The apartment is empty, and I continue to gut it. Ink stains on my fingers: What of this teenage angst is worth transcribing? My time bled out on endless pages of savory and bitter reflections. My mind sees flames around the edges. Toss each away this time around; give myself over to a past that disappears as easily as footprints in the sand.
The Silence folds in around me. What shape will this origami reality take? I manipulate materials to create forms I consider beautiful. The paper is only crisp on the first attempt; it remembers the alternate creases. I do not remember some of the phases I lived and recorded. Who is the stranger holding the pen? Who is the character in the tales I hear from friends?
I feel near… and, oh, so far.
The events I am about to recount all took place on his territory; I did not come Home the entire time. Many of my material possessions mentioned are not actually mine. People without names are fillers or symbols of some sort. The negativity is dense and unpleasant to trudge through, but these messages need a place.
A disjointed snippet manifests: I awake in Radar’s apartment next to him. Two of our friends had stayed the night: J&K. Upon waking, we all rise and begin to scratch ourselves. Each one comments on the small bites we see on our bodies. J is the first to remove his shirt, saying he thinks there are parasites in the bedding. Indeed, we see a handful of small black and red arachnids spill out of his shirt. We freak at the sight and all begin to remove our clothes. Before too long, the bugs become overwhelming underfoot. Heading to the front door, we stomp them into insect pancakes. Outside and mostly naked, we try to formulate a plan to get rid of as many inside as possible as they are multiplying.
I was at Radar’s apartment. What we were doing- I can’t remember. I was in my lounging clothes while he was fully dressed, obviously expecting company besides myself. Almost in unison, Lomax and Renee turn up at the door. Lomax quickly addresses Rada, and they start immediately going over plans. Renee is distraught. She comes to me with her typically neatly packed emotional totes, and I can see what a mess the contents have made. I tend to her needs as the men continue planning. Through her tear-streaked lament, I vaguely hear Radar in the background asking me about particular food at a particular place. He stands close, his eyes boring into me as I try to focus on Renee and deliver her the TLC she so sorely needs. Lomax becomes more impatient as the seconds tick away. Nudging his friend, again the inappropriately timed questions interrupt. Renee doesn’t pay attention to them, but my ears get twitchy and hot at their insensitivity. I give the universal “one minute” signal to Radar as we girls move to the kitchen. The conversation comes to a close with hugs and tissues in a few minutes. Renee thanks me sincerely and then takes her leave.
The door closes on a quiet apartment. Radar and Lomax have vacated. I send a text asking why they refused to wait less than 10 minutes for the situation to be resolved. The response I get reads that they were hungry, and it seemed like I had no interest in that particular food at that particular place. Through the symbols on the glowing background I can feel Radar’s spite and acerbity. I do not respond. Instead, the anger and resentment welling up in me drives me to collect my things in preparation to GTFO. In my storm of packing, I come across several pieces of paper strewn on Radar’s bed. They obviously came from the ajar nightstand drawer. A good person may have piled them neatly together and placed them back in the drawer, ignoring the temptation to read the unguarded information. …but a smart person would never do such a thing. I studied the text carefully. Radar’s handwriting was less familiar to me than I would have wished. The first few stanzas of the poem spoke of affection for me, and my heart softened as my grip on my bags loosened. Tears were beginning to form as I almost scolded myself for being so rash as to run off in a huff. The next stanza revealed his insecurity and uncertainty. The third stanza chipped away at my character and exalted his own. In the final stanza, an accusation broke through as my image was cast as nothing more than a whore. I left the papers where I found them and exited the apartment, bags in hand, numb and crestfallen.
Dusty winds railed me outside in the heat of the evening summer sun. The parking lot resembled a desert, and the gas station may as well have been a halfway house. Approaching my car, I saw two women (one blonde biker and one black drag queen) hovering over my car and one (white and obese) already inside the driver’s seat. I caught that this was an attempted auto theft. My patience had long since checked out, only leaving disdain, attitude and a foolish absence of fear. I nonchalantly waved them off as if they were mere flies. “C’mon, ladies, piss off. This is my car, and, though you may be attempting to steal it, I’m here now. If you all clear out, we’ll forget this ever happened. If not, I will not hesitate to stab you in the eyes with this eyeliner.”
The two hovering ladies cleared out while donning matching looks of contrived contempt. Missing scenes. I am in the passenger seat of my car now. The obese woman is driving. It is now getting dark, and, apparently, we had been talking some. The general message of her story is that she has problems, mostly financial. Sob story blah blah blah. She needs to get somewhere to meet two of her friends- that’s why she needed a car. I decide that the easiest solution is for me to drop her off and have her “owe me one.” First we stop by Radar’s for some reason. He’s still out with Lomax, thankfully. The obese woman lights a cigarette indoors as she starts texting her friends. I tell her to take it outside as I wave the smoke out the door. In a few minutes, she has coordinates of their meeting place. I drive her to her destination, which is no more than 10 minutes away. On my ride home, a “good” feeling starts to settle in. I was a nice person.
Arriving back at Radar’s apartment, I see he has returned home alone. I entertain the thought of telling him how lucky he is that my mood has changed, but instead, we greet each other as if there was no unspoken tiff. Within seconds, our hands and mouths are all over each other. Missing scenes (unfortunately).
I am in Radar’s bedroom, tied and bound in duct tape, in a nonsexual and potentially violent way. My face is wet, so I know I had been crying. Lomax (maybe? or someone that resembles him) is in view of the door frame. His face displays aggression as he pushes two people in the room with me. My brother and Launch, two very important people to me, fall into the room, also bound. Launch is cursing and fighting against his restraints. My brother is quietly plotting escape routes. We are all saddened by seeing each other in such a state. The scene ends here with no resolution.
From some time ago:
Skin: it started with nothing much, me and some female relatives of mine were flying above storm clouds after being on a rollercoaster. I had a balloon with me and it was very important that I kept the balloon with me. it was green or blue
Skin: so apparently I had been to another planet for a visit. (I couldn’t remember where) but my mom seemed jealous that I got to go and she didn’t (but I was supposed to go alone)
and it turned out that the Moon wanted her to go there
but we could come too…
so my mom, me and the rest of my fam and some others (X and perhaps you or friends from here, details are fuzzy) went
Skin: we stayed in a hotel since they only had shelter catered to visitors there. We stayed in separate rooms, so I was in a room with X and my bros were in another and my parents together in another, etc. they were all relatively close by
the rooms were all orange and looked like very angular decorations
even the beds and sheets were orange
my dad was muttering about how he didn’t believe it was the moon since he found no “real” moon rock
he was going around breaking things looking for it
he cut open the mattress to look for remnants of moon rock.
oddly enough, after tearing the mattress apart, he found a very thin sheet of moon rock inside each
When I was in my room, alone with X, I saw a doll.
she was bigger than a Barbie, but proportioned like one, with ridiculous boobs, etc. Her skin was yellow and she was dressed pretty whorish
there was a story that went with her (like in an illustrated book). The details seemed strange, but basically it pointed to her being a whore or not to be respected etc
I had been playing with the doll, giving her a voice and walking her around
I guess I had disrespected her some way
she came more alive and grew larger, so she was about the height of my leg. she looked cartoon-like. she was in a green or blue dress
I made amends with her, apologizing for disrespecting her and not heeding the small truths in the story
she only talked to me
she told me the full story
apparently she was bound to the moon, against her will
she had loved or been with a powerful man and something happened (?) so that he became creul and vengeful
he didn’t like her true form, which was part crab…
(she had small crab legs attached to the back of her but no claws)
he had bound her to the moon and removed her claws painfully
she never used them to hurt anyone, but she did threaten some with them in the past
he had changed the story into the one in the book
and it seems that her time there was very sad and she was alone, a prisoner on a planet with no one but visitors, under a creul patriarchy
and that was pretty much the end
she seemed to have a way with cats. they stuck close by to her
11–>2: Lunar supernal feminine figure, idolized in a doll that comes to life, portraying physical ties to the first creatures of the sea to crawl onto land, villified as a whore and held prisoner in a lonely alien shell
was she “hot” or “cold” if you gave her energy a temperature
Skin: hot as the doll, cold as the crab-goddess
11–>2: I ask because Shakti, as a popularly seen form of BABALON imho, is typically hot and seen as needing to be controlled
Skin: indeed, I could see her in the past as being hot
and that form being solidified/trapped in the doll
11–>2: i think this dream is important and you should record it
After visiting a childhood friend, I was reminded of her closest animal ally: the Polar Bear. I slept soundly under the eyes of a dozen Polar Bears. The quiet was welcome, as was this new dynamic between her and me. The sleep-over was unplanned on my part and completely anticipated on her and her husband’s part. They had prepared the guest room with me in mind. I borrowed some pajama pants, an apple print. She even had an extra toothbrush. I experienced a comfort that I haven’t known in my adult life: the reconnection with my other half years later. We’ve both grown, but, with her, I feel all the magic of being seven years old again.
By Ina Woolcott
Polar bear’s medicine includes the ability to navigate along the earth’s magnetic lines , introspection, ability to find sustenance in barren landscapes, purity of spirit, strength in the face of adversity, solitude, expert swimmer through emotional waters, finding ones way back from the brink, communication with Spirit, dreams, death and rebirth, transformation, creature of dreams, shamans, mystics and visionaries, defence and revenge
Intelligent and fearless, native tribes throughout history have held the polar as a desirable ally and spirit helper. The white colour of the polar bear is very significant indeed, for it represents purity of spirit. As this bear is fearless and the universal energy only flows when fear is absent, the polar serves as a valuable ally in getting past fear, both physically and mentally.
To the Eskimo and Inuit peoples this animal is a source of both physical and spiritual nourishment. On a spiritual level, the polar bear is regarded as the embodiment of the spirit of the North, an animal who possesses ancient wisdom and has shamanic powers.
Of the bear family the polar is the most aggressive and carnivorous. They are exceptional hunters. Polar bears weigh up to 1600 lbs and are able to knock a 500lb seal out of the water with one blow. Incredibly strong, they are far more adaptable than other bear which is well suited to their excellent survival skills. Though they are one of the largest land carnivores, they are still capable of great speed on both ice and earth. They are able to swim 100 miles non-stop.
Although they have the same characteristics as other bears, the polar does have specific traits inherent to it. If this is your power animal you should read up on the information available about bears in general for a deeper understanding of this powerful medicine. If polar bear is (one of) your guide, you will have challenges linked with flexibility, change and stubbornness and should ask the polar for assistance in overcoming these obstacles.
Prior to acting the polar will observe the situation beforehand. They know how exactly how preserve their energy and strength and use both at the most appropriate time for the best outcome. This is just one of the lessons to be learned form the polar. Perhaps if this is your power animal, you would benefit by learning the art of energy management.
Within the animal kingdom the polar has no enemies. However, they do have but one enemy – the human hunter.
The polar is known as the “Ice Man” amongst some native tribes due to its preference for hunting on sea ice. How the polar appears to us is symbolic. If the polar were seen walking on ice, the message would be connected to the frozen, blocked, emotions stored within us and the need for allowing those emotions free flow, to express themselves. If seen looking for food, nourishment and replenishment of the body, mind and spirit would be the message. It is very important to watch the polar to get the right message.
Silver sparks flash against black
from that rhinestone belt slack around Nuit’s hips.
Dances enchant, warp sensation, dissipate flesh, resurrect spirits.
I prefer to be the dancer as opposed to the spectator.
But here I am,
Here are we all,
only able to look up to the Unknown,
necks strained, throats exposed, eyes rolled back…
waiting for the transitory awe, joy and electricity
in those short bursts of fire in the sky.
And as quickly as they come,
the color fades into smoke skeletons
hanging in the air far longer than the duration of their life.
We watch the air molecules carry those ghosts,
anticipating the next dazzling, fiery release.
Humans and explosives: simpatico
By the end of the affair, Nuit is smoking.
We return our eyes to our terrain,
and our feet take us Home.
I am the Silent One. ~~~
At every Beginning stands the Possibility of Death. At every End stands the Conquering of Death… for that Time. Where are we in The Journey?
Footprints show Direction and Path. So many footprints for each individual nowadays; silicon prints do not wash away like muddy ones. We can follow.
The Scanner scans in loops. Reconnaissance is cyclical.
You don’t look so much anymore at something you’ve grown to presume to know. The landscape, the climate, is forever changing.
No matter how much we entertain the notion or how much we meditate on the abstraction, Death is always unanticipated. We await the journey Home.
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.
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.
I was astounded at the fun we could have together after skins were sloughed off. I showed you around my common haunts, directing your attention to bright colors, silly costumes, magnetic people and small pleasures. We were able to know each other as people in ways that have previously been off-limits for one reason or another. There was discussion without the format or scrutinization, and what followed was laughter and light-heartedness. It was a dream, a future potential that I would like to actualize. However, so often you seem uninterested in the frivolity, the play, fun for fun’s sake. I see you looking under the microscope more than I do, and that task is part of my daily life at work.
Maybe that’s just it: you’re always with or at work. Work is work, home is work, conversation is work, meetings are work, and play is work. I don’t see it coming naturally. The theory is laid out very nicely: reasons to open up and engage in play, what it does for us on many levels, also potentially how to initiate it and maintain a certain level of play. The thing is, the practice is nothing like theory. Those theories and well laid plans, that’s not playing, that’s not fun.
Fun is spontaneity and improvisation. Fun does not have inhibition or fear. Fun doesn’t need reasons, and it usually doesn’t care much for your schedules and previous arrangements. I see you treating it as a pet at times. You do what you feel you need to do, and when most of the work is done, you let Fun in finally, after hours of waiting. It’s been such a good and patient boy. It’s ok to play for a certain amount of time, but then it is time to put Fun back outside for the night. He doesn’t sleep in the house; Fun might get too close to you as you sleep or keep you up at night, insisting to play some more. Perhaps if you let him in more often, he wouldn’t seem like such a disruption to your life devoted to Work. Fun misses you, and is beginning to develop a grudge against Work. If you don’t spend some more time with Fun, he’ll be gone. Fun is not interested in the pictures you take of him to show your friends and brag about what a fantastic breed he is. That’s not loving Fun. The love you do give Fun is always in the presence of Work. You and Fun never seem to have any private moments. Perhaps Fun would be less reserved, more expressive without Work always hanging around.
But I think you are slightly afraid of that: afraid of how much you might actually enjoy Fun if you could let Work go for a while. You’re too obsessed with whether or not Work will be ok by himself, or if he’ll run away and not return if you start spending time with Fun. The conditions must be just right to let Fun in: you have to be in the mood, and you prefer Fun to be around when certain others are or at certain times. So you have dictated times when Fun is let in and let out, and if there is no time tonight to let him in, well, there’s always tomorrow. One day, after days of neglect perhaps, you’ll go to let Fun in, only to realize that he left for more accepting companions. Then you’ll be able to spend as much time with Work as you want. You won’t need to worry about Fun any longer.
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?