The Gorgon

The Gorgon’s aim is to fasten pleasant or important things to the layer of timelessness that exists beyond the flowing streams of time. She is a kind of archivist of life, she records her conversations with her friends, keeps boxes and shelves full of tapes in her basement. She keeps a log of her emotions in a large red notebook on her coffee table.

What the Gorgon fears most of all is ageing, the passing of time. She enjoys the arts of petrification, which momentarily pour time into an immobile form, pinning it in place. This is an illusion she delights in. The Gorgon is an amateur photographer, sometimes a sculptor. Her favourite material is sandstone, for its warmth and permeability. She likes the idea of water and air flowing through even those things that seem immune to the passage of time.

She takes pictures of everything around her, except herself, because she needs to think of herself as unbound to the laws of material existence. She knows that to be embodied means being subject to entropy; she, too, will one day have to disappear. This enrages the Gorgon to the point where she can’t sleep for days, lying fuming on her bed with only the snakes on her head for company.

The snakes themselves never sleep. They sense the Gorgon’s thoughts, while she cannot read theirs. She can’t communicate with the snakes beyond feeding them, and snapping her fingers angrily if one of them forgets itself and bites her hand. The Gorgon never forgets a bite, and she keeps tabs on each snake. 

Sometimes it upsets her that those snakes are closer to her thoughts than anyone else will ever be, those creatures whose only mode of response consists of twisting, snarling and hissing.

When the Gorgon feels something strongly, or has intense thoughts, the snakes hiss and shake in time with the contents of her mind. The Gorgon feels exposed, not because she worries about other people decoding her thoughts via the snakes’ interpretative dance, but because she knows she carries her emotions on her crown, so visibly it makes people uncomfortable. In order to learn more about her own thoughts, the Gorgon mounts cameras to her ceilings, and spends hours rewatching the tapes of the snakes’ dance, trying to read it like a language, but the snakes form too many crossing lines and the Gorgon gets too tired to make sense of their gyrations. 

In order to protect the people she likes, she wraps a band around the snakes and ties them together in a snapping bouquet behind her head. She carries an open rucksack full of mice so the snakes can feed themselves discreetly while the Gorgon socialises.

In general, it’s hard for her to meet new people, because right away she worries about their mortality. Getting close to anyone means needing to ask, “What if they disappear?” which is the way all things on earth must go. She is known to freeze any person she meets into a pillar of worries and first impressions.

She rarely ever relaxes, tells herself she doesn’t know how. But sometimes the light of day falls at an angle that feels absolute, the boiling inside her hushes, and her body feels covered in the thinnest layer of resin, keeping all of her contained where it belongs. In those moments the Gorgon, who in many ways is still so young, feels immortal, the way only those who have never experienced dying can.