Burn The Witch

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• April 10, 2024

“Abandon all reason
Avoid all eye contact
Do not react
Shoot the messengers
This is a low flying panic attack
Sing the song of sixpence that goes…
Burn the witch”

— “Burn the Witch,” Radiohead

It was Easter Sunday. My initial plans were no plan. And while some think a holiday without plans a lonely decision, others find nothingness a version of heaven. The night before I had been jumping around and dancing like a maniac at a Grouplove concert so I was pretty content to have a lazy Sunday.

Though, the sun came out, so as did I. The clouds mostly wept over New York in March. Finally, a break from Earth’s tears. My neighbor, the retired doctor and Igor the barber were grilling. They were not celebrating Easter, as Doc is Greek and Greek Easter (which my parents came out for last year) is in May. Igor had gotten a badminton set, a game which I’m quite fond of. And my buddy Greg also came over and we had some good ol’ fashion recreational fun, with new fashion recreational drugs.

When we were finally exhausted from our intense badminton tournament, we sat down to smoke a joint. As I lit it, I set my hair on fire (which I think is only the second time in my life I’ve done that, but I also could be wrong). Luckily, Greg’s reflexes were slightly better than mine in my condition and he put me out. Double luckily, only two pieces of hair caught fire, so the damage was hardly noticeable.

At first I feared I’d look like my six year old niece, who recently chopped her bangs off. She is still so perfect though.

“Damn,” I said puffing the joint, “that can’t be a good Easter sign. I think Jesus is pissed. What’s next, an earthquake?”

To be fair, I didn’t say the part about the earthquake, but it would be really cool and a little scary if I did. While it could be a cosmic omen of worse times to come, it could equally be an opportunity to get my hair cut, which it does need. Though, often, I feel like Samson in the biblical story of Samson and Delilah— my power comes from my hair. Damn any Delilah I could fall in love with who will trick me into cutting it.

Perhaps those not in the changing seasons are robbed of something. Endless summers, though the dream I’m chasing, are without stamp posts that lend your memory to categorizing time. As for me, though somewhat contradictory, I’ve always felt my spirit is young and my soul is old. Change is coming, but there’s a sense that this is always how it’s been. Seasons are like chapters of a book. Like lovers, jobs and curiosities. The birds get it. For they are dinosaurs after all. And all those who are drawn to the witchy woman conversing to the birds, have a burning desire to talk to her, without understanding why.