From the Horse's Mouth

My friends for the journey

Posted in Dreams, Visions by theskinhorse on February 23, 2010

The woman – she was a relative of mine I think… at least a neighbor. She came in a pair. There were always two of her: the dominant, mentally-stable one and the subordinate, mentally-handicapped one. Each incarnation they switched roles, but they were always bound together. She/they wore a lot of red. Often, there was a contorted face of displeasure also worn.

We lived by grasslands and on or near a farm. I got the sense that we either raised livestock or worked for those that did. Our homes were spartan huts made of stone, clay and wood. The hearth was the focal point of the common room. The open area served as our kitchen, lounge, meeting room and dining room. One long table sat under windows oriented to the East. The same table was used for preparing food, eating, talking and performing minor surgeries when needed. Our bedrooms were small with just enough room for a nightstand, a lantern, a washing bowl, a shelf for prayer or idols and a primitive bed of hay, wool and cloth.

I found myself often taking the journey from our hut to the town for supplies. By foot, it took several days. By wagon, I could be there and back in one day if I was energetic, efficient and not distracted. I usually took the wagon.

The town was all stone. I could see towers and small castles from the windows in our hut. A tall wall marked the perimeter of the town. Only certain people were allowed through the gates. We were known by many of the village officials so entering was never an issue.

The political climate of the village was not to my understanding. Over the years, I had noticed the hierarchy and how the preferred candidate to rule always seemed to gain control. All the leaders looked the same once they entered the system, despite how they may have looked before. They also all behaved the same… as if one man was re-incarnating himself into the ruler time and time again. My curiosity got the best of me one night. I called upon my Sky Dragon, invisible to human eyes, to take me through the village on the night of the passing of the metaphorical crown. With my black cloak, I was almost invisible in the dark sky of the new moon as I sat on the back of my Dragon. Perched on rooftops, we listened. Gripping the sides of the wall, we watched. It became apparent that my previous assumptions were correct; the ruler was a re-incarnation of a previous ruler, and he, a re-incarnation of a previous one, and so on. I do not know how the copies function; they all seem very robotic. Nor do I know the original blueprint, but already I have seen too much. No one caught me spying that night, thankfully. I haven’t ventured there at night on my Dragon since.

This day that I saw so clearly was not a remarkable one. The sun hung high in the sky as I started out to the village much too late in the day. The spring to summer transition was perfuming the air with ripeness and youth. The sky was clear blue and the plains were open and vast. I walked with my empty basket and pocket full of coins to where we usually kept the wagon. It was not there. A bit confused, I wandered our property, looking for it. No luck, so I started down the road on foot.

I met the Black Dog only about 50 paces from the hut. Funny that I didn’t see this stark black speck contrasting the greens and tans of the landscape from the hut. It seemed as if he had become more apparent the closer I got to him. He looked jackal if he turned one way and doberman if he turned another. He did not take his piercing eyes off of me. Naturally, I returned his stare. His glare made me slightly uneasy, but not fearful. I do not know how he felt about my glares back. As I passed him, he began to follow me. He trialed behind at a fair distance from me. His attendance did not feel predatory or even that strange to me, but still I wondered why he had chosen to follow.

I caught sight of our wagon on the road. The one harness was empty. After walking so far from the hut, I was discouraged to retrace my steps. I would lose much precious daylight. As I huffed, I heard a noise from behind me. A black stallion came speeding out of the horizon. He passed the Black Dog with a nod of recognition before stopping between him and I. All three of us just stood looking at each other for some time. I was a little baffled, but also somewhat hopeful that I may receive help from this spontaneous horse. Both the dog and the horse made some gestures that I did not understand at first. They paced a bit impatiently at my stillness. Not knowing what else to do, I sat in the wagon with my basket. Immediately, the Black Dog hopped inside and sat opposite to me, still staring at me with his pitch-black, whirlpool eyes. He sat calmly, not moving one bit except for a slight wagging of his tail. I drew my eyes away from him for a moment to watch the horse. He whinnied and cocked his head at me. I thought to myself:  “You wouldn’t want to be a good boy and get in the harness to pull me, would you?” To my surprise, the horse responded by oriented himself close to the harness so I could put it on him. He trotted off rather tamely and almost happily. So I was off to the village with a Black Dog with a Death stare and black horse that was telepathically obedient. And here, all I knew I had for my journeys was the Dragon.

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The QUEST(ion)er and The QUEST(ioned)

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on February 23, 2010

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

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on February 21, 2010

Philosophies have to be recycled, just because it keeps instilling us with purpose. We, maybe more than ever, just don’t know what to choose. (Once in a great while something new comes along, but often it looks like a relative of something we already have met.)

So many concepts and entities are thrown our way. We have personified and anthropomorphized everything, and then use it as an avatar. (Rocket fuel.)

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Short Exposition on Ink’s Archetypes

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on February 14, 2010

This post is inspired greatly by the movie, Ink, which I highly recommend (thank you, Kiowa and Jamin Winans). While this is not really a review, it is more of an expansion or exposition on the archetypes presented in the film. When I initially wrote the piece, I was unsure whether to use all the specific names of the archetypes that the film gave or to use my own. I decided for this post to keep the names of the archetypes, as presented in the film, intact. Some of the archetypes are more general and explicit, such as ‘Storytellers’ and ‘Pathfinders,’ though both are apt and portrayed in a different light than what I am accustomed to seeing. I find that there are some commonalities between Clive Barker’s cenobites and Ink‘s Incubi. Any of you familiar with the Hellraiser series will see why if you watch the film. There are no spoilers in the text below, just my observations and insights about the archetypes (plus one of my own to add to the mix that the film illustrates but does not name) in addition to the film’s explicitly stated characteristics. I rather enjoy Ink‘s revamping of some common archetypes and the interesting portrayal of others.

The Incubi exist to draw others into their nightmarish world. They care not for others. They destroy dreams, love, hope, inspiration and aspirations in favor of a bleak ‘reality’ of torment to which they desensitize themselves in order to exist. Storytellers regard them as black holes. Storytellers deliver tales of heroism, greatness, love, salvation and redemption. They put forth the concepts of manifested faith, accessible Archetypes, the power of Myth and the grace of Love.

The Storytellers are liars, planting seeds of idealism, love and a world with light. At least this is how the Incubi see it. The Storytellers replace pain and fear with false hope and childish aspirations. The Incubi would never do such a thing; they will present the Truth as it is: cold, slicing, agonizing, uncaring and barren. They, themselves, have become numb to such nightmares so they may carry the Truth of their nightmares to others. They seek to stamp out the encouragement and guidance of the Storytellers.

While some humans regard the Incubi as demons or similar ‘evil spirits,’ other humans regard them as necessary teachers and the keepers of ‘the brutal truth.’  While some humans regard the Storytellers as a kind of guardian angels or similar ‘benevolent spirits,’ other humans regard them as false messiahs and seeders of ‘tall tales.’

One cannot be both Storyteller and Inubi, but one can choose to be neither, either entering as a Pathfinder, a Drifter, or a Force of Nature. A Drifter is caught between the pull of Storyteller verses Incubi. They are able to see potential and possibility, but they are without sufficient belief in the visions, so they cannot pass on stories to others. They accept and wallow in their own failure and delusions but are unable to take the steps to become numb in order to deliver the nightmarish ‘Truth’ unto others. Pathfinders and Forces of Nature are neither Storyteller nor Incubi; they are outside this spectrum of distinction. The Pathfinder is akin to the Trickster spirit: a teacher that would never profess oneself as such.  The Pathfinder can induce Change on various levels once s/he discovers the Pattern. Despite a Pathfinder’s personal sacrifices, handicaps, or wounds, s/he will always know how to access the Pattern(s). For if a Pathfinder cannot rise above one’s hardships, s/he will cease to be a Pathfinder.

Forces of Nature are often spoken of among humans with considerable reverence, misunderstanding, and possibly, preconceived notions. Forces of Nature interact with Pathfinders much more directly than interacting with either Storytellers or Incubi. While Pathfinders find, follow or ride the Pattern, Forces of Nature may be described moreso AS the Pattern. Forces of Nature are all the elements set in motion, moving along certain courses. Like a beaver that builds a dam, the Pathfinder goes in current to redirect. One cannot effectively redirect Forces of Nature without firstly, recognizing them; secondly, understanding them; and thirdly, entering into them. Entry points are outside of the Pattern itself, by definition. This is how we navigate different planes. Each has access to different doors, different layers within layers.

Does one really choose one’s role? [Yes.] Are only some allowed to choose, while others, once they have Chosen (as opposed to chosen) a role, have set their Fate thereafter (even if ‘thereafter’ is a kind of misnomer to describe the experience)? [Dunno.] Is it really all about the access points of re-entry that we can detect at any given moment so that we may Change once again? [Quite possibly.]

The Psychology of Solar and Lunar Bathing Rituals

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on February 11, 2010

It is no secret that the act of bathing has ties back to ritual and spiritual expression (1). The ritual bath, before rites, worship or significant events, acts not only to cleanse oneself physically in preparation, but also to cleanse oneself psychologically and spiritually. The bath is in preparation for an event or act, but it is also an event/act itself. Attention is directed to the body as one experiences the graces of Water. Tension is eased, warmth is delivered, and a kind of release is found. As the body relaxes, the mind follows. This helps to shift our brain waves from attentive beta to receptive alpha.

The pace, purpose and psychology of the bathing ritual can vary greatly depending on the time of day it is performed. In the West, typically people bathe in the morning, in preparation for their work, visitations or leisure. Those that do not engage in the morning ritual of bathing can be viewed as lazy, unkempt, or unmotivated. The purpose of the morning bath or shower is to prepare ourselves for productivity and interaction with others. It is often quick and efficient so we can arrive on time to our destinations. The ritual coincides with solar concepts of waking, presenting and acting. The bath may ease our transition from sleep and alpha waves to wakeful beta waves as we continue the morning ritual by gathering clothes, eating breakfast and getting our tools for the day in order. It is, in essence, a solar life ritual.

Many Westerners seem not to enjoy the pleasures of the evening bathing ritual. There is a distinct psychological difference. In the evening, the pressure or motivation of the day and productivity is not ahead of us. We are free to take our time in the bath, to relax and unwind. The mental shift here is from the wakeful beta to the dreamy alpha. We prepare our minds for dreamscapes that we will find in sleep. We are not preparing ourselves to meet others or to perform tasks; we are preparing ourselves to meet ourselves and reflections of our psyche and to simply be. Time, in this ritual, is hardly a concern; Time has no place here. The bath is preparation for sleep, dreams and/or nothingness. By bathing in the evening, we shift our attention to focus on the significance of these concepts and experiences. Sleep, dreams and nothingness are MORE than just something that happens or we do, they are experiences worthy of preparation and reverence. It is easy to see how these concepts can be akin to the concept of death, an unknown experience where Time has no purpose. In this sense, the evening bath/shower is a lunar death ritual.

By switching our routine, we can experience the different psychology of the morning and the evening ritual. Depending how we approach and regard these rituals, our experience of them can greatly change.

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mmm… word clouds

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on February 9, 2010

Thanks to Tartitude (side panel: check it out), I was introduced to this nifty site: Wordle (which I happen to think is the awesome of awesome, when it comes to word clouds anyway).

Just in case I was wondering what my obsessions were, Wordle provides a clear visualization of the contents of my text. What really comes From the Horse’s Mouth (Skin’s, in particular)?

Ta-Dah!

I will never wonder again why so many Google searches for Absurdism are directed to my blog. Additionally, what I find amusing is the rather large chunk of space that is taken up by one of my fictional characters.

In honor of one of my favorite bands (and musicians), I have generated a word cloud consisting of all the lyrics off of Them Crooked Vultures album.

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Morning

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on February 9, 2010

To live in perpetual morning-

with the changing sky: a palette of visible passage

with the quiet murmurs: dreams escaping lips, songs escaping beaks

with the subtle scents: hot water passing through ground, roasted beans

Potential.

Transition.

Rejuvenation.

************

This morning, I did not shower. It is the first day in a long time that I did not feel the need. I decided to allow my own oils to coat my skin rather than rinsing them away in micelles formed after the common usage of bars derived from the fat of other animals. My hair is malleable, not dry and flat. My skin does not raise an inflammatory response to enhanced fragrances. It feels more natural this way.

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The Giant Wolf

Posted in Dreams, Visions by theskinhorse on February 4, 2010

The times were a bit different. In this dream realm, passive entertainment did not exist. The public was drawn to county or town fairs, outdoor festivals, executions, gladiator-type fights and village games. This particular day was the Wolf Challenge. This day occurred annually in mid-Spring. The hostess was a cold and intelligent woman who kept the only (or last) Giant Wolf as her companion. He was too wild and dangerous to be considered her pet, but he lived closely with her, on her land, and often times, they sat within the same rooms or around the same campfire sharing meat and quiet nights. They were as much friends as they were open enemies. For the Wolf knew that if he attempted to escape or to challenge her authority, she would kill him. Likewise, the woman knew that if she were to let her guard down or show any sign of weakness, the Wolf would see it as an open invitation to go in for the kill. They both seemed oddly comfortable with this arrangement, living in certain captivity of each other until their respective Judgment Day by the other.

The Giant Wolf was the fiercest and most cunning creature this side of the realm. Every year, the Giant Wolf was pitted against a worthy opponent, usually a champion, hero or gladiator of sorts. The challengers entered willingly and trained intensively for many years until the hostess, the public and the monarchy deemed them fit for the test. A handful of men would be assembled in front of the hostess’s stage while the Wolf was released. The Wolf would ultimately choose his opponent out of the candidates. There must have been some great prize for defeating the Wolf (or else why enter the contest?), though I wasn’t sure what it was; I never saw anybody defeat the Wolf.

People from other villages would journey many days and nights to come to the annual battle, many with a representative gladiator. Only a small percentage of the champions that were presented would be chosen as a candidate. There were many areas organized for spectators. Crude bleachers were assembled on the cliff above the fighting pit and preferred spectator seats. The fighting pit was all rock, with heavy, spiked stones marking the boundaries of the fighting arena. Outside of this was a buffer zone of grassy patches before the small field of tall grass and wildflowers opened up for other seats.  Preferred guests and the spectators that arrived earliest would often get these seats. Preferred guests (royalty, rich villagers) would have a guaranteed seat. The average spectator usually camped out many nights before the fight in order to have a chance at a close seat when the hostess and the ushers (and bodyguards) announced that seating was open. Some people would be crushed by the masses rushing to the front.

I came this year with my partner. We usually inhabited the upper cliff, safe and impersonal. I was wearing a flowing white dress, similar to many of the women who came. Before seating opened, the spectators up on the cliff were either setting up their spaces with blanket and wine or else bobbing around anxiously, waiting for the field below to open for commoner seating. I was gathering flowers and wandering over the grassy areas when I heard the horn sound for seating. I came to a tree and tugged on a branch so I could reach a particular flower. The ground opened up from under me, and I slid swiftly down to the filed below. I had reached the field quicker than anyone else. The hostess entered with her two large dogs (half breeds of Giant Wolves and dogs… another safety precaution). The dogs were all black and about 2/3 the size of the Wolf. They were bred to be fierce protectors. The hostess eyed me strangely while I looked around in daze, trying to figure out what had happened. People started hurrying down the hills, tumbling and pushing through the crowd in madness. I tried to signal to my partner from below, but I was soon lost in the flurry of people. I retreated to the edge of the field, against the mountain side, as far from the stage and fighting area that I could get. Regrettably, I was on the side of the arena with the cave from which the Giant Wolf entered. I held myself against the wall and hoped to remain invisible.

Before the hostess sat in her stone throne, the dogs both stopped following her and looked in my direction. They came over to me and stood, one on each side of me. The hostess was left to sit alone. When she realized that her dogs had left her side she became quite petulant. They snubbed her as she tried to quietly, but forcefully call them back over to her. She gave me icy glares. The dogs would not budge from my side.

The ceremony began by lining up all the champions in front of the raised rock stage where the hostess sat. Words were said and a portion of the champions presented were voted as candidates while the others were directed to a seating area. Some time passed as the worthy candidates made themselves known and gave short speeches. All the while, the hostess glared at me in a cold rage as her dogs ignored her.

Finally, the time had come to release the Wolf so he may choose his opponent. The hostess called to him and sent her bodyguards to rouse the Wolf with pokers and spikes. He came out of his cave in a quiet, seething anger that seemed almost supernatural. His eyes came upon me first before he walked in the direction of the candidates. He paced in front of them, his fur twitching, his eyes narrowing and his tongue flicking out of his mouth to lick his chops. His eyes fluttered back to me in a predatory, playful way. His stride in front of the candidates widened as he slowly worked a wider range for himself, a range wide enough to meet my eyes as he paced.

The dogs became uneasy and began to circle me, their eyes never leaving the Wolf. As the Wolf came closer to where I was standing, the dogs guided me in different directions to evade the Wolf. The Wolf did not make eye contact with the dogs, only with me; he was unfazed by the dogs’ warnings of growls and nips. He seemed to smile as he went to turn his back on me. When the dogs stopped pacing ferociously, the Wolf swiftly turned and leapt for me, in the space the dogs had left between themselves and me. He was quickly almost on top of me. I had moved back quickly so he could not had pounced on my body, but he was only inches from me. The dogs barked and got under him, biting his belly as the Wolf snapped at me. My body had somehow become much heavier than it was previously, like I was half a stone woman. My forearm blocked my head and was enough force to keep him from eating my face; however, my arm was not as lucky. It was bit and almost broken, bleeding all over my white dress.

At this point, all I could see was him and my blood. I do not know what happened next, but I was not eaten. As far as I can recollect, no person came to my aid, and I did not kill the Wolf. I believe both myself and the dogs injured him so he retreated, but I could not tell you how any of it happened. The last I remember was grabbing whatever was close to me to hurl into him as I kept blocking his advances with my arm. I saw and heard the dogs whimper and growl around me as they dove for any part of him they could get. The dogs and I were heaps of a bloody mess when the Wolf retreated, but we were all still alive. My partner hurried to get me as riots broke out all around. Many champions attacked the nobles and the bodyguards while the hostess attempted a clean escape with her servants rushing her out.

The scene changed. I was inside a house with her, sitting by the fire. She had a rattlesnake in her lap. I had my cats, the black dogs, a large rabbit, an owl and a few more animals around me. She was dressed in red and black and I was still in white. It was evening. We sat and stared at one another in silence as she pet her rattlesnake as if it were a kitten. My animal friends and I turned up our noses at her. I told her I was not afraid of her or her rattlesnake, and that she should best be careful since snakes often act unpredictably around fire.

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