From the Horse's Mouth

I used to joke that my father’s religion was Gambling/Gaming and that the entire religion was built around the central principle of Probability. Every time you went to metaphoric ‘congregation’ (‘mass,’ ‘temple,’ etc), you were up against the Numbers. It wasn’t what many would term a battle or a war in a traditional sense; Gambling had the perfect name for it anyway: a Bet. A Bet is not a battle of purely body, tool, trade, mind or control like many others. But is it some combination of these? Or is it some other battle entirely? …One in which friends of the Saints of Probability are favored and blessed? Dare we say Fortuna rules here? Are the temples of Fortuna lit by the brightly-colored neon signs advertising aspirations and long-shots? Are the donations to Her and her cause(ality) the bills and coins passed between hands upon observation and acceptance of a reality of an event? The hymns and chants: cheering for sides? The Book: the Odds? I used to joke… but Fortune has always had a hand in the lives of humans. Ones that honor Her in the ways She likes best seem to have Her on their side.

I say the tradition of Gambling is passed to me from my father’s side, but recently, I discovered that my maternal grandfather also played the Numbers. Where others found sense in dates, he concentrated on Time. The day meant little to him; it was all about the moment in a constantly repeating cycle. Just after 23:59, Time reset to play again. We are reborn at 00:00; we are reset to experience 00:00 all over again. Will today be like yesterday, just like the following day? Will tomorrow mimic today? As if Yesterday actually has a say… As if Tomorrow ever really comes… We cannot be afforded a Portal if we do not enter a Void.

Anyway… my grandfather, the man that Bet on Time. Times of births and deaths were especially important to him. I heard he had great Luck when Betting on Time; he won more often than he lost. Probability was on his side. Perhaps Time was, as well. Though, it seems a rather odd phenomenon that this man who played the Numbers of Time could never wear a functional wristwatch. Any watch worn on his body would stop after only a number of days. Somehow Time’s measuring instrument became faulty upon his carrying. Who was playing whom?

My grandfather had much Luck where others often failed. All that was necessary was that he took the Chance, that he allowed Fortuna to take care of his Bet.

My father played the Numbers of my grandfather’s death day the exact day he died. My father Bet on his Time. The Numbers did not come out that day; they came out the following the day. My father exclaimed, “I should have known! He was busy traveling.”

My father plays the Odds. His talent at poker helped him pay for college. My maternal grandfather Bet on Time. Shifting Probability is in my blood… or so I jest.

My naïve sensibilities tell me that the QUEST is inherent to a question. There are many reasons to quest: to understand, to know, to grasp, to experience. More often than not, a quest is initiated due to the desire for the something, the finding. One does not embark on a quest unless one truly and honestly is a Seeker or seeks something. Often, with many a human or otherworldly entity, the seeking is almost synonymous with the want for something; however, it is my humble opinion that the seeking can be done with little of the want for something beyond the quest, but done out of joy of seeking and not the finding.

In my simplistic vision, I think it best to not predict outcomes or presume conditions upon entering on a quest. It is my understanding that once one predicts outcomes, one is to become disheartened, disappointed, discouraged, enraged or unhappy when the quest does not lead to the predicted outcomes. It is also my understanding that once one presumes to know conditions or overconfidently presumes one can handle the perceived conditions of the quest, the conditions of or in the quest often change. Once again, one may find oneself disheartened, disappointed, discouraged, enraged or unhappy. What’s more, one may find oneself incapacitated, disabled, victimized, lost, confused, disoriented, deluded, deranged, or any other list of horrible adjectives. My understanding is that one ought not have so much invested in the finding to become crushed upon the reality of the quest, but one ought to have enough invested to see the quest through to one ‘end’ or another. Yet, we should bear in mind that every end is arbitrary and wholly based on our perspective; The Story continues long after we have played our part. The Story never ends, and so The Quest is forever ongoing.

QUESTions beg more questions. There is no ‘end’ to the inquisition, just more rounds with different players. The only ends at which we arrive are those that satisfy our wants; we choose when and where the line ends. We choose what round we pick up, and what QUESTions interest us the most. We choose whether we are to QUESTion on our own accord, to fulfill our curiosities or desires, or whether we QUESTion on behalf of another, thereby acting as a proxy. Of course, QUEST(ion)ing by proxy usually has foreseeable complications. The proxy is a Fool and the wo/man behind the curtain is another kind of fool. Experience cannot be given, delivered or passed, and QUEST(ion)s in which one is not willing to participate may as well go undone. And so it will go undone, except for the Fool acting as the proxy; s/he will certainly find something altogether different than for what s/he was sent. Hiding behind the curtain, attempting to pull strings as others QUEST(ion) only casts one out further. Treat the QUEST(ion) as a game, and the players will become a part of The Game. Playing from behind the curtain is not playing at all.

Do not harbor so much hubris to presume that The Story, The QUEST(ion)s and The Game (not completely distinct at any given time) will bow to your control, your wants, your pleas, your whims, or your agenda. One can only be a good Storyteller by being a good character. One can only be a good QUEST(ion)er by being a good responder. One can only be a good Gamer when one is a good player. And when we meet our Selves as these, maybe we learn the (inherent?) value of acting as both and neither.

Until we see where the chips land, the possibilities reign. Predict where the chips will land, and you do not allow Possibility its moment in the sun. I doubt Possibility will be pleased so don’t be so surprised if it leaves you for those that value its presence.

A beginning of a story that I have never finished to my liking:

“What does my happiness really matter anyway?” Jon swings enthusiastically, wailing the golf ball into the cotton candy sunset horizon.

“Well, it matters to you, right?” I lean on my club instead of teeing another ball. I don’t like the driving range half as much as Jon does; I come for his aptly stated philosophical discussions. Driving golf balls may very well be his Zen exercise, which is all the better for me. I just need to feign interest long enough for him to start sharing his thoughts, then his mouth will run like a faucet.

“Well, fuck. Yeah, man, it matters to me, but not much to anyone else.”

Jon confuses me sometimes. I know he has reasons for saying what he does, but I usually can’t foresee what kind of philosophical path we’re headed down. “That’s not true.” I quickly assert. Maybe too quickly. His pause and slight twinge of the eyebrow challenge my statement. “I care if you are happy.” I assert once again. My tone is less assured, and I have shifted so the club acts as a crutch for me as well as a barrier between us. I am aware of these nonverbal changes, and so is he.

Jon is observant. He knows how to read just about anyone; he can adapt accordingly. His chameleon-like qualities always piss me off, partly because I am envious, and partly because the pit of my stomach becomes dense when I think about it; I find it somewhat unsettling. I cannot control my colors and mannerisms quite like he can. People have called him a good actor. I don’t think of him in that term. After knowing him for a good (or at least interesting) eleven years, I would like to think that I’ve experienced the essence of “Jon.” I fancy myself astute in the Jon-ness of being. Others see whatever role he is currently playing; I’ve seen them all.

“You care if I’m happy?” He delivers a slightly exasperated chuckle as he smacks another ball into oblivion. His eyes follow the ball, then follow the club, follow the movements he makes as he tees another. “How do you know if I’m happy?” He doesn’t make eye contact. “Because I tell you? Or maybe it’s the way I talk or move. Maybe it’s a certain twinkle in the eye.” Another singular sigh-laugh. “What matters is that I appear happy. Not whether I actually am or not. If I appear happy, no one will question it, and then I will be free to feel however I choose. If don’t appear happy, people will harass me. They’ll ask ‘why’ or how they can help. They’ll tell me how to get happy like it’s fucking available at any grocery store, right in the produce isle. Or as if they know something the rest of us don’t. They have the secret… even if they do go home to an empty house… or screaming kids, whatever … and try to convince themselves why they should bother waking up in the morning to go to a dead-end job that leaves them miserable as they suck down another Prozac.”

“Ah, Jon: the eternal optimist.”

“You missed my point. You got lost in all the terrible mundane storm-cloud shit.” He’s getting to the bottom of his bucket.

“Oh?” I am being slightly sarcastic to play off the fact that I’m not sure what he is actually getting at after that sour rant, besides the obvious embitterment with society’s prepackaged ideals.

“Point is,” he turns to me for melodramatic effect. “Freedom is in the act. Act happy; be free to feel whatever. Act normal; be free to think whatever. Act strong; be free to indulge in vices. Act caring; be free to remain emotionally distant.”

“Are you saying that a person should act in a manner that is completely the opposite of what they think or feel?”

“No, not necessarily. I’m saying that if you act in a manner that is expected, socially acceptable or even above expectations, then you are granted more breathing room.”

“Isn’t that inauthentic? And how does that give you more ‘breathing room?’ I would imagine that it is actually stifling. Pretending to be something different, feel something different, how is that allowing more space for your actual ideas and feelings?”

Jon smiles whimsically as he launches the last golf ball. With satisfaction, he watches it soar. Before putting the club down, he says in a slow, wise, professor-like voice: “Ah, young student, you must be creative with your chosen realms of expression. Much can be found below the surface, between the lines, within the spaces and realms others choose to ignore.” He lowers the club and returns to his normal twenty-six year old voice. “Plus, if you do what’s expected, or above and beyond, hardly anyone will question you on it. They’ll accept it as the Reality or Truth, partly because it’s too much effort to figure out what’s really going on with an individual if things are not apparent. I mean, why pry, right… when everything seems fine and dandy? Also, they accept the more favorable behaviors because they want to believe that rather than anything dark.” He looks at me for a couple seconds. “As far as the inauthentic thing: I don’t know if it is or not. I don’t think it’s inauthentic. It’s just…” he moves his hand in a circular motion, perhaps to generate the appropriate words. “A survival skill or… a technique… for some sort of betterment.” We return the buckets and head to the car. He’s losing the thought. “Whatever, man. Why are you so hung up on that authentic business anyway?”

I unlock the car door as I search my brain superficially for the tip of my obsession with authenticity. Jon removes his beanie once inside the car and gives his head a good scratch as I stare off into the indigo haze of twilight. “Man is the only creature that refuses to be what he is.” I say in a monotone voice as I clutch the wheel.

“Who said that?” Jon asks, breaking me from my trance.

I start the ignition. “Albert Camus.”

“Ah, yes. And here’s Mason Stark: obviously accepting exactly what he is by quoting someone else.”

A good story never provides ALL of the information on a particular subject in one place. It does, however, provide enough mirrors to reflect upon and angle just so, so that infinity spreads out before a merry wanderer. (And we’re all wanderers.)

The morning is cool and rainy, perfect for the day after All Hallows’ Eve. We remembered the dead and faced our fears; we sought out the forgotten and broke some bounds. Be mindful of one’s costume, for like attracts like. Donning hues of violet and perriwinkle in amidst sparkles and elven mimicry, I was perfectly aware of the visitors to come. They move swiftly on winds and through light and shadow, whispering and giggling as they hide in plain sight. Quiet smiles cross my lips as I match their fun and revelry.

“Keep her away from feisty floral life, bright rings and the hedgerow, for we may never see her again,” they would say as I share my apple with my friends, watching many of them float among dandelion seeds and curtains of mist. I do not distrust them in ways that many humans do (even when there is fair reason to). The mix of blood in my veins, my guardian trees and patron cats afford natural protection as well as tight bonds. We understand each others’ desires and whims, dances and games. Playing does require an odd sense of humor, patience and proper guidelines. If you do not know those guidelines, here is not the place to seek those answers. (Not all at once. Remember?) What I can tell you is this: the answers are found in countless stories, many you have surely heard numerous times before. The secrets are wrapped in silk words that move like water in the brook or clouds across the moon.

Stories have great power: power to inspire, power to lull, ignite, placate, woo, usurp, persuade, break, rouse… the list is as numerous as the stories themselves. Pick your favorites wisely. Commit some to memory, and toss others to the wolves or out your window. You are known by many by which ones you choose to tell. This is how they know you.

I see these images in dreams, images of those I supposedly know. The interactions in the dreamscape are reflections and refractions of wishes, fears, hopes, biases and aspirations that I can recognize in waking life. I know warnings from unconscious observations; I know wish-fulfillment from true potential. These images do not fool or enchant me. They live in my head, not to be known by others that do not share my dreams. We all carry on secret lives, as do our doubles and counters, our dopplegangers and shadows. Perhaps we remember each other from different lives and different worlds. Perhaps we know each other well from stories. Each plane is a different reality that has/is/will swell(ed/ing) and collapse(d/ing). At every turn, we must be re-acquainted.

:

Apples

Blackberries

Cloves

Oats

Stouts

Whiskey

Ribbons (various colors)

Pole

Horse Skull (mock.. but not mocking)

Glowsticks (yellow and green)

Pumpkin (and baked seeds)

Smoke

Paper mache

Black, gray, green and yellow paint

I share my dreams with loved ones; it has been something that I do regularly for as long as I can remember… which my have an expiration date of somewhere around 17 years.  It is odd; I can remember my dreams and visions, worlds detached from this Earth and characters from the aether more clearly than my own childhood. Sure, I know the neighborhood in which I lived from 4-11 years old. I can recall names of friends and classmates (a few at least). I can recall some of my pets, some holidays, some key moments in development perhaps. Most of these memories have photos, names, dates and other people to help me construct the memories years after the events. I recognize them as construction or fabrication, not memory. I’ve seen that picture of me on a particular bicycle with a basket (was it Snoopy?) and handle-tassels so I know I have ridden it. I’ve seen pictures of me out on the patio with my grandfather while he was sleeping, but I don’t remember that moment, that day, that time, his way of sleeping, that dress I was wearing, what season it was, that patio furniture; it all eludes me every time, no matter how much I want that memory. I can identify myself in pictures from elementary school, but I never remember the picture days, the classroom activities, which students I liked or didn’t like. What did my second teacher look like? I don’t remember even though I spent the entire year in that class. What was I for Halloween in fifth grade? I am not sure, most likely a male (or male-inspired) character.

I have precious one or two memories barely accessible of my maternal grandparents. I have clips of interactions with my parents and my brothers. Most of my time spent with friends escapes me. Most of the time I spent in the house or playing outside escapes me. The vivid (though perhaps disjointed) memories from childhood involve the night, dusk outside, my bedroom and our basement. I remember more of what was in my head than the experiences with the outside world. I can recall details from cartoons and movies I saw as a child more clearly than my own life, but, again, perhaps this is fabrication after-the-fact when re-visiting these programs and videos.

I don’t remember when I learned to ride a bike. The faces of the boys I had crushes on are almost completely wiped from my mind. I don’t really remember what it was like to wake up for Christmas as a child; I imagine I know what it is like.

Time is the Great Wash for me. I don’t think I understand or experience it as many others do.

The lack of remembering is never meant to hurt those around me, but sometimes it does. Though I wish they could know how much I would like to remember if I only could. I feel as though I am torn between those feelings and the thoughts that say that the way of my brain with Time and memory is another part of what makes me who I am. Would I be as ready and willing for changes and transformations if I had a better memory? Would I have more or less psychological ‘issues’ or ‘problems?’ What about my world would change if I could remember more of my past?

Already the morning is a flurry of strange activity. I’m broken into pieces every second and reassembled before I can even realize the countless but finite possibilities of each movement. And what about the subatomic particles that get away… where do they go? There are surely no ‘extras.’

In my absence, a T-Rex has assumed its position at my desk. His name is Posie, inspired by his home planet, Neptune. He requires somewhat gentle handling since he is filled with Air – even with this overwhelming elemental component, Piscean influence cradles him still.

I honor the rich brown goddess that delivers caffeine in morning sacrament. Chatting at her temple, I realize the fondness with which her monks and priestesses receive me. They have missed me in my short time of questing from land to land to hold bonds together and create memories through city streets. These monks and priestesses, these patrons, these walls and circulating oxygen know me; they have watched me develop under their graces, through simple shared moments, and with their protection. The warmth with which they greet me blushes my cheeks and upturns my lips.

Sometimes we are staples, fixtures, touchstones for others in simple and common or odd and idiosyncratic ways, perhaps in ways we would never suspect or will never know.

Without making a soft transition, my charge this day is to pass along some words form The Story.

It will write itself. You needn’t worry your pretty head about all the loose ends and loopholes; The Story weaves through more levels than We could ever conceive to ensure its survival and our survival. For if We are of the Universe and the Universe is of The Story, and We are contained within The Story as The Story is contained within the Universe, and We are the vehicle with which The Story is told, then the survival of The Story depends on Us and the Universe, We depend on the Universe and The Story, and the Universe depends on The Story and Us.

Every piece is in place as a part of checks and balances, and as an exercise in free will. Our stages and rooms may be set either by the Universe or The Story,  sometimes the characters can be plants or a constant of The Story, but what We do in each set, how We move within and through, and who We are in the Universe and in The Story, We have the power to choose or dictate. Certain laws will be enforced and maintained as is necessary for the survival of All.

Perhaps you are as You are perfectly. Perhaps even in all your actions and choices, you are playing your character better than anyone else could; perhaps it had to be You. Predestination did not make it so; the Universe could not have predicted that the character within The Story is/was/will always be You. Neither could The Story predict. We make The Story personal, and We personalize the Universe.

Our charge, as Us, is to remember that We are of the Universe, to know The Story and to pass The Story on so that it is constantly embedded and woven into the Universe. The Universe and The Story will likewise take care of Us.

I pressed “delete” on a rather personal post this morning.

I wanted to shed light on my actions for some, but I found the ramblings too much for this blog.

Here was the bottom line: I had to fight for my Self, my identity for as long as I can remember. My identity feels born out of self-motivation; however, the circumstances that surrounds its birth and rebirth always seemed to be war. Every choice, every desire, every action was a fight; even the most peaceful revelations or subdued outlets were sought out and attacked by someone close to me. My religion, my friends, my creative outlets, my preferences, I thought these all were my choices, but, growing up, adults had other ideas about who I was and who I was to become. Something as simple as poetry was unwanted by others and nearly forbidden. My art did not look creative to their eyes, but troubled and unstable. My ideas were unrealistic, and my perspectives on life were irrational.

I have immediate reactions now when I feel my identity or Self being threatened. I worked hard on my Self, and I am proud of me; I feel there is no reason I shouldn’t be. So when I feel another’s Will trying to exert itself over me, I hiss and remove myself. In adulthood, I will not subject myself to the emotional or intellectual oppression I felt I had to endure as a child. Though people may have only the best in mind for me, this is not how it is received. I need to know that I am trusted to know what is best for me or to know what I can or cannot do. People may think that I never had to fight in my past since it seems I was given many things. I worked for the position I have now. My family wasn’t “privileged,” even if certain members acted like we were. Through the act, it became apparent what issues the “privileged” are introduced to when young. No one gets anything for free. I was not about to give up the whole of my Self then, and I won’t do it now. Though others may ask for a sliver, intending no harm, a sliver is just the beginning in my mind sometimes.

We all have fights that we just can’t seem to forget or give up. Maybe one day I will be able to be more malleable, but in many ways, I hope that day never comes. The fight has many losses, but the gains are the best I’ve ever come across.

It is that time of year when the sun passes over her birth date, and another year goes by with only memories left of her (or so one would suspect). She always said that we are immortal in the hearts and minds of our loved ones.

It’s been years since I’ve met her in dreams, attending her own funeral, invisible to the eyes of others. She grieved for their grief; it was their loss after all, not hers. She was some place else, some place warmer and more peaceful. I was greeted with a bright smile from her upon recognition of her spirit. “They all think I am dead,” she would say to me, and it was understood that she wasn’t really. Sometimes I would feel myself transported to that black limousine where I sat in some soft dress and small shoes, peering out the window at the gloom. I felt a bit of the black seep into my eyes; I probably was aware of what was happening even if I was unable to articulate my feelings. I knew she wasn’t coming back.

I wish I had more memories or at least access to more of them. Few things stand out in my mind: her house, her food, her gifts, the feel of being in her presence.

I’ll set a place for her at dinner, and drink tea or wine from her china.

The Taurus moon is waning; I will seek quiet in the arms of night.

I never forget that I come from a line of lionesses.