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Extracts A
Journey with the Muscovites
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Sweetcorn Let’s burn down
the corn field, burn down the corn field, while I make love to you, we'll
watch it burn; Lordy, stay out of danger til I return. Some folks say a tramp
won’t steal but I caught two in my corn field; one had a bushel,
the other had a sack, one had roastin ears tied behind his back.’ Fertility rites, the
hard, hard phallic stalk. Silken pubic tassels, corn silk. Corn liquor,
cornpone, corncake, cornbread, corn fritters, cornmeal, corn syrup, corndodgers... All of this because
corn is cthonic, primeval, dark; origins unknown. Farmers until recently
had their own fertility rites in the corn; life in the corn. Making love
in the corn must be done with care because of Io Moth caterpillars (corn
moth caterpillars) They grow into lovely powdery silk moths; the caterpillars
have sharp spikes which put tiny poisons under the skin. The skin swells,
itches and blisters. However, places can be cleared and arrangements made
with blankets at the right time of year. The rustling can be seen from
a far way off so these things should be done in a quiet fashion. Corn
rustles for other reasons, outside harvest time. Corn fields flood, and
big carp and channel catfish swim through the fields. A big carp will
part the corn. You can follow his v-pattern through the field. The river
recedes and a few large fish are trapped in small pools until they thrash,
mud-choked, dying, which in turn fertilises the corn. Corn smells like
mud, fish and sperm then the mud dries to form feathered cuneiform which
further dries in the sun, leaving the tablets to be deciphered until the
next Flood comes. Corn: birth, harvest,
fertility and death. Dry corn rustles like skeletons. Corn dollies: voodoo
charms, voodoo dolls, lips like red scars.Bodies are always found in corn
fields; bones in denim, or in smelly gunny sacks. The corn covers all
for a long time. Many farmers do not like to go into the corn for that
reason but they cannot name this fear so make up other excuses. 'Corn
corpses’ some police call them (but not officially). Corn at night
rustling like the surging sea. It is good to eat, sweet on the tongue
but deadly and dark and unspoken, like a lot of life between the horizon
of river and hill. I would be lying if I didn’t tell you both. |