The Knitting Journeyman

Gathering Up One Thread At A Time As I Weave This Web Of Mine.....

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

I Forgot About This

Thank goodness I actually read alot of the stuff that hits my inbox. Ok, so scanning counts as reading. It keeps me from missing the good stuff.

April is National Poetry Month, as I am certain everyone out there knows. :-)
Robert Lee Brewer of Poetic Asides is hosting his annual Poem-A-Day Challenge again this year.
Last year I started--and just didn't finish. I forget where i was mentally last year. Although I know I meant to finish all the poems--I just never got around to it.

THIS YEAR, however, is my bloody year to participate. If I am doing NaNoWriMo come November --then I am doing this in April.

So-please stand by--because I sure can't promise anything--except to try. :-)

Update

Thank you to everyone who wished me well over the week-end. It was rougher than I thought -- but in the end I pulled through. I have felt like spun glass in the process of shattering for over a week now.
Hopefully, that part is over and something else can now happen. New growth after pruning away the old stuff.

I basically took the day off today. Last night I went through another Deep Session, on too many levels. And I felt the need to recuperate.
Which apparently meant getting up at 6a and scanning ebay for polymer clay molds--which is what I did.

One Session recently I was told to focus on my doll-making (DUH!) -- but They gave me a direction. Spirit Dolls. With whom I have so much in common. :-)
Yesterday, on our little weekly errand jaunt, we got to go to Michael's -- so I bought clays, and a face mold, and some Oriental kit because it was too Geisha for me to by-pass it. I also got a 50% off coupon that starts 4/5-and I am sending R to pick up the 8 pound block of white clay once the coupon is valid.
Some days I forget myself. I bought key charms for no real reason. They weren't on the rack in the right place, and that so not small nor quiet voice in my head was saying--you need these, you need these. And I am thinking, yeah, right, me listen to the Crow? Think not! Somehow they ended up in my basket, and then in my bag, and are now sitting on my kitchen table waiting for me to come play with paint and glue today.

Last month I found a terrific source for molds on ebay-during one of my what sort of octopus do you have moods: CrowsNestStudios
They have a Gaia form that I saw when I ordered my octopus mold that I really liked--but decided not to get at that time.....but this time-I got that and a few other things as well. I am not familiar with molds much at all. The ones I have were the flexible kind. It hadn't dawned on me until my octopus mold arrived that there might be other sorts of molds. These ones are inflexible, which is rather cool. I did a little bit of internet recon and figured out the best way to use these molds--and I think I am going to be ok with them. I really hope so, considering how many of them I ordered.

The interesting thing that came up with this was the TYPES of Spirit Dolls I will be making. Not just Spirit Dolls, but Healing Dolls, Transformational Dolls. Now, I have a large Frida Kahlo-loving-streak which lead me to investigate the Mexican arts somewhat (I am no expert at all) and I have an affinity anyway for the Day of the Dead. I ordered two skull molds. I have already begun to have visions of the dolls themselves. I don't know what I am going to do or how I am going to do it. But already the dolls are singing to me--which for me means I am in a great deal of trouble--in a good way. :-) I have some butt-kicking Muses--and they do so love to kick mine.

One thing I am enjoying though, along with my Muses great confidence in me and my abilities, is that as I am looking up these molds, and examining different clays (air dry, oven bake, kiln fired) and pondering the best ways to procure said clays, I am noticing the distinct directions in which I am being led. Eventually I see I will be creating my own faces, perhaps even my own molds. But there is alot of sculpting waiting for me in the very near future. I can see myself molding little bodies from clay and baking them, before painting and embellishing them. I can hear the stories--I can hear the singing. I am terribly glad I have Guides and Muses and Friends who support me as much as they do--someone has to believe in me when I cannot be there to do it for myself.

The other thing these Muses of mine are pushing is a return to my drawing and sketching, Yes, I have been putting it off. After being told for so long that I suck, how am I supposed to get over all of that enough to actually believe that even if I just try I might be somewhat decent? Much less as good as these bozos keep telling me I have the potential to be? So, what really do I have to lose? It's not like i have a great deal invested in what most people think of me anyway--only the scattered few. :-) I did order the companion book to the first Monart book I have. I had thought there was a video, but alas, there's seems to not be one. I am a visual learner--I learn faster by watching it done. Then I go research everything else about it so I can improve upon what I have seen.

It doesn't help that I go into Michael's, and after wandering through the jewelry and beads, and staring disconsolate at the clays and other things, I go stare with longing and near desperation in front of calligraphy pens and prang markers and charcoal pencils and reams upon reams of drawing paper--for no real reason as I can't really do that much yet. I often wander etsy staring at other people's artwork, wanting to buy something, just because I want to support the artists out and because their work speaks to me. Other than the fact that I have little money, my Guides, raucous beasts that they are, keep yelling that the artwork I am GOING TO DO is going to outshine alot of what I am seeing and alot of the things of which I am envious. I fail to believe this, but have decided, for good or not, I am putting my faith in these nuts.
Which, all in all, translates into I am putting my faith in myself. For some reason it is easier if I lay the blame on someone else though. :-)

At least I am in a much much better space today. I still think my throat may explode--from of much moving through and wanting to be said--but I least I think it is ok for me to be happy.
There are still alot of weird other-worldly tendrils streaking through my brain like tentacles of jellyfish, stinging me and drawing blood if I merely brush up against them.
I think for today I will put them to rest.
I have bushes to plant. Keys to paint. Dolls to create. Their stories to write. And enough of my own 'stuff' to write up later.

More to come.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Manic Monday 161

Thanks to everyone who let me make my way through the heady waters of my week-end......and for the one man who stood there and refused to let me tumble....

Anyway--on to the questions:



Do you enjoy brain teasers or do you find them frustrating?

yes!
I enjoy them because they are frustrating.


Do you have any unusual collections?

Define unusual. I collect octopus stuff. If it has an octopus on it, I collect it. I tend to collect weird people--does that count? Even if I don't always keep them?
I collect alot of things-come on-people thing my book collection is weird--just the books--the amount of them--never mind the topics.....



What do people notice about you within the first hour of meeting you (other than appearance)?


either I am very quiet-or I am very loud
but everyone always notices that I am there regardless

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Good Things For Today

Ok, fine, tantrum over--as long as I don't look around.

Things I accomplished today:

I begged my son this morning for first dibs on the television--which means I got to do a full hour of asana practise. He only complained for ten minutes--I spent the entire practise doing Yoga with a boy who was helping (playing) and a dog who still hasn't cottoned on to the whole go away I'm doing Yoga phrase yet (I had the old cats trained to go sit elsewhere when I uttered the word Yoga, else they would try to sit on me while I practised).
I am trying very hard to switch my schedule to asana practise before writing in the mornings--but to ensure that both are part of every single morning. I wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off w the boy here--but it does seem I can-so long as I am sure to feed him first--and to ignore his help the rest of the time.
Half moon is impossible with him around though. :-)

For some bizarre reason, I wanted to SEE octopus in action, swimming,moving, being, today. Youtube doesn't work well for me because my high-speed AT&T connection sucks--it pauses--drops me at irregular yet constant intervals--all the time--for no reason--and of course AT&T says I must be dreaming--they show no such problems. Did I mention I greatly dislike AT&T? So, I went fishing. I found a couple underwater wildlife dvds with the octopus more featured than not. At this point, if I can find a few minutes of footage to watch over and over, I'm happy.

Thanks to my copy of "The Octopus and the Orangutan" by Eugene Linden, I found a couple more octopus books as well. And only one of them, which turned up during one of the other searches, is a kids book. And I found that the Jacques Costeau tv show is now available on dvd, so that's been wish-listed for later too.

Was it really yesterday when I ordered all sorts of toys, in conjunction with my best friend? By gods, it was. Amazing. It seems like darn near a week ago. I am really too far off-kilter at the moment. He placed an order. I placed an order. Both boxes are coming to my house. Aren't we scary?

Due to things brought up in the Session yesterday, I bought a chair for doing chair massage today. I don't actually DO chair massage professionally--although I do alot of massage work on certain people-for free and because they need it. And I am going to be in need of the chair for business purposes soon enough, so I am told. So that's taken care of. I now have to sell my old table--the 'good' table was stolen by my brother while it was at Ma's. This table here is just too small for me. I couldn't have used the one J took anyway--the ex had swiped it while we were living with him--and it was effectively ruined as he has no clue how to take care of things, much less cleanse, clear or clean things, especially when they belong to someone else.

My yard shrubs are here--can't do anything with them right now but pray they don't die before I get them planted. Thankfully they have guarantees, but I don't want them hurt if I can help it. Going to buy tomato cages or whatever when R can make it over to take us to get them. I still do not trust either dog nor neighbour kids not to kill them. At least I can say the back yard will be fenced in soon. Then I could care less. About the dog anyway.

I have kept up with my writing goals. Even by doing Yoga first instead of writing first. Writing I can start and stop if I have to log in to work before my piece is done. Yoga is ruined the first moment the phone rings. I will no longer permit that to happen.

My earth shoe mules made it in today--for which I am quite happy. I like them, scuffed up and nerdy, but so cool. They have a stacked heel, but the reverse ergonomics is very present in these. I like that. Way too much. Ahh, the things to which I have become addicted.

I even patched up three pairs of jeans today, very quickly and easily. Two of them were new, but that's ok. New as in new to me. The ultra low rider experiment did not turn out as desired. An 8 inch rise is not ultra low--sorry. We did find real ultra low riders--with a 5.5 inch rise--and maybe I'll be getting a pair of those soon too. We'll see. Other things to worry about instead right now. Funny, if I had found these ones first and just bought them--I'd have ended up spending less money! Figures, huh. :-)
If only you knew the real reason behind the ultra low riders--it's to uhm humiliate and irritate a certain friend's girlfriend, on purpose, because I was asked to do so, because I am the only one with the uhm conjones to do such a thing. And I so love to make people uncomfortable--let me amend--people like her. Not just anyone and not just everyone. And not just any time either. We have a specific plan. Not that at this point do we think we can pull it off at all--except by act of god, but that doesn't have anything to do with me.

I am gritting my teeth so badly right now I have to go take something for my headache--it's the stress--see the previous post for a hint about why.

More soon--hopefully in a happier mood too.

Week-ends Are Rough For Me Right Now

Week-ends are rough for me these days. It's not just my son--or the way everyone else in the house reacts to him--the dog wants to worship him and play with him-but his dad isn't (ha!) a dog person--and so N portrays that attitude for the first day he's here--then the dog is still a puppy and she weighs the same as the kids anyway so she's the jumpy yappy friendly foot in the face sort--which bugs everyone. The bird gets LOUD because N doesn't sit still--and everyone buzzes all over and around and up and down and the tv plays frakkin' cartoons most of the time {It is interesting to note the bird dislikes the ex to the point of nearly acting afraid of him--she shuts her beak and goes into her corner to recline w one eye open and waiting for him to leave. The second he's gone, she's happy and perky and chirpy all over again. She won't even tch tch tch at me when he's here. Interesting.} Both kids have jealousy issues when sharing me, the tv, the toys, the food, the couch, the chairs, the floor, the air in the house. Sibling rivalry--woo hoo. Add into it the dog and her jealousy--and her intense desire to hoover up every little nugget N drops or hasn't yet dropped.....madness ensues.

This week-end is a little worse for me. Let's see. New Moon. PMS. Storms and weather changes galore. New Moon also means things are slow on the network all week--which always makes me nervous, even though I know things even out in the end. Best friend has an idiot for a girlfriend (so-called) -- and he received notice he'll be out of a job come July. And I had an extremely intense Session yesterday. Extremely intense.

Although I have most of the unpacking and sorting done-I do not yet have my den back yet. Technically, I won't have my whole den back til my shed is built because of the lawn mower (stop giggling) sitting there waiting to be used. Yes, in my den. But it bugs me I am not doing more there. On the week-ends I tend to really hide more and refuse to do much of anything except play, and wash clothes (wash and dry-not fold). This week-end I had to strip my bed down to the foundation to take up the old bed skirt (child torn and dog chewed!) and replace it w the one my dad bought. My dad did a great thing--he bought me a bedding set--bed skirt, complete sheet set (fitted, flat, 2 standard pillow cases, and 2 shams) plus 3 different sized/shaped throw pillows. All in an ocean theme--they have shells all over them. Does anyone get the irony and the giggle there??? Do you know how divers find octopus homes? They look for the pile of discarded shells! Well, it is true. Funny thing is the sheets are all in a nice blue colour, my usual normal colours, but my bedroom is done --or will be anyway-- in deeper shade of reds, almost pink but not quite (remember I am so not a pink person-but I do have a thing for red walls....it's the Jew in me, I swear--you have to know my friends in high school--J always told me there had to be one red wall in every Jewish home-I cannot recall why at the moment--but I remember the wallpaper, with the gold gilding all over in a curlicue pattern, and I have loved red walls ever since....).
I strip the bed-wash everything from the mattress up because something has set dumb dog off twice in the past week and she's peed on the bed--once in front of me--when she had the audacity to look her when I clobbered her w the phone base--since I was on a call with a client the only thing I could do at the moment I saw her and savvied WTF she was doing. So I washed everything--used lots of vinegar to kill whatever was setting her off--for all I know the bedspread smelled like N and she was marking her territory. I love my dog-some days more than others-really.

I cannot in good faith remake the bed with the clean new sheets--two little nasty kids (and yes, they usually take no less than 2-3 baths at day when N is here--we won't go into why, but the nasty part does not entail the level of dirt upon said butt) wallowing in gods knows what and stuffing it in between my nice clean sheets. I have this really weird thing for nice clean fresh sheets. The kind of thing which requires I take a nice hot shower before retiring for the night so that my whole body is clean when I slide between two freshly laundered sheets. Well, kiss that good-bye. I had to put the bottom sheet on to cover everything up. Then I put a flannel sheet over it--one my mother gave me. It was once my grandfather's. It had worn thin; she gave it to me to turn into rug yarn and make a nice comfy rug. I have yet to have the heart to do this because this thing once covered my grandfather during his dying days. Now it has dog shred marks in it because E could not listen when I told her not to get under anything --as she was using the new comforter before she took up the sheet (yes, the comforter is also ripped and in need of repair) and the pillows and whatever other blanket and sheet she could find to 'play with' with the dog--as in E goes under the covers and moves her hands/etc to tease the dog--the dog snaps and grabs and chews--and rips. I have yelled about this I don't know how many times. I cannot tell you the number of toys, blankets, sheets, articles of clothing, I have had to repair--or am currently not in the mood to repair--because of this game--and E KNOWS it and doesn't stop anyway. Her logic is I won't yell if I am on a call for work--she fails to recall the screaming can and will ensue the second I hang up. And she wonders why I refuse to buy her a nintendo DS or a WII or a freakin' pony. (I've looked--the miniature horses are house-keepable and about the size of a German shepherd--and house-trainable! Just don't ask WHY I did that research, uhm kay...).

I have told this child no less than 100 times today I am over-stimulated and not dealing well with the noise levels and the energy levels or the utter chaos of this week-end. Her solution entails getting N to play with her, right beside me, and cajoling both the boy and the dog to loudly play and freak out right up against me. I want to poke my eyes out with red hot pokers, ok. My nerves are shot and I am begging to be left alone for a mere ten to fifteen minutes so I can re-group and re-shield and not feel so close to implosion/explosion/both at the same time. Not a chance. The boy would be ok with this-he gives me a little space when I need it-he has the skill and the respect to see I need that small space and he is fine giving it to me--even if he might trundle in to see me and make sure I'm ok before ducking back out. E lacks that facility-completely. So did her biological donor, so I am not faulting her. But I often stare agape at her lack of intelligence when I am obviously ready to start screaming and she still blithely continues along pestering the bejesus out of me just to pester me.
All those clean blankets and sheets--tossed onto the floor, between my rocking chair and the pillow pit, trampled by kid and dog alike. My head hurts. I don't want to think anymore.
But I have to, because it is raining. Our yard is a puddle and the dog wants to go out. We planted strawberries for E in a little metal container yesterday. I am fairly sure they're going to die. Temperatures dropped to the 40s and the container is full of rain. And I could care less at the moment. The dog goes out-and doesn't just do her business and come in. She tromps through the mud and muck. She wallows in the puddles--at least she does not roll in them. But she gets good and wet. Today I have been lucky--she was so interested in the parrot sticks I threw out that she neglected to dig any new holes. So no muddy feet with which to contend. (Parrot sticks are sticks I use in the bird cage. Instead of buying them, I pull ones that have fallen in the yard and clean them before putting them in the cage. When they get gross, I toss them back outside and get new ones.) Where does the dog go anytime I let her back in the house? Well, usually she checks the living room floor.....my poor rug. And then--then she hops up into my bed, sprawls out and snores until the kids claim her attention again. So, of course, I have a blanket thrown over the bed--but due to the pillow pit (the pillow pit is every available pillow, throw pillow, blanket and whatever clean laundry I do not immediately pick up and put away. It is where N plays and jumps and hides all day. And he has taken to falling asleep there at night. He never sleeps there all night--it's too far away from touching me--and yes, I sleep w my hand reaching out to touch him, which annoys him to no end. He still wakes up and crawls in beside me just to be close to me. Even when I kick the space heater on on high and we all really just sweat our butts off. He crowds me on one side--she crowds me on the other. The dog has learned to sleep on the floor. I hear push me or throw me into the pillow pit the whole time he's here--from E and N both.)
My real issue with the pillow pit? It isn't actually the laundry or the blankets. It's the fact that usually my bed is about 1-1 1/2 feet from the kimono-covered wall. With the pillow pit, my bed is nearly touching the other wall--no mean feat that.
My bedroom is my sanctuary. On the week-ends--it is defiled. I never feel right on the week-ends. My den, my other room of refuge, is not a viable solution. My bedroom is a total mess. I cannot even stand to go near my living room -- and it's NOT all the boy. The girl destroyed the couch somehow this time--I finally figured out how to cover it so the boy would not decimate it - so she found a way to do it instead. I cannot get across how very very much this pisses me off to no end--as many times as I have explained about the whole N and the couch and the stains thing. I just cannot go there. I am so choked up with anger at the moment. It is other-worldly.
We won't go there--where she pulls all this garbage out of her room and fills the entire living room to the point where nothing living can manage to enter the area, much less sit to watch tv or anything. Then she leaves, because it's too messy for her to play in. Shoot me. Shoot me. I watch this child, thinking god she is so smart, so intelligent--and so frakkin BLONDE it is not funny. There is just some disconnect somewhere--and the only real solution to the problem I have not and will not try (despite all my threats to the contrary) is beating the living tar out of her until she doesn't do things like that anymore. I can't do that. I'd hate myself too much for it. But I am getting more willing to turn her over to my mother and let her do it. (Note: my mom is in MD--like 13 hours away--it's not going to happen--it's just a threat).

Grrrrr...if I don't stop going down that road I won't stop at all........


And no, I am not taking things out on the kids, other than to turn and say leave me the heck alone for a few minutes and to lock myself in the bathroom as often as I can--which I have to do anyway in order to take a client call on the week-ends. It sucks to have N screaming and crying on the other side because he's afraid the toilet monster is going to get me--or something. Thankfully, I only get that once, maybe twice, a month. Otherwise, he beats on the door and demands I let him in. I fI open the door and he sees me, he then goes away and leaves me alone--he just wants to know I am ok.


I know there is a way out of this fervor. When I figure out what it is, I will do it. I just hope I figure it out soon enough.

Oh, Sweethearts, Please

Sweetheart, you have a life now. The Universe twisted itself inside out to give you a clue--don't slap the Universe in the face. You were legally forcibly removed from the house and forbidden contact for 30 days.
People showed up to help you. You were loved and supported and aided. You have a new home. You have a much better space. You have some rebuilding to do, yes, but overall you are in such a better space, literally, figuratively, metaphorically.
Stop worrying about the abusive guy. PLEASE. Move on. He is all about control and manipulation. Even you admit it. There are so many people dying to be there for you, in so many capacities. Please, find a therapist. Please, work on rebuilding your body and mind and finances--and just go on and forget the last guy. You weren't even with him for an entire year. Your life is not over. Move on and move up in the world.




Darling, you have not done everything you can. You are still keeping him afloat. You take care of all his money. You make sure his bills are paid. You do his laundry. You buy food and prepare it just for him. You take care of him. You take his calls. You are there for his sexual edification, even if it is not full-blown intercourse.
Yes, he loves you. But he loves himself more. He has no desire and no reason to change the way he is currently doing things. He's not going to change. YOU have to. If you have to lose the business, then you do. If you have to lose the house, guess what, you do. If you have to move further away from him, then you have to do it. You will not physically improve until you have cut him off entirely and start to make your own way and your own life again.
Until you believe that you can cut him entirely out of your life, out of the business, out of the house, out of your father's house, you will not make any forward progress.
The Universe is not doing this to you. You are doing this to you. You are allowing him to do this to you. You cannot blame Guides or the Universe nor anyone else.
It can be done.




Your idea of space is a farce. If you are too simple to make a decision, let him make it and quit playing your childish little games. You are a manipulative person and your games have gone on for too long. Stop it.

Felled

How do I explain to you who I am? I am the Bourn, and yet I am Unbourn. I am the Blessed, and yet I live a Cursed existence. I Fly, and yet I have no wings. Never have I been Cast Out, and yet, I am no longer allowed Entry. How do I show you what I am? How can I align parameters to allow you to explore the box of what it is to be me, when I do not fit within any known rules? I am. I merely am. That is all I can be.
I was brought into being by the Breath of the Great Creator. The Great Creator molded the Breath into my form. The Creator chose the hue of my eyes, the silk of my hair, the fullness of my lips. I remember the grand beautiful shining eyes and wide smile so full of grace. The Creator upon producing me gave me great blessing, kissed my cheek, whispered into my soul, and set me off upon my Path. How could I have been happier?
I was given to a People on a remote island. I had been sent to give them messages of love and kindness. I taught them to grow wheat, to forge fires, to establish homes and family unity. I did what I was created to do. It was such bliss. We lived in such delicate harmony.
The one day, the skies began to darken. Nothing I did could calm the storms or to appease the gods. I huddled with my people as the oceans spat mountains of waves at us. I fought to protect the village, the lives. I did the best I could. I fought so hard. In the end, however, I lost everything. The seas reclaimed the bit of island, swallowing it whole beneath the briny swells. How can I describe to you how very lost I was then? How bitterly ashamed I became, having spoiled my only task given to me by the Great One? I had failed. My people were gone. There would never a trace of them resurface, not in this world. So bereft was I, I could not even aid in the transit of their souls to the next world. I watched as faeries gleaming came to rescue them, to fulfill my final duties to them.
My heart was more than heavy as I turned my face Homeward, returning to seek my Maker, to explain, to seek counsel, to seek forgiveness. Ah, this was not to be. As I drew closer, there were signs of a Terrible War. Others like me were scattered, wounded, dying, deprived. They glared at me, still clean, as they were scorched and blackened, sullied by their Humanity. I saw no acceptance from my brethren there. I came to the Gate, a Gate that always stood wide open and welcoming, only to find it barred shut, locked up tight for all Eternity from the likes of me. There was a toad-like creature guarding the door, a common thing, boasting of its own bravery, condemning me for my folly and my obvious lack of involvement. I did turn, looking around despondently, to find a group of others, more like me, clean and yet somehow tainted. Not Impure. Not Cast Out. No longer wholly Accepted. We were all, confused. Uncertain. We were all intent upon pleading our various cases to the only One who could free us from our self-imposed tyranny.
This was not to be. The Grand One, a Lesser thing than the Great Creator, came to inform us that since we had chosen not to battle at all for either Side, we were to live and to remain among the Fallen. We cried out, what battle, what war? We had no information. We were, ignored. The Grand One declined to tarry any longer with the likes of us. For some, there was much weeping and wailing and some commiserating. Plans were formed. Goals were designed. Some set off in pairs, in small groups. Most of us left alone, padding away into the Shadows, seeking succor elsewhere within ourselves. Surely, the Heart of our Great Creator was not so High nor so Bold as to exclude us for long. Surely, the Great Creator would see the folly, see the error, and would us recall.
Alas, yet again, this was not to be. For a thousand thousand years have I wandered. Often I catch glimpses of my own kind, The Fallen, The Not Fallen, and the Chosen. The Dark, the Grey, and the Light. We all seem to Walk our own Way. I don’t know what else to say. Since my original purpose was to help and to heal the People, I have done what I can in this regard. It seems I can now Walk upon both Sides, though I am careful to remain neutral. I have allies from both sides, but I am neither of one nor the other. I am the careful middle of the road, hoping that I am making the best choices for those I allow myself to help.
Often, I am Called to give Aid. Not all of those who Call understand what they are doing. There are so-called Priests out there who Call in the name of this or that, only to find themselves unwittingly surrounded by the Dark Ones in Other Guises. Some would care; most I have seen do not. For most, it is only the Power they seek, not the Truth of things. For these, I do nothing. I walk away, unseen and untouched, not an ounce of pity for them in my heart.
Yet there came one bourn from us, bourn a child of a human and a Not Fallen One. I watched the Spark during conception. I had to follow it, to watch it. Such a tiny little thing, with the green eyes of the Seer and the golden red hair of the Damned. She indeed carried the gene. A first daughter of a first daughter, bourn of a very powerful line of first daughters. I would step in from time to time, to See her, to Watch her. I could not interfere. She was one of us, the Not Fallen. I watched as the Knight used her as Bait and as Sacrifice, to save his own life and to bind her to him to protect him from the Dark Lord for however many lifetimes it took for her to realize and to break free. I watched as the Blue Duke married her in an offer of protection, only to stab her upon a wall and feast upon her Blood and Spirit, until she was stolen away in the dark by one as a child. I watched again as she was married off, an unwilling yet amenable bride, only to be beaten wretchedly and exiled, with a Protector, to wander the husband’s territory until her demise. Again and again, this Creature came up, bringing her Force with her, until she Manifested the life and began to take charge. The battle wounds were charged and sewn shut. The metal pinings removed and smelted. Although her feet still swelled, she moved with grace and overcame that mystery. She moved forward, gathering her allies to her, until a Past Acquaintance came to her, requesting her Aid as Counsel.
This Daughter of the Lake went before the White Crest, before the Man Himself, before the Lords and Ladies, the White Counsel, and she performed her task as befitted Royalty, for surely she is the Queene herself. I watched from Afar; I was permitted no closer. It was lucky the Dark Forces were there, as well as the Grey Ones, standing Against her Charge. Else I would not have been granted the ability to come so close. So eloquent was She, in her fine skirts, and rolling robes. Those eyes never changed, the infinite shift of the green, flashing with the Knowledge of her own veracity.
After this Counsel, the Man Himself Blessed her, wiping away the Grey, turning her farther from the neutral area of the side of the Dark. He stroked her hair, her face, and whispered something into her soul, an act so reminiscent of those in my own Past. I grew Hungry, careless. I paused, no longer hidden by Shadow. I wanted to know this One, to Aid this One. He looked up, looked over at me, and smiled. Hesitantly, I returned His smile. She moved away, her toil done. The Man wished to speak to me, on her behalf. He Gifted me with another Task, Lightening my own dusk as well, pulling me along towards the Light, still Grey around the edges, but no longer able to travel at will about in the Dark. Just like her.
This Queene, she is my charge. She has blessed me and I have blessed her. We have accepted the tasks before us. I am glad we shall be meeting them head on, hand in hand, together.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Number Eighteen

Bushido. The way of the Samurai. There are eight virtues of this Code: justice, courage, benevolence, politeness, sincerity, honor, loyalty and self-control.
Some days, I often have to wonder about my best friend, in a good way. He thinks I got this tattoo for me. The man absolutely believes I represent all these traits. Then again, he also knows me like no other. Were I to stand trial to be judged, he is the one person in this world who would be truly and uniquely qualified to give his opinion and it would be a True one, the closest to the actual me that can be. It rather frightens me that he knows as much about me as he does. I have told him things—that I don’t even tell myself. I trust him that much.
The ex introduced us. The ex wanted another couple for us to hang out with as a couple. But the way the ex worked is he wanted someone he could be in control of and in who would be in awe of him and just think he was some amazing person who had done so much and who knew so much. He picked the wrong guy. The ex thought he’d found a country bumpkin. Well , he did, but not in the way he thought. Country, yes. Bumpkin, no. My friend can be a little na├»ve—and I spring some really weird stuff on him at times. But he’s not stupid, and he has never since I met him allowed anyone to hold sway over him—other than the women in his life—and then only marginally. Which is to be expected when you’re in a relationship anyway, to some degree.
I have dragged my best friend through all sorts of training with me. Magical training. Sweat lodge. Rituals. Unified Field Therapy. We have one of those connections that I knew went far beyond this life, nearly from the start. It took me til recently to realize he had glamour on me in this life, to protect us both from other things. I still to this day DIE laughing at the fact that, while we were both still married to our significant others and both in the process of getting divorces, we were in one magical session and I told him he is the one man I genuinely had no sexual attraction for on any level. For me, that is bizarre. I was taught from a very early age –we’ll just say taught by society and leave it at that--sex is a powerful tool and a good way to –get what you want, control people, whatever. Everyone –well, adults anyway—not ever anyone underage—is a target. My friend was never a target in that way. He started out as my friend and he has stayed my friend, through some of the weirdest, most bizarre, unspeakable lunacy. And after making that comment, let it be known that since we’ve started sleeping together, the glamour has dropped and he can say one single word to me and I have to sit down because I am so weak with hunger and need. It’s mind-blowing. Of course, I’ve never had anyone use some of my own stuff back on me. Whether he means to or not, he uses a great deal of energetics when we’re—together. I’ll just leave it at that. It also doesn’t hurt that he and I literally go back to the very Beginning together, our souls almost like mirror images, closer than twins. I often want to say closer than God, when I start going Back and Back and Back.
He has watched me go through the most horrible times in my life, and been there to help me through them. He always lets me be myself. He is the one person I trust to tell me I am an idiot, but who will let me be the idiot and will still back me up while I am being an idiot. I trust him so implicitly and – yes, blindly. This man will never hurt me. Ever. Not if he can do anything to prevent that. I mean that on so many levels, it is just not funny. This guy gets me. Do you have any idea how very WEIRD I am? Yesterday, my mother’s spirit guide came to pester me to tell her something. My friend’s guides pester me all the time. If it weren’t for his guides, I wouldn’t work with my own guides as much as I do. Have you ever seen the tv show Wonderfalls? (it is terrific, by the way) Inanimate objects tell Jaye what to do—and they will sing all night or bother the bejesus out of her, until she does what they want her to do. Usually she gets into a lot of trouble doing these things. People think she’s nuts. But in the end it always seems to turn out to be a very good thing that she did what she did. That is pretty much my life in a nutshell. I go by Intuition. I have always said my friend is the logic to my emotion. Then I scare him by letting him in and showing him I have a logical practical side—not to mention of all the people in my life he has more of a clue than anyone else how my brain works and how darn smart I really am. And I am scarily intelligent, because my brain holds on to so much. It took me nearly this long to remember the clarity of my memory after living with ex one and ex two—both of whom told me I made things up and twisted them around. I do have my own way of seeing things—who doesn’t? But when it comes to facts, I usually keep them straight—like linear straight, straighter than a ruler straight. I am a walking trivial pursuit game, quite literally. How many sets of encyclopedia did you read when you were younger? I read five sets, because I like to see where the older ones have bad information. It’s quite an insight into the past. That should say way too much about me right there. I read encyclopedias for entertainment.
Yet, I digress. This is supposed to be about my best friend.
He is the one with the Way. Not me. He is all things Samurai, and then some. He has that wicked sense of humor. That darned leprechaun-like energy and presence. He lets me be myself in all ways—and he accepts me, completely, totally, without exception. He encourages my forays into piercing—which have since ended—unless I do get another nose piercing, on the same side as the one I currently have. He encourages my tattoos—no, no end in sight on those. Heck, he’s taken me to get most of the tattoos I have gotten in St Louis. He lets me be a whiner and a baby. He lets me be the strong over-powering over-bearing control freak that I can be. He of all people can actually keep me in line. Which for me is scary. Really freakin’ scary. He may not always get what I say and do, but he supports me, regardless. Do you have any idea what that is like? Someone caring about you and trusting you enough to let you truly genuinely be yourself in all things? Although for the rest of my life, he is not going to let me live down several things. Like my inability to walk after we’ve been together—you know, in that way. It’s only lately we’ve started this facet of our relationship. I am still rather stunned by the entire thing. I thought I was broken. Very very broken. Before ex, I had known myself to be one way. Every guy I had ever been with said this about me. Then there was ex. And now I have proof. He could turn a porn star against sex—turn a porn star into a nun for whom celibacy would not be enough of an escape from all things sexual. It wasn’t me. It was him. I am so so glad to know that. I wouldn’t know it or understand it to the level I do if not for my best friend. Merely one of the countless revelations this guy brings me all the time, whether he knows it or not.
I know—I keep repeating this—do you have any idea how spectacular it is to show a person every single side of yourself, good and bad, happy and sad, metaphysical and mundane, fecund and anorexic, and still find complete acceptance? He honestly is like my own Personal Jesus. I am completely and utterly blown-away every single day by that fact alone.
Now, number eighteen. My newest tattoo. We got it last night. We decided in the end that the chest was not the best idea. Plus, this tattoo had to be on the left side of my body—so much for symmetry there. The wolf is there, on my chest. Since the bushido tattoo would give too much attention, too much precedence, too much—power, we decided to put it on my arm under the Welsh dragon. The poor man still has no clue why I had to involve him so deeply with this tattoo. Now, I do love the juxtaposition of the Welsh dragon atop the Japanese kanji.
Here’s what’s strange. I have a tattoo for each of the men who were important in my life. Ex hub. The ex. Please don’t give that a lot of attention or energy. I got the tattoos to symbolise that they were gone, out of my life, and no longer connected to me in that way anymore. Especially since ex has custody of my son at the moment, I have to make sure the not connected to me personally thing is out there, because I am so not giving up anything that has to do with my son.
I have a Chinese butterfly, the first tattoo I got that had any colour in it, to represent the new life I was bursting into after the divorce, even though it took me a couple more years to really be done with him. Truthfully, we divorced in 2001. This year, 2009, is the very first year I have been able to actually know that the connection is truly gone, despite the fact the man still has energetic tendrils around me. The emotional content is gone. My heart is pure where once this man ruled and burned. The butterfly is on the inside of my ankle. It also represents a karmic tie that has been broken. I am no longer his sacrifice. Never again. King Kong has relinquished all rights to me and mine. I am truly free there.
I have the eternity knot on my shoulder for my son’s dad. All black, shaded grey. At least things between us could be worse and aren’t. That’s about the best thing I can say there. It would be nice if he could act like a responsible parent in conjunction with me. Maybe act like I am actually a human being, with a life of my own. This one won’t let go karmically, even though he is supposed to, in this lifetime—maybe before this lifetime is over. I won’t be playing with him in any other lifetime. This is the last time for him where I am concerned. His last chance to heal the breach between us that he caused before I move on and leave him behind forever.
The Bushido kanji is the first tattoo I’ve gotten for a man, a man with whom I have an on-going relationship –friendship is a relationship—and we are going to be friends all the way through this life-time. How scary is that? The things we know we are going to do and be together—for the rest of our lives. Have you seen my track-record with men? I am more scared about losing him than I have ever been with any other person in my life, simply because he is most trusted person in my life. A person who completely trusts me and believes in me. I really hope I don’t mess things up with him at any point. I don’t think he’ll let me though. That’s a good thing. I know how weird I am—and I see the way I am doing things. But thank goodness, he knows me and knows how weird I am—and he won’t let me hurt myself—which is also such a blessing.
Don’t ask why we aren’t dating or getting married. Other things have to happen first. Then we can do there. Today is just not that day.
I got this tattoo, after some really deep Past Life Retrieval episodes between us. How strange that I often describe myself as a Vessel, only to step back and realize that, yes, I am a Vessel. I am the Receptor and the Carrier, the Keeper, of so many things. I returned ex hub his things long ago. Well, more I returned them to the DL he serves (it doesn’t mean what you think it does, really). For the other ex, he does what he does best, refuses to claim his own stuff and refuses to accept responsibility for his own stuff. So I do what I do best. I stick the stuff on a shelf and say, here it is, bozo. I am not carrying it anymore. It’s no longer my burden, and neither are you. I have carried stuff for friends, so-called and genuine. I have carried things for strangers. I have surpassed bonds I had no clue were there. Found people who once lived their lives for me and vice versa, and released them from their circumstances just by being me. For this man, my friend, I carried, and I still carry, a great many things. I am not the one who is in charge of when or how these things come up. Not usually anyway. When it comes to his stuff, I am nothing but the Vase, really. He pulls things up as he desires them. He has me hold them – that last bit that I held in my throat that whole week was – a pain in the neck—so literally. Yet, he accepted it. He took it. He sealed a fate between us by taking these things. Many paths are laid out in front of us. Us as a whole, not just him and me. If I make this choice in my life, then it frees you up to make this choice in yours. If I had never gotten away from drugs or alcohol or other self-destructive behaviours, of which I am sure there are many more left (for one, I know I am still fighting my eating disorder to this day), I would never have met him in this lifetime. I would have been dead long ago. If I hadn’t let the ex drag me to St Louis as the last chance for our marriage –wish he had told everyone else that instead of just me—then he and I would never have become friends. If I had not become pregnant with E, our friendship together would have been twisted and mutated by the Coven that still makes vague vain attempts to screw with me. If I hadn’t done this—this would not have happened. If I hadn’t gone before the White Council as counsel myself, if I had not let go of the Grey in me, if I had not turned aside as much as I did, he would have never turned to me in the capacity he has turned. He would not have dredged up the things he did, he would not have accepted them as he did. We would definitely still be friends, but we wouldn’t be – this close. Nor would the future between us be so – set and so clear. A future I am not going to talk about because—well—mostly it freaks me out, the magnitude of it—and it will freak him out because it’s not somewhere he wants to go or think about at the moment. He has enough stuff to worry about at the moment as it is.
I think it is very interesting to note though. Remember the 333 issue I have with darn near every big event in my life, which does indeed seem to coincide with – me having a child and/or some man? I am still getting signs – 808 is just funny to me, I’m sorry—the whole Lazytown thing—but the 333 thing seems to be done for the moment. Ever since he removed the thing from my throat. So—that means big momentous event. And no, we are actually tres tres careful, because of all the things I want a baby with him right now—so not the thing.
What is so funny is I keep thinking—the Dragon and the Rat—Chinese astrology—oh what fun. How can two people who on the surface seem so very different be so well and evenly matched? But we are.
And this tattoo is the concrete cementing (did I really say it that way on purpose?) of my acceptance of the contract now in place. Not just my acceptance, but his as well. That, I think, is the big difference with this tattoo. Why I was able to get the tattoos for the other guys when I did in relation to where things stood between us at that time. I could not have gotten the eternity knot for ex if he had not changed his space somewhat. He changed enough to allow me to do my thing, whether he wanted to or not, whether he realized it or not. But my friend changed his mind about certain things, certain issues, and he made some choices. He gave me the space to embrace things and open up other things between us, in this life and things from other lives. This tattoo is a symbol of both of our acceptances of the path we are currently treading.
Plus, as an additional benefit, I must also take on some of the attributes I wear beneath my skin. He says the tenets of Bushido are already there within me. He sees them. All my tattoos have very strong spiritual significance. I am under obligation to respect that significance and to uphold the meanings intrinsically set out by each mark. Some days I really do think, thank god I let my friend eons ago talk me out of branding. I am not into pain, by any means, but there is a price to be paid when doing something like that. I have been meaning to research Celtic tattooing for a very long time—and I have done some very basic research, but never gone in-depth. Since tattoos are objects of Power, imbuing the flesh and the spirit with certain attributes. Between the Native and the Celtic paths I wander, I am often awed by the immense responsibility I have accepted by way of my tattoos. Not to mention, this tattoo means a great deal to me, not only because it represents the love between my best friend and me, but because of the connection between us in this life and another life of which this tattoo speaks volumes. One day I will find more information of the Samurai and the little Princess.
Until then, I accept my responsibility to this new tattoo, the new level of our friendship, the Past and the Present and the Future it represents. Besides, I love my friend, no matter what happens, no matter how things turn out, no matter which way we go. Not to mention, I am glad I can say it again, even the way I say it, just because it makes me feel better to let him know—even though I do that to everyone.
So, basically, it really is all good.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

You Know It's Wednesday

Even though I have to be reminded--alot--even though I write the date by hand every single day at least once due to my work log......
I missed last week--due to stress of move three and probably a small smiling child.....


What is your money wish?

The funny thing is--I do not make alot of money--by any means--but I am so much happier now than I was say ten years ago (I still to this day cannot stand SBC/AT&T--grr)--and I have no real desire to be rolling in obscene amounts of money.
I would like that added sense of security from knowing without a doubt that the money is there to cover bills should anything happen, which since the accident last November (the flipped moving truck..the totaled car........) that hasn't really happened...although I am slowly starting to build things back up....
All I really want is to be paid decent money for what I do--and to have enough money to cover bills and necessities and some wants. I want the ability to buy what I want when I want it, without being forced to have to decide -- if I do this, then I can't do that. Is it clothes for the kid--or paint for us both. I also want the ability to decide I don't have to work this system job in order to support us--I can do it on my own, being paid a fair wage--paid for my writing and my crafting and my art (such that it is) and for my healing work and psychic work and whatever else blows my skirts up at the moment.....I want to be able to travel, comfortably, to all these places in my head I can't stop dreaming about....without having to panic that if I go I'll lose my job--heck, I want to be able to go visit my dad and not have to worry am I going to have a job when I get back.....
this is my wish and my desire--so shall it be......
and thank you for sharing with me.......

Something Else

Yes, I am having a day, trying to reach out to people and places that reach out to me, or at least reach out to someone who reaches out to me, since this became a journey into blog-hopping this morning.....

I am going to leap up into the air like a little kid, and do a quirky move, and then say, look what I can do, a la Mad Tv....
then say--
hey look what I found:

Click here for booking through Thursday



I am taking the question I found on the blog that I got this from :
Storage

“How do you arrange your books on your shelves? Is it by author, by genre, or you just put it where it falls on?”

Please let it be known in this house there are no less than 14 bookcases--and I am about to buy 2 more. Only 3 of these currently in-house are not 72 (or whatever) inches high. We have books. We have books that are double and triple stacked on shelves.

Now, normally, I divide my books into kids books that they can have now, future school books, books I've read, books I haven't read. Then the kids books are divided between their rooms, and whatever other shelves need to be used for this. My books usually get divided by topics and related topics. Fiction (vampire, werewolf, sci fi, fantasy, etc). Non-fiction. Biography and auto-biography. Home-schooling. Alchemy. Cookbooks. Erotic. Art. Child-care. Yoga. Natural health (for humans and animals--and even plants). Crafts, broken down usually by craft--as in my knitting books far outweigh most of my other crafty-type books. Spiritual. Religious. (No, not the same thing, honest) Magickal. I have a plethora of how to books--gardening, wood working, home improvement, house plants, home maintenance and clean (yes, I own alot of Martha Stewart--even though she does NOT live here and it's fairly obvious). I keep my stash of blank journals and blank books--elsewhere (this stash does not include the stash of notebook paper and notebooks that I have--in several different places throughout the house.....). I like to learn things--and I fail to believe in myself enough to just do them--even though no matter how many books I read or borrow that is really all it comes down to, isn't it?
Yada yada yada.

How are they arranged now?
Uhm......when we moved here--I just kinda ...put things on a shelf where there was a shelf to put them on...all my knitting and crochet books are together--because they came with me on move one, whereas the majority of other books moved in after the horrendous move two (uhm--flipped the moving truck, totaled my car, had to get my best friend to save me again--are we seeing a theme with him here--not that I don't pay him back or anything--but still..........)--so I was under a great deal of stress--and I sort of bought bookcases as I could afford them and as we had the vehicle to grab one or two at a time. So on the shelves themselves the books are grouped in similar categories, but the categories are splintered all over the house.....so my goal has become to one day re-unite all the categories and straighten things out--and actually buy enough bookshelves that I don't have to stack every shelf two or three rows deep--which with us here does become difficult.........

But that's my answer and I am sticking to it. :-)

Look What I Found

Ok-so I am late finding it, since it's Manic Monday....but can I play anyway until I get all caught up and back on track and everything?
It might help to get the Bangles out of my head, if nothing else........


Do you screen your phone calls?

all the time yes--except for work where I have no choice in the matter

When was the last time you lost your temper?

when was the last time the x was actively being an ass?
oh wait no-he's been evasive and unassuming lately
truthfully, I do believe it's been awhile--and was in direct opposition to my dd's unwillingness to move her butt constructively

When you're lost, do you ask for directions?

only after I have ranted and raved and whined and broken down in tears getting myself turned around and completely lost and feel so completely useless and worthless that there is no alternative--
but to call my best friend and have him save me from myself.
only he can listen to me say--I have no clue where I am but this building is here and this building is there and like 5 minutes up the road is a street sign that says this--and figure out where I am and where I should go--
and of course only he has permission to biff me in the noggin for being such an airhead anyway......

A Bad Bad Girl

Yesterday I had a day.
You know I don't have a car, right?
And I love my best friend, really I do, but I have no real desire to drag him all over the place any time the mood suits me to go looking for something. I look things up online first, then I start co-ercing him.
He's easy and he's fun--but that's another story for another day. :-)
Usually I prefer not to have to make him drive all the way out here to take care of me unless I absolutely have to.
And I have been trying to ween myself away from etsy. It's not easy, since I have a storefront ready to be set up and opened. That's been made worse by the encouragement I am getting from all over about my knitting--and the fact that I now know for certain I have sable where my yarn is concerned. I am under oath and under order to knit (and crochet and whatever) all my wonderful fantastical yarn up into things to sell at my fastest and earliest convenience (and of course I have not yet hit my want to knit alot groove thing either)--and not to buy anymore yarn--at least until I can adequately identify the majority of yarn I have currently closeted up in the boxes in the storage room--and using the yarn as house insulation does not count. :-) I guess I won't bring up the untapped yarn reserves I have in my attic in the form of the old sweaters in need of recycling, huh? :-)
In order to avoid etsy, I go to ebay. Of course. My idea to redo my bedroom closet and the storage area's hanger bar--didn't work. Certain plastics apparently do not take very well to being frozen and thawed during a winter in an unheated storage unit. So, I had to go looking for options. Throw in my overwhelming desire to own more earth shoes -and a trip to ebay was such a perfect solution.
Now, I have a pair of ultra-low rider jeans coming in (special for the bff--there is a reason yes)--two pairs of earth shoes and one is a pair of mules--I had to toss my favourite mules after the first move here (as the rental truck experiences will now be called move one, move two and move three consecutively) due to damage--they were cheap pleather, and had a stacked 3 inch platform--and the x hated them because he's so short anyway and I was about 6'2" in them--I hated to toss them and kept them as long as I could. I've been missing having mules to wear. Sounds lame, but I love them for some reason.
A hanging rack for clothing, because what I found was better made and roughly $25 cheaper than a trip to target. A shoe rack that holds thirty pairs of shoes--now hold your breath--my sister will not believe this--I don't think even with the two new pairs coming that I will have thirty pairs of shoes, even including my boots. Yeah, I go from hundreds of pairs of shoes to under thirty. I am sure it's close to thirty though, counting the boots. :-) And the funny thing is all the loafers I own. Like six pairs of loafers. It's so weird. I like loafers, don't get me wrong. But overall loafers and me do not appear to go together. Of course, I do have 4 pairs of platform sandals. Hahaha. I love boots and live in them all year. I found the earth shoes on ebay looking for a new pair of moccasin boots--which I did find and did not yet buy, because I want real mocs, not something with plastic on the bottom. Real flexible leather all the way around, top and bottom. No sole except the leather itself. Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to find that?? I have been looking for over ten years now.
Anyway, there's my storage room issues --at least the big ones-- taken care of. I still have 2 boxes of detritus to go through--papers, art bits, who knows what stuffed in where. That comes--later today actually. I guess. :-)
I believe I will be getting the two bookcases for my bedroom, although my dearest son may not like what that means to his pillow pit. :-) Just not sure on the whole when though.

My latest copies of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass came this week too (or rather the week of our return--I am still off on timing) and E watched them yesterday. I didn't realise the one was a musical. I am not sure that's a good thing or not. E asked me if we had the cartoon Alice (disney version)--and I'd been putting off ordering it--until yesterday. Now I can say it's mine and I bought it for her--the best of both worlds. lol
It was late at night though, when the real desire hit me.
See, earlier this week (last week--work with me), things happened--and I now get to get a new tattoo. I cannot yet say why, since he reads this blog at random and I don't want the real reason revealed to him til I have the ink under my skin. BUT--Chinoise here gets to get a Japanese tattoo. One of these days I am going to do the research. I do not think the Japanese ever did the foot binding thing. I have dreams--every time I touch that man I get the imagery--a bushido warrior (which means he has to be Japanese, right? --I can see his armour--it's Japanese styled) following the little Chinese princess (or whatever royal) as she totters through the dust on her golden lilies, banished from the castle and yet protected by this man for all their lives.
I have two Chinese characters on my body. Now, keeping in mind my feet still show portents of having worn golden lilies, and I won't go into detail about how when I was younger I would cry for wanting my feet bound so badly.....and I don't mean 8-9 years old either. My Chinese symbols are ankle-tats. Well, teh one is higher than ankle, but same area, same difference, fairly much.
Anyway, because of something my friend and I did together, which pulled out a strand of thread from the web of life (long long story here--talk about past life issues), and changed the courses of several issues. I knew then I was going to be getting a tattoo--and I knew why immediately. Most of my tats mark something somehow. And every important man in my life is marked by one of my tats. I get to push back getting my decorative om for this one. I had an idea of what the new tat would be before I went to bed that night, before he even left the house, but I went to bed asking to be shown what I should get and being able to remember when I woke up in the morning.
What I originally wanted was the entire Bushido code--but since there seems to be some discrepancies as to 7 or 8 and other possibilities--I decided the best thing I could do was take the core and apply it. So, bushido. Japanese kanji letters. In a rather prominent place--which I was not expecting. Although I was not in charge of the tat placement this time. Do you know how hard it is to get even someone like my bff to 'give me ideas' as to where a tat like this should go when he isn't sure there's not an ulterior motive?? He did come through quite well too.
Although there is no real way for me to prepare and plan clothing to wear for where this tat is going. And this is going to be even more weird, but I hope I don't get pregnant until the tat heals completely, even though it is only an outline and it will be small-ish.
Hmm.
And I went here why? Because I finally ordered my sumi-e books last night. Alot of the past life stuff is twirled up when we enter that region. Chinese. Japanese. But I am so so strongly drawn to the black and white, the utter balanced off-balance imagery, the sheer simple beauty and perfection found in sumi-e.
Yeah, I keep pushing off my drawing classes and then buy these books. :-) That's me. Yes.

Ok, small girl has awakened and is now demanding. Nothing in particular. She's just demanding. So I am off to see what trouble I can keep out of today.


Peace.
And thanks for listening to the ramble there........

The Joys Of Motherhood

Imagine if you will. I traveled over 700 miles to pack up a moving truck, and traveled back. All within the space of two days. With one child in tow along for the ride. The truck is unloaded and returned. The child sent off to her aunt’s for a week of blissful reunion and frolic with her cousins. I spend the rest of that day and the next working my butt off to unpack and unearth all the hidden remaining treasures that had come from said truck. It is the third and final truck rented to gather all our remaining belongings and bring them home to us. That is final: we are officially all moved in and there is nothing else for us to worry about or miss or ponder or anything. We are officially Home. Officially all moved in.
Add into this the other child. My loving handful. He arrives for the rest of the week with me and me alone. Did I mention the sheer exhaustion under which I am operating at that point? I love him. I love him. I love him. But he is like a bull elephant in rut trundling through an overcrowded china shop. And the boxes and piles of things set him even more on edge. Or usually would. This time he seems fine with everything. Even to the point of helping me unpack and go through things. What joy.
I wasn’t sleeping well then. I wasn’t writing either, which totally bugged me. There was no paint or glue or much of anything else going on either. Other than the unpacking and trying to help a friend deal with a stupid almost-not-girlfriend. The boy loves to play and I love to play with him. When I am busy I more prefer to watch him play, but he is an interactive child. He is so lucky he’s cute.
I hate the things that influence the boy. He has been taught by his father that violence is ok. We can hit and smack and punch, because Luke Skywalker and entourage do it. Don’t make me go there. The boy walked up to me, hit me, told me he hated me and walked away. Great parenting by the father unit there. Son quickly found out I wouldn’t play the game the way others play it with him. I will not say I hate you too. I tell him it hurts me and he shouldn’t say such things. Which turns it into a game for him, because he’s playing and I am serious. He tells me he doesn’t love me—and I refuse to repeat the same back to him. Years down the line I do not want there to be that thread of doubt surfacing in the back of his brain that because I said something like that in play I might just mean it on some level. I know he’s playing. He’s giggling and laughing and hugging me and kissing me and wrestling with me. But the sheer stupidity of his father’s actions—or rather the lack thereof where this child is concerned burns me up. This boy could be so much farther ahead if some basic tenets were actually put into action, but that would be work for the father—and then he wouldn’t have his mini-me to show off and rattle on and on about to gather inappropriate attention to himself.
The boy plays with the curtains between the living room and kitchen. He’s playing. The rod bends from the pressure exerted on it. The rod breaks. The curtains come down. I know he didn’t mean to do it. Then the sword fighting with the ends of the broken rod begins. There is no argument when I take them away after I point out he might hurt himself on the raggedy ends. A band-aid works to cover my scratches.
Water spills. Often. Frequently. Over the couch. On the rug. There is food everywhere. Crumbs and bits and pieces. I do fairly well. We have an ant issue—they live in the foundations of the house at the moment—or under the foundation, with the garter snake. They will be moving out later this year. After my next trip to home depot. I pick up what I can and try to ignore the rest. The pillow pit is created, shoving my bed almost to the other end of my bedroom. He sleeps in the pillow pit at night. Every single pillow in the house is stuffed between the wall and my bed. It’s fun. He plays there all day and sleeps there at night. I have a kimono quilt on the wall there. A quilt that cannot be tossed in the washing machine. There are sticky handprints on it. It is the last present the ex-husband bought for me, even though I picked it out and ordered it. But still, the last Christmas present. I am attached to it because of the Oriental theme. The kimono and fans. My walls also hold fingerprints. He’s dug up the floor with his fingers in several small spaces. Where one floor meets another—like the bathroom slate and the slatted wooden floor of the hall. The dog is stressed when the boy is here, especially this time as she was away for a week for training, and then the week-end I was gone was utter hell for her with the stupidity of the ‘dog-sitter’. The dog really misses the girl and is happy to be home. She just wants to love on the boy, but she is still a puppy and she’s a big puppy too. The bird is also in rare form with the boy here, shrieking and shrilling non-stop in retaliation to the energetic bustling of the boy. Or maybe the bird was just sick of watching Rugrats too.
I do not always handle chaos well. When I know I will be able to fix things and manage things, I can deal with some chaos. I can deal with scads of yarn here and there. I can deal with a rummage of books and paper. Pens spilling over the top. But crumbs and bits of food and dog fur and things torn up for the sheer joy of tearing them up because the father allows it at his house. It adds up. I thought I did amazingly well. I was as calm as I could be. All these factors bearing down on me. My own futility in the face of things that I cannot change, people I cannot help.
Then the bottle of water, which was supposed to stay in the kitchen and had been not two seconds before, spilled, and in the grabbing for the bottle knocked a bowl of cereal which I had been trying to retrieve and get rid of since it had gone gross and soggy long ago but the boy was not yet done with when all over the couch and the rug. Cookie crisp cereal went flying all over. I broke.
I emailed the ex, figuring he might be at dharma group since it was before 1p, which means calling him would be useless. Not that he answers the phone when he sees it’s me anyway at any time. I asked the ex to come get him. No response—because even though he can check his email on his phone and even though he knows I will email first—I only get 1 response to every 10 emails—and usually only if I repeat the email more than once. It doesn’t matter if the email is about the boy, the girl, the man on the moon. And no one can tell when a response will be warranted either. Some things set the ex off and things that are important—oh, like the health of said children, are merely neglible and unworthy of his attention in his book—at least when it comes to me. But let me send a political forward about something I find hysterical and the man blows up like a puffer fish on crack. Do you know it is almost April—and I am still asking for Christmas pictures. He doesn’t have to print them. They are all digital. How hard is it to burn something ot a disk—or post them online somewhere so I can download them? But no, he has to be the one in control at all times, and I have to kowtow to him. The only reason I get to see my son is because I am a free babysitter—and that is exactly how he treats me, like someone he pays to watch the boy, like someone unworthy of spitting on if I were on fire. Granted, if he spat on me I’d set myself on fire again, but at least I have some reasonable reasons for doing so—even if it might take me awhile to explain them (halitosis is hard to kill—took me over a year to get his germs out of my mouth—and the mouths of the kids).
Now, imagine if you will, me on my knees, surrounded by soggy cookie crisp cereal, remnants of a book the boy had shredded for some reason (he said he wanted to see how it was put together basically), random toys, a milk-soaked rug already stained with things I could not identify, a couch now stripped of its cushions (which were sitting in the bathtub til I could manage to clean them—thank goodness it’s a $15 couch—and it’s scotch-guarded too). I am in years, absolutely overwhelmed. I’d been through some stuff that rocked my world between the trip and the boy’s arrival, not to mention the trip. My best friend is going through a really screwed-up almost break-up—and he’d been having a bad time the night before. I don’t sleep well usually when the boy is here, mostly because of the competition to see how can dive deeper into my skin between boy, girl and dog when they sleep—but I had been more worried about him sleeping in the pillow pit, even though he touched me the whole night, mostly, so I didn’t really enjoy the having the whole bed experience. Work is never easy (I work from home, on the phone) when the boy is here, because he has to check on me a lot (he gets really worried if he doesn’t know where I am and/or can’t see me), because I am afraid I won’t always hear the ring, because of a lot of things. So, I was stressed. Stressed. Are you with me?
On my knees, tears streaming down my face, picking up icky stuff from the floor like I had to when I was little and my brother was just starting to eat real food (which I thought had to be the most disgusting job in the world at that time-and I still sort of feel that way), the little man of my life comes over and says, what’s wrong mom? I of course make sure he knows I am not mad at him and that I am just overwhelmed by having to clean up and there is just so much to do. Tears were coming faster. He walks over to me, pats me on the shoulder and on the hair and tells me, don’t worry mom, it’s ok. You’re the best mom in the whole world. You know that, mom? You are just the best mom in the whole wide world. Don’t worry , mom, it’ll be ok. You’re the best mom in the world. So, skip the tears that went from tears of frustration to just tears of blind joy and astonishment. He got a hug, and I told him I loved him and he told me he loved me too, what with me being the best mom in the whole wide world again.
After I got the gloppy bits of cereal off the floor, I chased the little rascal around the house, tickling him and playing in the pillow pit with him, and just being happy. It was the first time he’d told me I was the best mom in the world. And he was so serious and so sincere.
That’s why I am a mom and not confined to a mental hospital or something. It’s moment like that, with a pat, a kiss and a smile, that makes all the insanity so worth it.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

March Madness Update

Hey, it seems like a really good title. ;-)

I only 'wrote' 875 words today. This does not count the huge email I wrote for my dad--or the fact that I caught up on what, roughly 10 gaia question and reflections--you'll need to go to my gaia blog to read those--I was too busy running back and forth via email and IM to want to post everything here. Not counting what I write here either.

I have a goal for myself for online networking every day--reaching out to other artists/writers/mothers/homeschoolers/whatever--by posting good comments on their blogs, just to let the Universe know that yes I am trying to play fair and be there and involved with everyone.

I made a HUGE push yesterday on the storage room--there are some massively big and undaunted spiders living in there--and I think there may be or may have been a mouse. A mouse is not a good thing--this is where all my yarn is -- all my sweaters are--and all our extra blankets are. Not to mention the paper, the magazines, the art supplies......the books. I have only two bookcases in there.
Let me tell you about the spiders. Now, first of all, when we first came to look at the house before we bought it, the spiders lived here. It was their house. I am fine with that. I have a Grandmother Spider tattoo (top of the line on the chakra chart for places I am willing to be tattooed on my body--as the very top of my head is not going to happen in the land of tattoo)--I have an affinity with spiders. I have for years and years. I am honestly cool with spiders. Mostly. I have no desire to be touched by the house brigade, although I am fine w dd getting a tarantula for a pet. One of these days anyway. When we did buy the house and were preparing to move in (as in before we left after signing papers to go back to WV to pack up and return here) I did inform the spiders we were coming back--and that I was perfectly willing to share the space, so long as we could co-habitate gently and compassionately. Most of which means if I don't see you, and you don't touch me, I will be ok with you wherever you want to live and be as long as no one is getting hurt.
Periodically, I have to have the odd talk with some new spider who decides to come in and move in to the bathroom and builds a funnel along the top of the wall in there. I have only had to remove one particularly tough customer--it was during the fall last year before the chill got in--and I have the compassionate bug grabber thing that we use to relocate bugs back outside. usually I walk in, see the nest, say hey, you have until tomorrow morning to vacate the bathroom or I will be forced to decimate your webs and put you outside. Ever since I bounced that one, I have not had an issue with anyone else leaving. I always give them overnight to scram. I do know someone is living behind the toilet, because she peeks out now and then to see if I am ready to close off the area under the sink more permanently (right now it is braced with cardboard since that's what I have a plenty of when we moved in). I do not mind this. The web is not where I have to stare at it while I shower wondering if someone is going to be joining me any second (don't make me go there this morning, please).
I basically pulled most of the storage containers out of the storage room. I had the stuff to seal the bottom of the window in there, so I did that. As I removed boxes/etc, I would vacuum the place out--and since I am not overly fond of ants in the house and we are having ant issues (they live in the foundation and are about to be vacated once we go to home depot in the next couple weeks--they have been informed--religiously over the past few months--ever since we moved in they've been warned--I lack the rapport with ants that I have with spiders--spiders are outside the box--ants cannot think to the edge of the box, much less outside the box) I sprayed at least one area w bug spray--informing the whole of the room I was doing so and telling the spiders quite loudly to stay away from that one wall. Up against the other wall, from between the deep freeze and whatever box once resided there comes this big puppy of a spider, all reared up and pissed off and ready to fight--the little sweeper vac I have, that I've been using to clean the floor (sweeping is so passe--especially when the dust pans run away and hide). Here I am, a giant to this little spider, who knows darn well I won't hurt him anyway, rocking this ginormous and LOUD sucker-upper thing in the general direction of the spider--for at first I did not see said spider and then when I did I was wondering how close I could get before the spider ran away. Note--the spider did NOT run away. The spider stood his ground. I however was afraid to get any closer w the vac lest I suck the poor thing up. So spider definitely trumps vac in that respect. That darned spider refused to move for over an hour, as I was re-arranging boxes, moving things in and out, dropping things, falling over things, knocking things over, including myself. I hope that arachnid had a really good time watching the show. By the time R arrived, the spider had retired, probably to laugh itself silly over my travails, but still. I hope it stays away from the insect-killer sprayed wall.

Dd has the beginner's pottery wheel kit. If she hadn't trashed my kitchen table yesterday (I SO had it all cleaned off) I would have let her start messing with it today -- after she figures out what to do w all her clean clothes that need to be put away--much less the other stuff in her room. Gosh--what a pack rat--and even though she gets it honest it still drives me crazy. I am looking forward to playing with that thing too, but if she won't keep her end of the bargain in the box it stays. I drove her nuts last night because I bought some air dry clay. I really am pondering the whole clay bowl aspect--or just the bowl aspect because I think I am this close . to knitting a bowl--although I still have the sisal to crochet the knitting basket--which is what--just a really big bowl, you know? I bought the air-dry clay and told her it was only for me. She was in such a pissy mood yesterday--channeling her cousins does not make my girl a very pretty person. I nearly had R stop the car and let her out many a time. If she were closer to 12 I might have actually done it, she was so mean and nasty. All because R got the better of her in a game that she started. Pre-puberty is so much fun--do I have to live with her when puberty hits???

She also seems rather upset over the fact that R and I are so close. I am not all together certain if it's because she thinks I am cheating on ND--a man who has yet to enter my life (just so that's really clear)--or if she's just mad that it's R. She had a cruddy night of sleep, culminating in the whole kicking griping snarling asleep and yet not asleep garbage she does after spending time w the x and his family (and when she has issues to deal w of whatever sort) --which woke me about 4a--I fought t stay in bed til roughly 5, 530a. As soon as I got out of the bed, I didn't even have to leave the room, and she hit the smooth even easy sleep of the innocent. We'll see how the rest of the day goes once she gets up--although I am not looking forward to it.
It's bad when I look at her and think, if I could just dump her off in public school and let them deal with her attitude, but that's my thought ever since she got back w the x on Sunday. And I feel SO BAD when I think that. Public school would destroy her. Differently than it did me. But it would destroy her and she'd never be her own person or be able to have a creative thought in her head ever again.

Sheesh.
How did I manage to get off on that tangent anyway?

We did find her hidden christmas present, the one I lost. The space age ant farm kit. It was in a box--no laughing--under a huge bunch of yarn (of course!!) Do you have any idea how weird it is to order live ants online? Knowing they will probably live maybe a month, maybe two, living in some weird funky blue goo? Have you heard me talk about our ant issues here in the house anyway? I am about to pay to have ants eradicated--while buying ants to treat as little hostages and captives and torment in captivity (they won't really be tormented, except that they live in a plastic cage and eat and breathe blue goo).
Better yet, I found a computer power cable (for a laptop) that I have ben hunting for for weeks now--it was stuffed in between fabric and some other detritus in one of the plastic storage containers that don't have a lid. Well, at least I found it. I knew it was here. That has to count for something. :-)

I am very nearly done w the re-arranging the storage room. I actually need to pull something down from the attic--then the ladder can go outside. R and I were too busy yesterday for me to remember a great many things. I need help moving the old kitchen table to the car port--although I am still thinking it may be good on the back porch for plants. E's two amaryllis are sitting out there now. And I need to move my rue more away from dumb dog before she kills them--or the cat eats them. Am waiting for our live plant orders to come in--I want to do the planting all at once. That's jsut me though. :-)
Plus I am having to re-negotiate some things about the back fence-line just because of the way we are planning to do it. At least I do know that that will be done soon and I will feel alot better then. :-)

Nearly time for work--so more to come.

But I am working on something every single day. And now I have poster board too. The smaller kind, but it still counts. I am looking forward to doing a bigger dream board. With what happened with the little one in the book, I am ever so eager to see what happens when I really am able to spread my wings and reach out. Although the theme may just be the same. You never know. I have 12 pieces of poster board. I can change and do the same and re-arrange and many other things. I am looking forward to it.

Peace.

Hey Babe

What seems to be the problem, babe?
Didn’t you believe I would do
All the things I said I would?
Didn’t you realize that I’d move on,
That I’d find a way towards
My own happiness
Without you?
Did you really expect me to sit
Waiting at your beck and call
Not going out to live
My life?
Did you not expect me
To find a job
To support my children and myself?
Did you not hear meWhen I told you
I would buy my own home?
Just because it’s not a house
You would buy
Doesn’t make it mean any less
To me.
Did you think I would remain alone
Without friends, without love
While you treat me
Like a convenient baby-sitter
And nothing more?
Did you think I’d never find
A lover to replace you?
Can you not believe
I can be successful
And prosperous
And happy
Without you?
It’s true.
Without you, I have found my ground.
I have found my space.
I am moving on
With life and love
And everything in between.
I don’t feel bad for you
Anymore.
With your inability to let go,
Your inability to accept
Or to embrace change.
Once I felt so bad,
But no longer.
Are you so surprised.
So caught off-guard,
So horrified
By the proofs
Of my success,
Of my pleasure,
Of my happiness,
That you cannot even face me,
Can’t look me in the eye?
Yet you sit there
Wondering why
I see you the way I do
And am glad we said good-bye.

Monday, March 23, 2009

The Water Muse

It began innocently enough. I was out for a walk. I do that, a lot. I go for a walk when I am happy, because being out in the woods calms and refreshes me. I go for a walk when I am depressed, well, basically for the same reason. I just like to walk. I know these woods by my house; I’ve been walking through them for five years now. I know the birds and the squirrels. I know there are raccoons and rabbits. I know where the bobcat likes to hunt at night. I know every few years the bears come a little too close for comfort. But I am ok, with all of that.
Not that day.
I wanted to go for a walk after dinner. Dusk is not always the best time to go for a walk in these woods, or in any woods, really. Too many times I have felt like Little Red Riding Hood, straying from the Path and nearly attacked by Man-Eating Creatures. Nothing has ever happened to me though. I am cautious. I am respectful. Apparently, that goes a long way out in the forest.
The air was warm, rustling meekly against my back as I shut the back door behind me. The dogs were out with the kids, playing or working or whatever they were up to doing. So I was genuinely Alone, with a capital A. I like that. You live your life surrounded by so many people, so many animals, it is a good thing to take the time to wander without company from time to time. I stuck my hands in my pockets, turned to set off in any random direction-this time simply away from the setting sun because my eyes are sensitive to light at the best of times. I didn’t feel like being blinded by the sunset, mostly because I wasn’t in the mood to walk into any trees. Again. Or fall down any slippery slopes or into any random holes. Again. Hey. I can learn. Sometimes it just takes me a bit to catch on. The wind was a gentle lover, stroking and teasing me, pushing my hair over my shoulders to urge me on.
I get into a mood, into a zone, when I am walking. I get lost in my head, lost in my thoughts. I didn’t notice when the wind shifted, as it maintained its thoughtful caresses from the rear. I almost caught the strange aroma that played havoc with my senses. The dank earthy aroma of the pines and oaks near my house glided into the mystical smells of fruits, of flowers heavy on the vine. Around me, the landscape seemed to shift from the wooded mountain air to which I had grown accustomed to a spicier, more tantalizing cultivated realm. It’s one of those things. I caught it, but didn’t much register it. I was watching the ground in front of my feet. I do that a lot. I find such neat things that way.
Usually. My usual deer run leaf littered forest floor started to slip sideways on me, bit by bit, encroaching upon a fertile flatter land, still healthy with growth. The transition was gradual enough to by-pass my cognizant brain and allow me to trundle along nearly unaware.
I almost tripped over it, the rock. I say ‘rock’, but in reality, the thing was large enough to sit four or five people comfortably. It was a flattish rock, silvered and grey, moss clinging to it in places, a good colony of ants working away off to one side of it. It was tilted, one end higher than the other, but the slope of it was appealing, not back-breaking. The rock had dug itself in beside a small lake, close to an inlet of eddying black waters. Ok. So the largish pond there before me caused me to start. In my woods, there are no lakes or ponds. Babbling brooks. Crazy creeks. A few sinuous streams. But larger bodies of water? No. The smell now gained my full attention. This was not mountain air. Would that I had paid more attention to the balancing mechanisms in my ears, because I was no longer in Kansas, Toto. I was on a marginally hilly land, overall flattish and staid. My beautiful densely treed land had decided to move on without me. Now, I was in something more like a grove, trees spaced widely apart, branches swinging in a stronger more melodic breeze here. A breeze that did not touch me. I had no idea what to expect.
Me being me, I sat down, not on the rock. I have this thing about ants. I try to stay away from them. They can have all the space they want. But I did sit at the edge of the water, where the earth, made from a dark black loam, broke off and split into the heady waters. It was the water, I realized, that blew the scent of jasmine my way. I had expected the smell of frogs, which makes me faintly ill, or unwashed fishes, decaying underwater plant life. I was not expecting the thick tendrils of jasmine to wend their way into my hair, into my head. I stared into the reflective waters, leaning closer to watch as my own familiar face morphed and swayed upon the surface of the tiny waves. I looked out at myself, though my own eyes, when I discovered I was looking up at myself, from beneath the waves. I reached out one timid hand, to touch the me beneath the waters, only to touch my own hand, coming out of the water, reaching out for me. Dazed, I clasped my own hand. At which point, you realize, I was rudely yanked beneath the waters.
Breath gone. Sight gone. Flesh gone. I was a wild thing, not bursting through the weight of the water, but gliding, like a raven on the wing, slipping between the molecules, a thing but not a thing all at the same time. My aqueous self did not pull or drag me. No. We seem to have melded together into One Being. I felt my self dissolving, breaking into little bits, fertilizing the water, to be eaten by ye gods and little fishes, those that I invoked so often in my daily routine with young children and too many domestic obligations.
There is no sensation when you are not a being, when you have been abluded from your normal state. No sensation. All I felt was a sense of motion, not a rushing, not a whirling. A sort of free-falling, that beer and mushrooms can provide in uncertain times. Of course, it came to an end, with a solid splat. I felt as if I had been spat from the throat of some noxious toad and blatted out upon, solid ground. Except that the ground had motion, and it was covered with sand. There was nothing alive beneath me; there was simply the odd feeling of being, rocked, back and forth, almost as if I were on a boat, a big one, but, I wasn’t. This was sand. There were little crabs not three feet away, busily chasing the edge of the water on nimble little crab feet, sharp claws waving in the air. I was very glad they seemed to pay me no attention whatsoever.
Usually when you come up out of the water, thrown forcibly upon dry land, there is coughing and hacking and sputtering. I had none of this. I merely lay there, quiet and unassuming, since my head had long ago given up spinning and had gone into hiding and was refusing to speak to me at all, slowly regaining a sense of flesh, the ability to draw breath. Silence is a strange word, for it implies the absence of sound, although you assume there must be something there, like cars driving by outside, or the house settling, dogs licking their backsides, termites in the walls chattering amongst themselves. This is not what I mean when I say all was silent. I could sense more than hear the lap lap lap of the water stroking the beach. I could feel more than hear the tap tick tap of the crabs scrambling back and forth on their sojourn. A weight pressed into my solar plexus, like a hand pushing me from beneath and shoving me from above, not painful, just very deliberate. Not crushing me. More like mashing me back together, as a child works with clay to design a toy, or a bowl. I am not hollow inside. And yet, somehow, I felt like a vessel. Or something to that effect. I didn’t move, didn’t look up. I had no such desire. I lacked the ability to command my physical form to do so anyway. I closed my eyes, afraid to look without, even more afraid to look within. I did not even bother to pray. What was there to pray about? All I could do was wait and see.
Time normally pulses along despite we small humans. Not here. Not in this place. Time did not stop. Time merely did not belong here, did not dwell here, had no reason to play here. Time was not allowed to be here. This was a Timeless Place.
I could taste the thump thump thump. Under other circumstances, I would have suggested that noise to be the pounding of my heart in my throat near to bursting. Yet, it was not. Not here in this place. It was something else.
Eyes met mine—the dark gorgeous loving eyes of one of the most beautiful mares I have ever seen. I looked into those eyes—looking into my own hazy green eyes from within that gaze. Again I melted. An ectoplasmic bubble of nothingness. I succumbed to the beauty of the black horse. And then she kicked me right in the head, with a wuff and a chuff, and BANG! Smashed me back into my brain, into the shell that was my body, and set me to rights again. She wheeled around, galloping back several yards, before barreling right for me. I didn’t move. Why should I? Over a thousand pounds of gorgeous glistening horse-flesh came pounding down upon me. My choice was be the horse, or drown in the ink-like water. I knew instinctively I could survive a horse-beating, but not the swimming. I could feel her breath upon my face, a dozen dozen fields of night-blooming jasmine forcing their way between my teeth. As she hit me, we turned, morphed. I became the fool caught in her arms, as she became the creature from the black lagoon, grabbing me to her and catapulting us both into the sooty bath once more.
A mermaid, with webbed hands and tail? A charcoal lover of the deep? Sable hair like sea snakes winding their way over and around and within me. She was all muscle, clenching me to her bosom, snaring my body firmly to hers by some unknown means, like tenterhooks. Obsidian eyes, again, I saw myself looking at myself. Her form superimposed over and inside mine, and vice versa. We were not sailing up, nor through, but down, down, down, and deeper again and still. And then I was scared. Then I began to fight. I began to draw whatever reserves I could to beat at her breast, to tear at her hands, her dreadful hair. Every blow I struck hurt me so, tearing my flesh, rending blood, ichor oozing and spurting from me. She looked at me, as I looked at her, we who were one, and no comprehension dawned. I began to cry, the tears burning her cheeks as we cried. Desperate, I clung to her, pushing what breath I had from my body as her body fought to ensure mine was kept breathing.
Then there was a clank. A bang. And a key dropped into the bucket at the bottom of a fathomless well. That’s where she dumped me, in the dark, in the Night. And she left me there, all alone. Neither fish nor horse nor friend. Fine. I admit I was sniveling, just a little. I am afraid of the dark. Well, not so much of the Dark itself, but of all the things that live and swarm and eat in the dark. I felt my way around. On my hands and knees. An oubliette? There was barely enough room for me to scrabble around, touching rough-hewn stone. I could feel the large bricks, the crumbling mortar. The crumbling part made me shake uncontrollably again. What could come crashing down on my empty little head now? Nevertheless, after some apprehensive struggling, my intrepid little fingers scratched across, wood. I nearly threw up. I wasn’t so sure that it could be a good thing. Surely it was. A door. With a latch. That was, of course, don’t you know, locked. I slammed my head against the door, defeated. The thud was hollow, dented. I was too very much alone. Refusing to sob, although unable to stop, I pounded the flat of my hand against the timber, feeling the old dried lumber splinter beneath the weakness of my palm, and not all too happy about that either. I pounded, a mouse against the backside of an elephant, barely making any progress at garnering any attention whatsoever. Somehow someone heard me, or so I hoped, or rather I didn’t. There was a creak, some inaudible shift, and a ping. The door was gone. A doorway appeared, with flickering light seeping through to guide me from this place of high anxiety.
There stood my horse, my onyx Creatrix. I stood-she stood—we staring out from our own eyes through each other’s, into one another. There was a shimmer, a blur, and there stood, me, only it wasn’t me. I am all blonde and fair-skinned. This me, such incredibly indescribable sin, with great glowing jet eyes, hair so blue it was black, skin whiter than the flesh of the moon’s silver light. Her pale lips, my lips turned a shy blue tinged with crimson, curved into a maternally accepting smile, the same smile I gave my kids when I wanted to kill them for some trick they pulled but my love of them, if not their antics, kept me from doing so. One slender bird-like hand reached out towards me, a flower in her hand. My favourite, a blue rose, somehow smelling of field after field of jasmine, the only thing I could smell. I could taste it, a thickness in the air palpable to the touch, a waxy coating upon my skin. I found myself reaching out for the rose, eager nearly to take it. As my finger touched the rose, the thorns actually grew out into three inch spikes and impaled themselves through my fingers, growing into my flesh, ripping the rose from her hand and literally sewing itself to my own. There was no agony. There as a great deal of scarlet viscousness plopping in great gobs from my palm. Yet, no pain. Not that I could tell.
My raven-hued self reached with her other hand stroking my cheek deliberately and gracefully, while our hands were still yet connected as the flower ate into me. A weakness, a hunger, overcame me, and I knelt before her, fell to my knees, almost in shame as much as in need. Then she hit me, the heel of her hand right in the middle of my forehead, the force of the blow stripping the remnants of the rose from her grasp. With a unique tearing sound the rose drew itself from her, plunging the last of its roots and flesh into my hand. I watched in awe as the roots took hold from within my arm, traveling under my skin past my wrist, past my elbow and burrowing deeply into the muscles of my arm. It looked far more painful than I could feel. I could hear the pain, but not feel it.
Now there was a definite brine in my eyes as I looked up into her glowing orbs, for once seeing only her as I tried to pour the image into my brain to grab any form of actual cohesion. Why? I wanted to ask, wanted to cry. Nevertheless, nothing came. Nothing. She reached out towards me again and you know I cringed, sitting back on my heels with my head down, whimpering inside my own skin, a puppy beaten with the broom for misbehavior. Her long flexible fingers drew through my hair, like lemonade on a summer’s afternoon. I could have moaned, it felt so good. Right before she clasped a great handful of my hair and forced my face up, forcing me to stare right into those depthless eyes. She breathed upon me, a message sent, a message received. Some form of communication I could not actually perceive. Although, my flesh did, my soul did. Something within me clicked, comprehension smoothing its way into my savaged heart for a moment, although the meaning remained hidden to me. She kissed me, serpent’s tongue flickering at my lips to open me. Jasmine had more of a texture than a taste, and it was killing me. I was gone.
I guess that means I passed out. When I came to again, I was ashore. This was not the beach where I met the horse. This was not the lake’s edge where the huge stone kept vigil. This was no place near my own home, not any of which I knew. And yet, I knew; this was where I belonged now. I had a journey to take, to make. My darkest Muse had set me a task. I looked up, helpless. The night sky greeted me, studded with glistening stars swooping around in patterns that made no sense to my brittle eyes. Salted air skulked against my lips. I fell hard into the form of my own flesh, now feeling as if I had been kicked and stomped by a herd of wild horses intent upon tenderizing me for a wolf pack to devour. I tasted blood, felt warmth dribbling from my lips. Be it blood or drool, I found myself unwilling to care. I didn’t even know when my head hit the dirt again. I was gone.
I’d deal with everything else come morning. Or whenever something decided to eat me and I had to get a move on, even in my sleep.