish, and that the man, who finds himself chained up by greedy men who harvest his excretions for fuel, has enough to deal with without being weighed-down with Orpheus’s indigestible accumulation of selves. Orpheus comes not as a clean and single self, but as a cluster of concerns and pains, triggers and difficulties, all these things he hasn’t yet managed to shave off himself. 

Orpheus spends more time thinking about his own mouth than is perhaps advisable, and he has recently stopped trusting even this aperture, which used to be his truest means of expressing himself. The mouth is where the voice substantiates, where language shows itself with the greatest possible immediacy, where longing quivers, where food breaks in, where kisses fall together, where the beloved’s body can be tasted and indulged. 

But now, Orpheus has given up his finger-painting relation to the world, has exiled all hands from his vicinity. The wind touches him only through tissue paper, the light hits his skin only with invisible brushstrokes. Still, despite its failures, the mouth remains. Whether Orpheus wants it or not, his mouth is open to the world, a concentrate of yearning. 

In response, his environment either curls up into absence or opens itself in kind. The world wavers between petrified wood and openness, and the landscape Orpheus inhabits pits itself with holes of incalculable depth. These holes open around him with wet smacking sounds, bringing bitumen to the surface like pus, old suppurations, which both the world and Orpheus ought to have dealt with but which they chose instead to ignore, letting them ferment into hypogeal patches. Orpheus exists in a time of tectonic upheaval. 

One morning, one such hole opens in front of him while he empties his bladder into a mulberry bush. The stream running from his phallus his clear as glass, almost silent as it hits the thorns. The hole’s presence annoys Orpheus, who wishes for a semblance of stability. His internal citadel is still under construction, not yet a home, torn down each night by the same perfectionist impulses that cause people-pleasing Melusina to redraft again and again the palace she builds for Siegfried, the man she wants to look after. 

Orpheus, still homeless but with a vague idea of what an internal home might entail, does not want to be confronted with holes and their attention-seeking bullshit. He shouts a number of obscenities into the hole, expecting an echo, but nothing returns, not even a faint, whimpering reflection of his call. 

All he feels is a fluttering at the back of his throat, the sense of something tearing away, and for a moment the rustle of wings obscures his vision. 

When Orpheus opens his mouth to ask what the hell just happened, his voice is gone. Like an unsettled bat it flees with the flap of leathery wings towards a more amenable cave, and it is now lost in the bottomless hole along with his words.

Orpheus hurls a handful of mulberry blooms into the hole and heads for the deep end of the forest, kicking pebbles along the way. After an hour, he comes to rest against a mossy rock. A few paces ahead, he sees what appears to be another hole, of a black so total no light returns from it. Orpheus approaches and feels the ground sucking at his feet. The hole is surrounded by tar, perhaps even filled with it, although its centre is a deeper black than Orpheus has ever witnessed. 

For a moment, his mind is full of bodies preserved after death, able, by the grace of chemical magic, to retain their human form even after consciousness has trickled like fat from the flesh. He looks into the centre of the hole, into the complete impossibility of a reflection. This hole is the loneliest place on earth, where not even the self can be witnessed. 

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,

To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring

Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme

To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

– Seamus Heaney, Personal Helicon

The sun shuffles around in the branches of trees like an animal waking up, and Orpheus wants to escape. Whenever the sun shines his mind flings itself back towards Eurydice, towards Hamlet, towards Apollo, towards Melusina, all these impossible beings sprouting from his sides and inside his heart, who left their perforations inside Orpheus’s flesh; all these creatures who inhabit a higher realm into which they have retreated, and where Orpheus can’t follow. 

Do not take them seriously. If they retreat into heights, into distance and indifference, then Orpheus has at his disposal an entire realm of depth and intense claustrophobia. 

The earth has swallowed Henri Michaux. His body is in a process of slow decomposition as it sinks, and the gas escaping from his corpse is making the earth burp up sebaceous bubbles of advice.

“Descends,” says the wet voice of Henri Michaux, bursting from a bubble, “oui, descends en toi, vers cet immense rayonnage de besoins sans grandeurs. Il le faut. Après tu pourras, tu devras remonter.” Sink deep into yourself, it is necessary.

Come back, says a choir of spirits, cradled by the rocks and trees, only when the needs you feel have shifted, the yearning faded. Stay inside yourself, no matter how uncomfortable you may be there. Discomfort soon turns into placing one stone upon the other, building a makeshift resting place for the tired spine. Others, especially idealised others, those you trust too much without reason, cannot be your home. They will, like everything else in the world, crumble in your hands, disappoint and hurt, and leave. Some of them will not leave willingly, but they will break just the same. At least when you break, Orpheus, you won’t be left behind; all of you will disappear at once. Find comfort in this. 

“Les arbres frissonnent plus finement,” says Michaux from an other bubble, “plus amplement, plus souplement, plus gracieusement, plus infiniment qu’homme ou femme sur cette terre et soulagent d’avantage.”

Orpheus sighs, once again weighed down with well-meaning words of wisdom. But they are someone else’s wisdom. Orpheus, full of the past, full of the toxicity of echoes and evocations, full of long-gone happiness, has no space for the new, not yet. Orpheus needs darkness, and silence; he needs to be alone. There is nothing lonelier than the bottom of a tarpit infused with Vantablack. 

For a moment, Orpheus hesitates on the edge of the tar pit, and the sunlight falls in such a way that he thinks he sees the shadowy outline of Eurydice kneeling on the opposite edge of the pit.

Eurydice’s hands shake against the black surface, and as she submerges them in an attempt to quieten them, they disappear completely. Eurydice, too, wants stillness, and when she looks over at Orpheus she sees his blue stained hands, raises hers, dripping with tar, and like two drenched skunks they seem to recognise each other.

In a fanciful flash, Orpheus and Eurydice fling their bodies toward each other, landing in the tar’s black heaviness. They splash the slow substance about their writhing bodies, and as they embrace they sink down towards the centre of the earth. 

Inside the tar, there is no speech, no sight, no air. They have only the weight of their bodies against each other, mediated by the viscosity of bitumen.

When Orpheus hits the bottom of the tar pit, Eurydice is gone. Silence and darkness are equally absolute. He folds his knees against his chest, where neither heart nor lungs feel a need for air, and he waits for a light to come on inside him.

He waits like this for a long time, his body held by the tar like the yolk inside an egg. You deserve to be loved, whispers the tar in its tongueless, throatless voice. You deserve to exist. But this voice is only Orpheus’s superficial reassurance, and he needs to hear something else, something more substantial. He waits until his skin seems to have melted.

“Sache n’importe où tu te trouves reconnaître ton axe,” says Henri Michaux, muffled by the tar. “Ensuite tu aviseras.”

August Natterer, World Axis with Hare, 1911

In this perfect dark symmetry, where above is below and sides bear no difference to each other, Orpheus tries to feel his own spine, the way it has warped in grief, its line compromised by sorrow, and from this line, its bent and bumpy descent from skull to tail, Orpheus constructs a new compass needle, with a magnetic north down in his tailbone, south up in his head, and as he slowly stretches out his invisible body in the tar he feels a new gravitational pull jerk at him, lure him down to where the surface is, this new world he will inhabit. There is love there, and things make sense; there, his mind is no longer sore with isolated desires, impossible hopes.

His spine shudders with a sudden navigational need, and Orpheus follows its pull. He opens his mouth wide and lets the black fluid in, lets it fill his throat and organs, his ears and nostrils, he opens himself fully to the viscous bitumen, and a composite sensation, of drowning and breathing too fast, too deeply, smears itself across Orpheus’s consciousness, momentarily erasing his fear of having lost the thing he cares about the most.

The tar sucks at his body, compelling him to stay, to remain there in silent suspension, to let his body mummify alongside prehistoric animals and murdered men. But Orpheus would not be Orpheus if he didn’t know how to ascend from the impossible.

Once he is full of tar, a reversal occurs and the tar circling within him streams back out again, out of his ears, his nose, his throat, pushing more and more of itself out of him and in this increasing lightness Orpheus rises, tail first, towards an exit. 

When he reaches the tarpit’s surface, his eyes, bloodshot from the tar, are searing coals, ruddy like a pigeon’s. Orpheus feels the shudder of something in his mouth. Something has remained in him. Against his teeth, he feels his voice twitching its oily wings. 

He closes his burning eyes and lies on the tarnished grass in the sun, and his skin aches as the asphalt dries on it. There is a realisation he has come to: it was never Eurydice down in Hades. Perspectives were misplaced, dislodged like retinas. This entire time, Eurydice was alive. It was never her moving inside deaths’s leaden clutch, unfeeling like a bug trapped in resin. It was never Eurydice who refused to cross over into life on their recurring ascents; this whole time, it was Orpheus in Hades, sedate and bleary-eyed, enmeshed in death’s delusion. This whole time, Eurydice was alive, moving at the speed of life, which seems uncannily quick from the vantage point of death. While she shot through life as a swallow, Orpheus spent years in paralysis, stuck inside the ice block of Hades, and from there he watched her shape-shift, lamenting his own stagnant point of view. Orpheus looked on and saw his own limited capacities, his mind capable only of useless repetition, the return to a past that could never heal his present. 

Now he knows. Eurydice could not help him rise from the Underworld because it is not in Eurydice’s set of tasks to do so. Orpheus is the one to whom the charming of the infernal keepers befalls, who is meant to bring the dead to life, but how can he do so when he is the one trapped? The filaments of his mind are too flimsy to hoist him up from the bottom of the well where he lies.

The clouds pass left to right on the other side of his lids. A shadow leans over him, and Orpheus knows who it is, but isn’t ready to look, to confront, not just yet. 

Obligatory Flashback Sequence Starting From Mildly Distorted Reality

The compass needle spins where Orpheus is sitting. It is earlier in time, an earlier point in the myth, before he learns to cradle himself properly, before his arms and feet are stained a deep blue, before he learns to resist the past’s pointless call.

Orpheus is furious with the ugliness of the world, its inability to charm him back towards it. No effort, the world an old wife who has stopped trying. No blossoms in the trees, no warmth in the sand, the air so bland he worries his sense of smell has atrophied.

“Dr. Mother,” says Orpheus, slumped in his therapist’s chair, with his untied boots and naked chest, wearing only his coat woven from hair collected by brushstroke from the backs of a hundred gibbons, “Dr. Mother, listen. I have tried to improve myself, I have tried to let go of self-doubt, of accumulations of yearning and anxiety, but it’s too hard. Compared to the present, the past has so much more allure. Do you know who I ran into the other day? A girl I hadn’t seen in years, with whom a short-lived fling had long passed. Of course, even though this girl precedes her by half a decade, I compared her to Eurydice, then as if to punish myself for the thought I let her lead me by the hand into the nearest park and I fucked her under an overturned canoe. Not saying any of this is true, but isn’t it fun to say? This attachment to my myth has ruined my ability to distinguish between figment and reality. Do you think, Dr. Mother, that my entire life is made up of lies that exist in the world for no reason other than because the words composing them hold each other by the hand just right?”

Dr. Mother replies, “I thought we agreed, Orpheus, to keep your poetry out of our sessions. There is no place in psychoanalysis for balladry.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So tell me again, and tell me the truth this time. What happened to you this week? Did you see anyone?”

“No, although I did run into an unusual number of wild dogs. For most of the week, I hung from the ceiling by my left ankle, until the colours of the world became inverted. It was nuts.”

“Orpheus, enough,” says Dr. Mother. She doesn’t usually smoke, but suddenly there is a cigarette in a red holder between her lips.

“You’re being very unprofessional,” says Orpheus, and feigns a cough. The truth is, he hasn’t felt a thing in the back of his throat for months, certainly not enough to warrant a cough. In fact, come to think of it, his entire mouth is numb. His palate is still coated with his longing for Eurydice. “Smoking in front of a patient,” he says. “You know how suggestible I am.”

“You’re not a smoker, Orpheus, and I am. My nerves are frayed. Just look away until I’m done.”

Orpheus sighs and slumps deeper in his chair until only his head rests on the seat, and he stares up at Dr. Mother’s lofty ceiling. In many ways, he is younger than he looks.

“So there I was, hanging from the ceiling,” he resumes. Dr. Mother throws a lighter across the room, nearly missing his forehead.

“Fine,” he says. “I did absolutely nothing, saw nobody, had no opinions about anything, least of all myself, spent hours smelling my own armpits, as you do, and then for a moment, just a very short moment, I thought about the future, which is so uncertain now that my hands no longer pulsate with magic and my brain is out of room for words, and at that thought a constriction in my torso echoed so violently I think most of my organs must have been rearranged in the process.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Fuck off,” says Orpheus.

“Let me rephrase that. Are you still in love with Eurydice?”

“What do you think?”

“Orpheus, we won’t get anywhere if all your answers are either lies or sarcasm. I want to help you, it’s what you pay me for.”

“Fine. What was the question?”

“Do you still want Eurydice to return to you?”

“That’s a different question than the one you asked me earlier, but I’ll take it. Yes, Dr. Mother, I do. Twice a day, up and down with vigorous strokes, lasting between two and five minutes.”

“Orpheus, normally I’d say that this is a safe space, but as you can see, I’ve succumbed to my nicotine cravings, this is not the time for your inappropriate shenanigans.”

“Brushing my teeth is inappropriate?”

“Let’s talk about something else. How is your family?”

Orpheus lets out a sigh so long and loud his body slides from the chair onto the floor.

“How’s work?” Dr. Mother asks.

“You said no poetry.”

“Do you mean to tell me after all these years we have run out of things to talk about?”

“I’m in love,” groans Orpheus. “What the fuck do you want to talk about?”

“Your goals, your self-development. Your mother, if necessary.”

“In love with a ghost who thinks Hades is the place to be. This old tale again, as if it’s scored into my flesh. What sort of goals do you foresee there, Dr. Mother? What kind of self-development, for her or me? My mother would be proud, I can tell you that. This whole mess is perfect muse-material.”

Dr. Mother slaps the side of her chair as if berating a badly-mannered dog.

“Listen, you impossible child,” she snaps. “For years I have humoured your bullshit, enough is enough. Forget about Eurydice for a second, forget about what you think you feel. Sit down on your fucking chair and act like a human being, if you can remember how.”

“Jeez.” Orpheus drags himself back onto his chair and hangs one leg over the armrest. “What is up with you today?”

“Sit properly,” says Dr. Mother.

“I am. Still growing into my parts, I’ll have you know. Honestly, you’re never this weird. What’s going on?”

Dr. Mother stubs out her cigarette against her phone screen. “I read my daughter’s diary last night.”

“Oh, Dr. Mother. What a stupid thing to do.”

“I know.” Dr. Mother waves her hand at the tiny plume of smoke rising from her singed screen. “She is such a smart girl, but the men she involves herself with… I don’t understand how you can go so wrong.”

Dr. Mother closes her eyes the way only an exasperated mother can.

“I blame the parents,” says Orpheus.

Dr. Mother threatens him with a throw pillow, then sighs.

“Speaking of badly chosen men,” she says, “we haven’t discussed Hamlet for a while. Why is that?”

“Because, first of all, it’s in the past, and also it’s disruptive to my myth.”

“I thought the past had so much more allure.”

Orpheus groans. “That was back when I was lying to myself. You need to keep up.”

“Wouldn’t it be useful to start disrupting your myth? Isn’t your attachment to Eurydice based on some very restrictive assumptions?”

“I don’t know,” says Orpheus, picking his toenails. “I wouldn’t call it attachment. Anyway, I vote for talking about what hurts in the present, not what hurt back then.”

“We should talk about the past, Orpheus,” says Dr. Mother, suddenly back to her true form – this is psychoanalysis, after all. Dr. Mother puts the cigarettes away and opens a window to clear the fumes from her melting phone screen. “Eurydice isn’t where it all began.”


The compass needle spins where Orpheus is sitting. It is earlier in time, much earlier, before Eurydice, when his name wasn’t quite Orpheus but something else, when the love he felt was as consuming and voracious as a swarm of flies.

His food tastes of nothing, the people he sleeps with make no sound, the pages he turns reveal the same words as the ones before.

Orpheus is in love with Hamlet, who is somehow always otherwise engaged. Blablabla, my father’s ghost visits me in my sleep, blablabla, I may have to enact my revenge on a murdering uncle, blablabla, I’ve got to finish this report for my scientific assistant post tomorrow. Oh, I’ve got an essay due on Monday, I was once hurt so badly I don’t remember how to love, and on top of everything I need to apply for MA funding within the coming month. Nightmare.

Orpheus, who is always something of a child, even more so at that age, isn’t always this much of an asshole. At first, when Hamlet catches his eye, Orpheus is a delight. He sings the most enchanting songs he can muster, writes every word of his juvenile poetry addressing Hamlet’s gentle body and beautiful mind. He spends hours listening to Hamlet’s wild ideas, future plans, and endless complaints. He behaves the way Orpheus behaves when he is in love, opening his heart wide and bathing the entire world in his incandescent charms.

So many of his thoughts pertain to Hamlet, who has no use for them. Every inch of his skin is open to Hamlet, who is left cold by its touch. In his immature passion, Orpheus has no weapon against Hamlet’s disinterest except his own loveliness, which crumbles in the face of apathy, and Orpheus’s heart crumbles along with it.

Hamlet sits in their university library for hours without speaking a word to Orpheus, because Hamlet isn’t sure if it’s Orpheus he wants or someone else. After all, the girl who left him might return, and in the meantime there are all these other girls with bright red hair who look so charming when they laugh at his jokes.

Despite this, Hamlet has abstracted from all bodily pleasures and made desire into a completely intangible pursuit, to be led only by the ego in an immaterial realm. He writes love letters to Orpheus, writes poetry, endless lines of worship and erotica, but when they are alone, Hamlet won’t so much as touch him. Orpheus’s body is Hamlet’s fantasy, and as such it must never be consumed, only praised and made love to in words. Orpheus, up on his pedestal, is exhausted by having to hold a pose his agile, living body isn’t meant to hold, his body which wants only to be touched and stroked and played with, but which Hamlet will only caress through language. Hamlet’s mouth and Hamlet’s hands do not understand their purpose, and reduce themselves to verbalisers.

Slowly, Orpheus fades away inside his unreciprocated needs, until after years of this, Hamlet shows up at his door and says, “Why did you leave?” Orpheus says nothing. He builds a fort from blankets to cradle their bodies and offers Hamlet tea, then holds his hand while Hamlet weeps out his exasperation. The next day, Orpheus gives in and says, “I love you Hamlet, I never stopped,” which is true, and Hamlet’s ego is satisfied for a while.

But it isn’t enough, and soon Hamlet is drawn back into his own tumultuous self, and the easy admiration he receives from others. Turns out it’s not just the prospect of a duel that makes Hamlet feel queasy, but anything resembling a twosome. The person Hamlet needs to be is always elsewhere, always out of reach, and there is no room there for Orpheus, who wants reciprocity, to play his lyre and write his poetry, and whose need for physical closeness is too great for what Hamlet will allow himself to give.


“What was it that hurt you about Hamlet, Orpheus?” asks Dr. Mother.

“That whole unshakeable sense that none of what occurred between us was up to me. He removed my body from our bond, made my needs irrelevant and turned me into an idea,” says Orpheus. “I didn’t exist to him, not in my embodied form.”

“Do you think you exist, Orpheus? Physically, I mean.”

Orpheus slaps his thigh, once, then again, and again, and again, until Dr. Mother says, “I get your point. What I mean is, do you believe you deserve to exist physically in a way that compels those you love to engage with you? Don’t you feel you are somehow always a burden just by virtue of having a material presence, and physical needs?”

“You know,” says Orpheus, “you’re not supposed to validate my narratives this way. It’s bad form. I’m in a psychically vulnerable state.”

“I’m sorry,” says Dr. Mother. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me today.”

“Your daughter is sleeping with bikers, I believe. Happens to the best of us.”

Dr. Mother rubs the bridge of her nose. “The most recent one is apparently a knight and falconer. I just don’t know where she digs them up.”

“Can we get back to my story, or do you want to switch seats?”

“Go on.”

“Yes,” says Orpheus, “I carry damage. Yes, I once chose someone who exacerbated my fears about being rebuffed in my intensity and needs. Yes, being with Hamlet somehow confirmed my fear of never being a priority to the people I cared about the most. Yes, for years I forgot what it felt like to have a body, to be an agent in the world, to desire and be desired. But I was also young, prey to more insecurities than I could handle, and Hamlet stabbed right into those unpleasant wounds for three continuous years. In a way, it’s remarkable I came out of it able, and willing, to keep desiring, and wanting to be desired. That I came out of it willing to keep trying.”

“I’m very happy to hear you say that, Orpheus,” says Dr. Mother.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t still know how to pick ’em.”

“We all do. Of course we choose those who match our wounds, how could we not? Those vulnerable parts of us that fall in love are also the parts that need the most healing, the most care. Sometimes, those we fall for cause our wounds to deepen, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, and if we accept their goodness, there will be a rare few who help us decontaminate all that festering hurt and redress our narratives, allowing the lesions to slowly heal.”

“I should be so lucky,” says Orpheus.

“You aren’t all that bad at healing yourself, Orpheus. You’re just impatient. Sometimes I worry you’d rather care for the wounds of others than give that attention to yourself. Why? Is it because in others the reward is more visible than in yourself?”

“Eh,” says Orpheus. His lids feel heavy. “Who’s to say.”

“You understand, don’t you, that Eurydice isn’t Hamlet, and vice-versa?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And the pain of losing Eurydice isn’t the same as the pain of Hamlet failing to love you,” says Dr. Mother.

“I know that. You’re the one constantly drawing comparisons.”

Outside, the sky has darkened to indicate the end of their session. Dr. Mother’s eyes are glazed over, her mind is already elsewhere. Orpheus can’t blame her, this has been his own condition for a while. The myth is slowly coming apart, undoing the rigidity of its seams, and all of its elements are now floating in free association, and already new matter is growing inside the widening spaces. The last thing that remains is Orpheus, loving Eurydice, this thought of her that will not fade from his mind, the gentle vibration of her that lives in his flesh.

Orpheus and the Flayed Man

Orpheus is distraught. A man without skin lives in his dreams. Orpheus knows this is because too many of his thoughts focus on limitations, on the boundaries of the self.

Trapped inside his own skin, in his unique consciousness, Orpheus has no chance at communion with others, not even those he wants the most. 

Eurydice swims in her set of underwater chambers, moving pebbles with her mouth. 

The muscles around the man’s eyes resemble the rings on a felled tree trunk. Orpheus watches them twitch. 

The bare musculature is an embrace, the twist of jungle vines around the tender skeletal trunks – in all things, Orpheus sees what he is lacking. 

In his dreams, the skinless man stalks across the landscape Orpheus is attempting to inhabit. The landscape has released its logic. The shadows thrown by its elements are golden, as are the pupils of animals, reflecting light rather than absorbing it. 

When they first found each other, Orpheus and Eurydice rubbed their pasts against each other, to see which parts this process might heal. In the fading light, their bodies, panting and warm, fell side by side into the sand. Eurydice placed a handful of sand on Orpheus’s skin and rubbed it into his legs, his arms, his back and torso. He returned the favour until their skins glowed with awareness, as new and receptive as an infant’s.

The flayed man in Orpheus’s dream cannot blink. He can only watch without pause, without release. 

Skinning is not an improvement on exfoliation. Skinning deadens the impact of touch.

Despite the impression of opening, removing the skin is in fact a closing.

In losing your skin, you lose the membrane allowing you to feel another’s caress. Left behind is only a raw, impotent mass, unable to engage or receive. Too much has been removed, and you become untouchable.

The dripping muscles on the flayed man’s stomach twitch.

Eurydice has arranged her pebbles in hexagonal patterns, befitting the vibrations that rise from the bottom of the lake.

Orpheus turns over to seek a cold patch on his mattress, scratching and chewing the pillow in his sleep.

Michaux parle à Orphée

Si tu arrives à dormir, c’est que le spectacle, la présence du réel tu en as assez, tu n’en peux plus.

Fini tout ce mesuré, mesuré mais voyant. Tout sombre, tu sais t’y dérober, tu t’arrêtes et tout s’arrête et coule dans une indifférence qui n’inquiète pas. En effet le lendemain tu te réveilles avec à peu près les mêmes sottises que la veille, quand pourtant tu n’en pouvais plus de tenir ensemble les pièces, structures ou débris, toutes ces illusions en forme de réalité, que tu reprends maintenant grosso modo et pas fâché de les retrouver pour faire face à ce qui va se présenter. 

Mais ne serait-ce pas que chaque soir tu voudrais plutôt seulement t’éloigner, t’éloigner en voguant de l’insatisfaisant monotone qui persiste à se présenter? ce serait là ton désir.

Henri Michaux, Poteaux d’Angle, 72
Odilon Redon, Orpheus

Replicating Eurydice

After Pop Psychology appeared in his dream, Orpheus finds himself in a helpless state, like a rock on the floor of a lake pushed into patterns by the current, like standing next to someone who is skinning a rabbit. Orpheus calls a friend to calm himself, but when the friend is busy he goes out for a walk instead. 

The sky is a screech of blue acid, and Orpheus walks under it, squinting. His breathing is laboured from the dream, his chest cluttered with a nameless concern for the things he loves. 

With each step, Orpheus observes an instability in the ground beneath him, which feels flimsier than it normally does. Orpheus knows that this may be his doing; his frequent descents into the Underworld have caused a thinning of the membrane stretching between life and the realm of the dead. 

The thought of Eurydice appears in his mind, a sensation with so immediate an impact that the membrane tears under his feet. Orpheus slips through the rift and comes crashing into Hades, where he lands loudly in a silent stream.

He rises from the water and sees Hades on his throne, his face hidden behind a newspaper. It is nearly Spring, and Persephone is somewhere in their chambers, packing up her bags. This is a hard time for Hades, Orpheus knows, when Persephone disappears for six months, a temporary reversal of Orpheus’s own situation with Eurydice. 

“Women, eh?” he nearly says, then stops himself. He and Hades are on what seem like familiar terms, but who can say how far these things can be pushed with the God of the Dead. 

Instead, Orpheus puts up his hands and says, “I’m not here on purpose. I won’t try to bring her back with me, not now. The ground just seems a little unstable up there.” 

Hades waves his hand and points him in the direction of Eurydice. 

Susan Rothenberg, Head and Bones, 1980

From afar, Orpheus sees her, surrounded by spirits. At first, he assumes she is caught up with friends, or even lovers, which seems odd for insular Eurydice; as he comes closer, he realises the others are copies she has made of herself. The bodies are facsimiles of hers, replicated to near perfection, all moving of their own accord. They seem caught up in a set of tasks with the single-minded determination of worker bees. 

As he approaches them, Orpheus catches one of the copies’ eye, and as she stares back at him, a smile widens on her face. For the first time since she died, Orpheus sees Eurydice’s features beam at him outside the context of dreams, and in response every organ in his body gushes and shakes. His heart collides with itself.

The copy approaches. From up close, he can tell she isn’t Eurydice; she is more translucent, with a more silvery skin than the real one. The copy stands in front of Orpheus and reaches out her gossamer hand, which she rests on his cheek. The feel of her body is like walking into a bathroom after someone else’s shower. On her face is an expression evoking nothing but love. Seeing this is too much to bear, and Orpheus closes his eyes, exhausted by what is happening to him.

The real Eurydice has noticed her copy gone astray, and soon she is standing behind them. Her blank face shows no recognition of Orpheus, no care for his presence. She places her hand on the copy’s neck, whose scruff stretches like that of a kitten when Eurydice picks her up. The copy lays her head placidly to the side and deadens her gaze, dangling there like a small animal between its mother’s teeth as Eurydice carries her off.

Orpheus stands there in the aftermath, torn by what seemed possible before it was taken away.

He knows that Eurydice is not Eurydice, cannot be Eurydice, because Eurydice keeps herself elsewhere. Eurydice is the refraction of Eurydice, the phenomenon of Eurydice, but the true Eurydice would be here, with him, if she were anywhere. The true Eurydice could be thought into a future in which the myth is resolved, broken apart and made new, with two coalescing yearnings instead of just one.

Eurydice, with her blind eyes and body empty of yearning, empty of love for Orpheus, returns to the many selves she tends to. Orpheus stays put and watches her for a while. 

He wonders why he ever turned around, in that very dawn of things, turned to face the first instance of Eurydice, when it would have been so easy not to. Comparatively easy, of course, in the context of everything he knows now. Why did he turn around? It would have been simpler not to. He could have done what he always does and stared straight ahead, at the winking projection of himself in his future, reducing Eurydice to an unknown, a person like any other in the world. It would have been so easy not to make her Eurydice.

He wonders where he would be if he’d simply refused to see. But Orpheus knows that, as was the case with Oedipus, whose familiar fate plunged him into that same leaden dusk, that when the constellations predict what you will see, you are no longer given the option to avert your gaze. 

Orpheus couldn’t help but look at Eurydice, because the very act of turning around to face the object of desire, even as it is still unknown, no more than a stranger, is the function of poetry. 

Orpheus would not be Orpheus without Eurydice. Eurydice herself doesn’t give a damn and yet the fact of Orpheus remains. Eurydice may remain in Hades forever, may never, like a self in a cursed mirror, return his gaze, may stare endlessly backwards at an other, but the fact remains: Orpheus needed to see Eurydice in order to become Orpheus.

There is no stable symmetry here, their bond is not a sphere, not the unbroken surface of a lake. Divergent pressures drive them both, and their paths leave a trail of vortices in their wake.

Sweet Eurydice, in her detached contentment, is unruffled. Eurydice pines after something just as pointless. She has rooted herself within the deepest ground she knows, a realm in which people are reduced to their most distant forms. 

In life, Orpheus feels everything too acutely, and has no means by which to numb himself. It is Eurydice herself who carries out their myth, who keeps the tragedy unchanged.

Orpheus thinks about Pop Psychology, who always wants to save others from themselves, and whom Orpheus could never save because her decisions were often as bad as his. It makes him smile to think that she found a temporary happiness somewhere, but he knows it didn’t last. Occasionally, the future can be read in the same tense as the past.

Orpheus, the son of Gods, suspects he would like to see himself, too, as a God capable of saving others – saving those he loves. 

But Orpheus is not a God, and those he loves cannot be saved, least of all from the choices they’ve made for themselves; even if he could reach into their lives, Orpheus, who is mortal, with a mortal mind and fallible impulses, wouldn’t know which decisions are right. There is no teleology emerging from the sybil’s footprints that Orpheus consults, not when it comes to their lives, nor his own. The myth has always been an excuse. 

Orpheus talks Gardening with Pop Psychology

for A. S.

You are what you love, not what loves you.

Donald Kaufman, Adaptation, 2002

In a dream, Orpheus meets his friend Pop Psychology, whom he hasn’t seen in years. She has secured a table for them at her student bar, near a window overlooking the sandstone campus. The courtyard is filled with pigeons fighting over the many food scraps the students leave behind. Orpheus and Pop Psychology sit face to face, sipping their drinks; water for him, and a beer for her. She looks just as she did when he last saw her; the same gold and lavender features Orpheus bears, except for her hair, which she has dyed the colour of slate. Unlike Orpheus, whose hair is a mess of strings, and whose clothes never make the most of his build, her appearance is coherent and neat.

“How’s life?” she asks. “I see you still don’t drink.”

“And you still do.”

“Unlike you I don’t have control issues,” she says.

“I don’t have issues,” says Orpheus, slurping his water loudly, which he knows she hates.

Pop Psychology looks at Orpheus’s indigo-stained hands.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says. “I’m grieving.”

“What for?” Her nails are long and dark, smooth as roller rinks.

“I’ve lost Eurydice.”

“Haven’t we all,” she says. “Where’d she go?”

“Self-imposed stint in Hades. Committed herself to the place a few weeks after the wedding, when a viper bit her ankle. Just walked in there as if it was a detox centre and said, ‘This is where I’ll be from now on. Everything else is too much for me.’”

“So she’s not lost, exactly, just gone.”

“That distinction doesn’t help my grief.”

“Do you visit her?”

Orpheus sighs. “As often as my heart can bear it. Sometimes I let a few visits slide, and during my absence she appears to me in dreams, so vividly that awakening to reality without her feels impossibly painful. But the more often I visit her, the less she seems to see me, as if her memory of me is fading away.”

“So why are you on a date with me?” asks Pop Psychology.

“This is a date?”

Pop Psychology shrugs and takes a sip of her beer. “Well, they say anything’s a date in a dream. I’ll tell you something we have in common. I’ll tell you in a few minutes and you’ll see that I’m right. Are you still writing? How’s the music?”

“Don’t ask. I come here to rest, you know.”

Suddenly, the expression on Pop Psychology’s face is very serious. “I know it hurts to want something so much, Orpheus.”

“I feel doomed, sometimes, you know.”

“I’m sorry, buddy. I don’t know Eurydice, but she sounds like a person who’s not done grieving.”

“Grieving?” says Orpheus. “She’s the one who left.”

“The grieving we all go through when we’re releasing our past. Her healing cycle may still be incomplete, and whenever she opens up, she sees that things inside her are raw and unfinished, and it freaks her out. You were like this too, remember?”

“Was I? Are you sure?”

“I remember it vividly,” she says. “You were convinced that the pain of past loves would replicate itself in new ones by default. At the same time, you kept hoping the past would somehow return to make amends and close the painful loop. Then one day you woke up and realised you’d closed it yourself. Remember how bright and vivid the present suddenly felt? Maybe Eurydice is just like you; she, too, has lost a part of herself in the past, and is trying to rebuild herself. She may just be slow at licking her wounds. The cold and isolation of Hades slows you down if you let it.”

Orpheus drains his water. “So what has she lost?”

“Who can say? Everyone leaves different parts in his past.”

“What did you left behind, Poppy?”

“I think we’re a lot alike, Orpheus, we have been for a long time. We both love very intensely, very deeply, with great focus. But for a while, I was different. I loved someone who hurt himself, again and again, stuffed himself with pills and left me to deal with the aftermath, again and again. Someone I came home to each day to find he had beaten himself to a pulp. While this man’s need for me was great, while he was ravenous for the soothing I could provide, he himself had very little to give. I emptied myself out to this person for years, drove him to the various hospitals in which he stayed. I understood that this was all I would ever be to this man, nothing more. I was not an equal but a carer, a parent. I loved him but received so little in return that one day I was utterly empty, and because I had nothing left to give, I disappeared.”

“I remember,” says Orpheus. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that now. But I spent years wondering if I’d behaved selfishly by leaving, by choosing my sanity over him. I began to shut people out, allow close to me only those who were so dull, stable and uncaring they seemed safe, because those people would never need me like this man had needed me. My capacity for love had become a dangerous thing, and any sensitive person I felt drawn to reminded me of the emptiness I still felt.”

“Do you remember,” asks Orpheus, “all those nights we sat on that bench near the duckpond and talked about cannibalism?”

Pop Psychology smiles. “I do,” she says. “I miss those days.”

“Me too. Things seemed so much easier then.”

“Do you remember” asks Pop Psychology, “the man we met near that pond, who told us that after a relationship ends the self is like infertile earth for a while, that you have to work hard to figure out what will still grow after the scorching, and for a while not much will. And then, with time, because there is always seed floating in the air, things once again begin to take hold, a self emerges in patches, but it seems too good to be true, and you become jealous and guarded, draping yourself over this plot of earth in which small seedlings have again begun to tremble, and anyone approaching it you fend off with a snarl. ‘Not again, you think, it was too hard getting things to grow again, it took so long, my plants are not ready yet to withstand being trampled by an other’s feet.’ This is normal, of course, the man said. But sometimes we are so busy cowering over our young and tender garden that we don’t see that, among those approaching us, some carry fertiliser, eggshells and coffee grounds, that among them some have greener thumbs than we do. It’s a fragile place, the man said, and it’s hard to let anyone back in.”

“Vaguely,” says Orpheus. “We met a lot of strange people then.”

“I thought of that story years ago,” says Pop Psychology, “when I was hesitant to open myself up to someone new, a man who wanted to love me. I resented the hell out of that story then.”


“Not for any good reason. I just thought such allegories were holier-than-thou bullshit, useless while you’re in the thick of it. Who in their right mind would, in the midst of a crisis, act in unguarded ways, based on emotional growth? That’s when our instincts kick in, and our instincts often follow old and useless patterns. That’s what it was like for me, too, and I felt rebellious then, so deeply human.”

“What happened with the new man?”

“For over a year,” says Pop Psychology, “I made him suffer the wrath of my most smug and self-righteous humanity. He was wrong, I decided, for wanting me, for seeing the good in me even though I saw myself as only half a person, a wreck. I told myself that there were so many things I had to achieve before I could run the risk of losing myself to someone else again. I was determined to brush him off, the way I had anyone else who’d approached me. But the man stayed, quietly, calmly, with his bag of fertiliser in his hand, tending his own garden in silence next to mine, only offering gentle reassurance every once in a while.”

“Wasn’t he angry?” asks Orpheus.

“Maybe he was, but he never seemed angry with me. After a while, realising he was still there, I began to look over at his garden and saw that there, too, much had been devastated and scorched. But unlike me he didn’t drape himself jealously over the few sprouts he had growing, but simply sat next to them, made small adjustments to the looseness of the earth and the shadow he provided, and left the whole thing out to be seen just as it was.”

“What were you scared of?” ask Orpheus.

“Losing what I’d spent so long rebuilding, this self that didn’t yet amount to the person I wanted to be. Love seemed like a distraction, and I wanted only to focus on my achievements, my solitary stability; those were things that felt a lot easier to hold on to somehow. Love was slippery, and involved another person’s whims, and I wanted to be selfish after having spent so long unable to put myself first. I thought about what it had felt to witness another person break down in front of me so many times, and I knew I couldn’t do it again.”

“Oh Poppy.”

“I know.”

“What did the man say?” asks Orpheus.

“Surprisingly little. He listened, mostly. He listened to a lot of my fears, anger, and unrelated complaints. He listened to my silence, too, sometimes for weeks. He listened to the things I said to try and drive him away. He listened to my self-loathing and misanthropy. He smiled at me in return. Sometimes he’d lay a finger gently into my palm, the way you do with a baby when it has nothing to hold on to. Sometimes, if a plant in his garden had a flower to spare, he’d pick it and hold it out towards me. His flowers were so different in colour to mine, so strange in their shapes, but beautiful.” 

“Did you ever open up to him?”

“I did,” says Pop Psychology, “after a while.”


“Because I wanted him. Because I’d grown stronger by then, and was learning to trust that he wouldn’t fall apart like the other man had. I’d looked into him and seen a gentle stability cradling all his chaos.”

“Did he still want you?”

“He showed me every plant that had grown in my absence; he let me touch every single one of their leaves. I think he saw me clearly. I don’t understand how, or why, but he did. He just reached into what was difficult and broken about both of us, as if it were easy. Whatever he found, it never made him run. He sat with it and held it in his heart.”

“Were you happy?”

“Don’t underestimate how good it feels to be seen by someone, and see them clearly in return. Don’t underestimate how good it feels to be loved by someone whose spirit resonates with yours. Yes, Orpheus, I was happy. Until, well, you know.”

“I know,” says Orpheus. “I’m sorry.”

They sit quietly for a while, holding on to their empty glasses. Outside, the clouds are purple and green, and the ground is covered in the agitation of birds. Orpheus looks at Pop Psychology’s placid face, the darkening in her eyes, and the gentle smile, as if chiselled into the bone. 

He lays his hand on her forearm. It feels as solid and quiet as touching a tree. “I’m really glad I got to see you, Poppers,” he says. “I was sure you had died.”

She looks up at him, then out of the window at the bobbing layer of wings.

“Let’s not speak of it, Orpheus,” she says. “The dream is nearly over. This is a nice moment, too nice for sadness, which will return soon enough. I, too, am glad to see you.”

Eurydice makes a decision

With the sutures still on his mouth, Orpheus makes a slow move back towards domesticity. He heads to the supermarket for household supplies, and as he hovers beside grapefruits in the cold and artificial air, he sees someone who might be Eurydice.

The figure lingers before the shelves, oblivious to Orpheus, whose feet are naked on the tiles. 

Perhaps she does see him, in the corners of her eyes, no longer lidless like those of a fish, her skin no longer bearing the shimmer of scales, but nothing about her posture concedes the difficulty of being in the presence of a person you once loved, then gave up on. 

Bracha L. Ettinger, Eurydice n. 5, 1994

It’s hard to tell real from fake in the droning supermarket light, but this person, whether or not she is Eurydice, seems very much alive, not a trace of Hades on her clothes, which are clean and unruffled. Her hair is warm and dry, her hands unmoving. She seems of normal density, human, with commonplace skin and forgivable instants of distraction, all in all very much like a person who never died, never suffered the ordeals of a myth. There seems to be no viper’s bite on her ankle. 

Orpheus watches as she crouches next to her basket, hesitating between recycled toilet rolls and some which are not, and in his crowded mind’s hearing he makes out the words that will be said to him several days after this by a well-meaning friend: 

Eurydice is not meant for you. She isn’t an inevitable part of your story, or linked to you in some mystical way. She is not a soulmate the world’s tides have flung into your hands. Like anyone else you ever loved, no matter how intensely, Eurydice is no more than an accident. 

Bracha L. Ettinger, Eurydice n. 45, 2006

Orpheus doesn’t approach the tender figure wrapped in her coat, only watches as she rises with the recycled rolls in her hand. He cannot say if Eurydice is more or less important to him knowing the crossing of their paths is, and has always been, accidental. 

He knows that what matters is not whether placing his hand on this person’s shoulder reveals her to be Eurydice, whom he loves, or a stranger, whom he knows nothing about and understands only in terms of their shared humanity, but the fact that Eurydice, where ever she is, doesn’t want to be alive and will not return to him, and that what this means isn’t that Orpheus is doomed to repeat the myth he has been repeating all this time, but that the world isn’t based on a foundation of symmetry, of reciprocity, no matter how much Orpheus, in his limited understanding of things, wishes that it were. 

The Aquarian

Your vision was fine. The clouded spots weren’t on your cornea but on your mind’s eye, which saw me clearly at first, then moved sideways towards interpretative paranoia. I wasn’t perfect, you decided, not yet. I needed to be improved on if I was to survive in the world you saw surrounding us. 

Many times, you saw the fire lick my bones, and thought that fire cannot help but consume, and like your namesake constellation you poured water over me to keep me from burning myself down to ash.

But my fire wasn’t a consumptive one, and although I bet that’s what they all say, I maintained that my fire was under control. My fire was as cleansing as a fish pedicure, I said, removing the surplus from my corium so as to refine sensation, clarify my feelings in the way I, prone to clutter, needed so badly. 

Again and again you doused me in refusal, in nightmare scenarios and do not’s. Every other word dripping with limits and impossibilities.  

My own cornea began to develop nebulae, its own galactic stable of them. These were my own hang-ups and blind spots into which I began to step even as I sought to avoid them. 

When you collapsed against the door of a parked car after the two excruciating hours during which the unseemly wolf-child hair was electrocuted from my body follicle by follicle, the day was sifted and overcast, but somehow I remember the sky above us being dark and full of stars. It was the first time I understood that you were going to die.

My nebulae run backwards, too, they burrow down into my memories. 

Sometimes, a red light appears in my mind from the gaping black of a silent stage, and I feel my entire body wet with animal fear, inconsolable, the way it felt after the hot and whirring needle burned its way into every one of my pores. When the red light appears, round like the circular illusion of stars, the space beneath my temples falls silent. 

Your constellation contains no brightness; all you have are reactive patches of gas and dust. Your body is etched into the night sky with several nebulae expanding around ageing stars. You, yourself, spent my whole life as an ageing star.

My life starts with the summer solstice. It makes me yearn for brightness and clarity. But my yearning is comical, to be ridiculed: my stars arrange into the shape of a crab, crushed under the foot of an overeager muscle-man tasked with a dozen labours. It goes without saying that this man’s constellation does not bear bright stars.

At the heart of me lives a beehive, Praesepe.

At the heart of me, the buzzing never stops, perhaps so as to make up for the fire you drenched with paternal worry until the flames eventually stopped growing back, like my wolfchild hair, burned from my pores until only a few remained in the charred soil with enough follicular strength to come back every spring.

At the heart of me, the beehive hides from this world in which smoke is only the suffocating element of fire.

It is in water we will suffocate, or perhaps in smoke, but not in the clarity of flames, and not in the earth which, like ageing bones, is so full of holes for light and air to shine through that even the most loving efforts will not manage to pack it tightly around the stem of a growing plant.

Orpheus and the fennecs switch elements

Just as I passed,   

Turning my head to search his face,   

His own head turned with mine

And fixed me with dilated, terrifying eyes   

That stopped my blood. His voice

Came at me like an echo in the dark.

Weldon Kees – Relating to Robinson

Orpheus sits in a stone desert with his mouth stitched shut. The sky above him has been a milky grey for weeks, the sun anaemic and low on the horizon, barely holding on, sometimes dipping back beneath the line the way the back of a whale descends into the sea. 

Two fennec foxes are keeping Orpheus company, patiently waiting by his side. Their enormous moth-wing ears twitch, and sometimes their amber eyes rise with concern towards Orpheus’s silent face. They worry for him, his disinterest in food and water, and the deep blue stains on his hands which have now spread to the soles of his feet.

The fennecs worry about their own feet, too, unaccustomed to the hardness of rock, which is wearing down their claws beyond what the gentle exfoliation of sand used to do. They know that Orpheus is the cause of the petrification of their desert, which used to be made from the rolling, shifting multitude of sand, a moving ground made from millions of beads, all of which Orpheus has cooked into dead, immovable slabs with his fire. 

Because of his vow of silence, the fennecs cannot ask Orpheus to explain what happened, but still they seek to understand. They know they have to wait until Orpheus undoes the stitches on his mouth.

With their enormous ears, the fennecs listen to what happens inside Orpheus’s face. They hear the words he cannot say, won’t allow himself to say. They hear language trapped behind his lips, inside the cave of his hungry mouth, words he speaks incessantly, to himself, and to Eurydice. 

The impossible emulsion between him and Eurydice seems to Orpheus an impetus to keep whisking, Orpheus whisking the burning air in front of so many obvious windmills, and here he sits after the fact of a fire fanned by him alone, mouth sewn shut in repentance by his own hand, with two desert foxes for sole company. 

He speaks to the foxes not in words, but by means of the dry length of a reed, which he drags in sound-producing shapes across the stone, making dry, scratching noises that crackle and hiss in the fennecs’ ears, noises they both dislike and understand. The fennecs are here because, like Orpheus, they speak the language of drought. 

A change needs to occur. Love each other less violently. The fennecs know this as well as Orpheus does. Don’t let your fire devour Eurydice. 

The stitches on his mouth are only temporary, while he looks within to see what’s wrong. The reed trembles in his hand, vibrating against the stone. Now that he has artificially and violently closed the demanding part of himself, the gaping hungry mouth sewn shut, Orpheus’s needs have ceased to be physical.

Along his sagittal plane, the suture running from the top of his skull to the base of his tailbone is distending, showing Orpheus, with very little room for doubt, that the incongruences inhabiting him can no longer be sustained. For too long, he has repeated the same pattern, brushing aside any evidence of his continual failure. It is time, now, for something else, a change he has been dreading, because unlike superficial changes this one goes deep into the flesh, into what he has taken to be his identity for so long. 

What the desert stones tell him through the scratching of the reed is this: Orpheus, you need to grow up. Let go of the fire. Its heat doesn’t belong to you. Return to your liquid state, remember the wetness that you are. A creature of water. You cannot live among all that fire, it has left you parched, dried you out with its relentless heat.

Orpheus knows his selfishness, his impetuous drives. A child of immortal parents, he has never learned to open himself up to the needs of mortality, the fragility that comes with being human; his own mortality unaccounted for in his behaviour. He knows his childish rashness, the selfish way he loves. Orpheus has spent so many years on fire that he has forgotten what it feels like not to burn. Orpheus on fire just wants to put a pin in the world. 

Drain yourself of heat, remember what it feels like to live submerged in your own internal rivers. Remember the slowness of water, and how it cleanses, and how it smoothes the surface of all things given enough time. 

His fire, he knows, hasn’t just devoured him, but also Eurydice, whose need is quiet delicacy. Beautiful Eurydice, who has no use for fire. Eurydice, who deserves to be loved in a manner accommodating her gentleness, the silence she craves. Loving Eurydice involves a permissive cradling of her need for withdrawal. 

It isn’t as easy as saying that Orpheus doesn’t know how to love, it’s just that he pummels the ground with the intensity of burning grass, and when Eurydice retreats he balloons out to chase her. No better than a child, Orpheus’s damage left him unable to see the act of retreating for what it is: a moment of reflection and self-care. 

The lesson is to let go of the fire.

Behind the stitches in his mouth, Orpheus vows to stop imposing his ideas of love on the beloved. More than that, what he needs is to let go of his myth. The myth and its specifics are restrictive, deadening to Orpheus and Eurydice alike.

When Eurydice retreats, it is instinctive, because Orpheus’s wild energy is as exhausting as the fumes of a fire, and Eurydice needs time to recover from the vortex of Orpheus. Here are two mortal titans with opposite wills: Eurydice doesn’t cause damage, acts in self-preservation. Orpheus has no off-switch, no instinct for retreat; instead, he clings so tightly that his body hardens into flint, setting fire to the delicacy of the filaments that flow between him and Eurydice.

Orpheus knows he cannot sustain his own fire. His parched heart wants nothing but water, the return of spring. He wants to stop trampling the fragility of affection with his clumsy limbs. Orpheus wants to feel wetness coursing through him, remember the tenderness of love, the sort that neither crushes nor crowds. Orpheus wants to learn to love in this expanding universe, expand into water and quiet maturity, away from fire and juvenile speed. 

The filaments between Orpheus and Eurydice may have been burnt irreparably, but all Orpheus can hope for now is a more grown-up version of himself.

The fennec foxes lean their tender muzzles on Orpheus’s knees. Love, they say, needs to occur on the other person’s terms. Love the other person as she needs to be loved. 

Orpheus traces a circle for them on the stone. “Yes,” he means this gesture to say, “I will learn to listen, the way you do, with your infinitely gaping ears, my mouth will shut finally, my lyre will be buried in the sand, no more poetry, no more repetition, this myth has not set me up to be a loving person, but I will undo this myth, I will undo myself, I will be better, different, I will no longer hurt Eurydice.”

The sky is heavy white as a bowl of milk, and the fennecs lap at the air around their heads. If you do not teach me I shall not learn.

Orpheus will sit in silence until his touch becomes attuned to the delicate world. He becomes unwilling to perform the fiery eruptions of desire. 

Love gently, quietly. Lay the child to rest and let the water creature grow. Your past of blazing wildness has no place in the world. Dryness has worn you to shreds, hardened the world around you to uncommunicative stone. If you don’t learn to love now, you will not recover, you will deteriorate until you are no more than sand. 

Orpheus watches the last of his fire crackle on the blue of his palm, then closes his fingers on the flame. Its destructive power has no place here, no place in his heart, where he wants only Eurydice, who is gentle and kind, who deserves better than Orpheus’s break-neck propulsion, which hurts like arrows. 

Orpheus opens his ears to silence, his eyes to absence, his heart to himself. The water wells up in his eyes, his sinuses, under his armpits, and Orpheus smiles behind the stitches because this is a start, a sign that the water can still return. Love is a gesture, a gift. 

Slowly, the heat drains from Orpheus, the wildness in him flattens itself down to the gurgle of a stream. Fire is not a shortcut towards intimacy, there is no such thing. 

He feels humidity rise in his skin, and small droplets of milk seem to fall around him from the sky. They land, round and white, on the rock, and the fennecs jump to their feet to lap up the liquid they are given. 

Orpheus sits with sutures still around his mouth, and waits. Change takes silence to occur. He will sit this way until his body adapts to its new, slow and rippling orbit. 

Apollo gives fatherhood a shot

“And when Orpheus, Apollo’s son, played the lyre, everything distempered was tamed, even the heaving shadows of the underworld.” 

The Book of Symbols. Reflections on Archetypal Images. “Harp/Lyre”, p. 670

Hermes, in his swiftness, like all the men whose flesh gave rise to mine, could not bear the slowness of things. Hermes strangled the life out of that which lives on an unhurried path, crushed the beaked and tender skull into the dirt with his foot, on which beats a pinion celerity. The tortoise, dead at his feet, would be transformed, made hollow, stripped of its flesh then strung with ligaments, which he tightened and plucked until their sound was clear as air. Later, when he owed Apollo a favour, the lyre was passed on as a gift. 

Up there on Parnassus, Apollo is the closest thing Orpheus has to an immortal daddy. When Orpheus turns to him in his despondent state, he does so because he knows he may well have fallen straight from Apollo’s sun-struck scrotum. 

“Why,” asks Orpheus, “am I bound to this myth when the myth itself is a lie?”

Apollo, whose idea of fatherhood involves hiding in abstraction, replies, “You are so impatient. Step out of this conditional mood and breathe some present-tense air.”

When he’s not handing Orpheus instrument after instrument, Apollo is useless, of course. But willing father figures are hard to come by on these blessed mountains, and so Orpheus keeps trying.

For most of his adult life, his lyre has doubled as a lure, a two-sided hook with which to draw close to himself those whose skin feels so good against his. No-one else now but Eurydice, and Eurydice only in untouchable memory. She swims in the amnesiac waters of the Lethe, and the myth dictating her absence refuses to break open and allow for a different story to unfold between Orpheus and Eurydice.

Why, Apollo, can’t he sew back together the halves death has torn into an irreconcilable binary? Why is Orpheus divided into a present self, gaping, open and needy, and an absent self, isolated and closed? 

Orpheus thinks that Apollo should know his pain, should know what it feels like to chase a desired object that endlessly recedes into abstraction, enamoured as he was with the virginal Daphne, who turned into a tree in order to escape his affection. But Apollo is thinking about this in fatherly terms and aims to keep any account of his personal experience out of it.

“Do you ever wonder,” says Apollo, “if you might just be Vitamin D deficient? You spend a lot of time in Hades, that can’t be good for you. Kid like you needs fresh air and daylight. Come for runs with me in the morning, get the blood moving inside those veins.”

“My entire aim is to restore harmony where disorder has caused things to fall apart,” says Orpheus. “For months, I have not understood my own actions. For months, what I do has been inexplicable to me, and when I try to put words to my deeds I fall even further away from understanding. How can I heal a damage that is unfathomable to me?”

“If your aim is to heal anything or anyone, then you might as well give up. Do you remember that you have a body? Can you feel your feet on these rocks? Feel how warm they are from the sun. Can you sense the prickling of life in your hands?”

Orpheus doesn’t know how to answer that. The only times he feels his body is in dreams, when his mind is friendly and kind, when wholeness returns to him, his body melting into the sway of sensation, the pulsating world. But he knows, when he wakes, that what has been torn apart by loss has not yet mended, and the veils between him and his body are not yet lifted. He wakes and the body functions as an automaton. He needs time, still more time, always this wait for something he recognises to appear. A familiar self is what he’s waiting for. 

“Time,” says Apollo. “Yes. My relationship with time is not like yours, Orpheus. I am not mortal, which is my limitation. However, I know the tides, and I know that the wholeness you want will return to you. But unlike us, your immortal guardians, you have to contest with change, endless waves of it.”

Then, satisfied with his parental efforts, Apollo leaves to go change some lightbulbs and practise his archery skills. Orpheus lays his lyre aside and watches it scratch its own strings, lick its butthole, and curl up snoring on the rug.

Orpheus knows he has inherited the speed at which immortals operate, their impatience with mortality. He knows that none of these are useful traits in a mortal man. Like the lyre, born from a violent killing, his impatience is an unresolvable inheritance. Eurydice in Hades is as painful to him as Persephone’s fate is to her mother, and Orpheus feels his tendency to atrophy in his impatience like a landscape wrapped in snow.

But there is no winter without spring, and Orpheus knows that his impatience exists to be learned from. He softens the tension in his muscles, the yearning in his tendons. There is light in the gap between notes, there is hope in the rebirth of dismembered Osiris, and held close by these stories he dozes off on Apollo’s floor, comforted, for once, by the thought that there is nothing he can do. Something is already underway, taking shape inside the frozen soil on which his head lies in sleep. 

John William Waterhouse, Apollo and Daphne, 1908