—>

We sleep with raw hands and mouths agape.

Transmutation of these walls and boundaries-

The world opens wide as do I

/I do.

…and I am…

quiet amidst these benevolent tempests.

Air or pneuma (there is no distinction)

courses

as we draw

vectors in the aether.

Met

We rode on the wind

to Sunset,

returned our bodies to the sands.

Soft strokes

and

Ajna opened:

Kisses and The Pleiades:

all Seven Sisters gathered,

(they reside in the same house as I)

and I felt their silver strings

(my [subtle] body played as an instrument)

(push) pull me

to a nexus:

Where dualities meet

and manifest

(one black, one white: together in one space)

at the Wyrd.

Trumps and Aztec Gold

We rented a house cast in perpetual twilight regardless of the position of the Sun relative to us. A salt-water pool extended from the side yard to the back yard. It was lined with quartz and igneous rocks. We bathed under moonlight that evening, keeping ourselves hidden from the others down the street. We could hear them pass by the house, buzzing and scurrying like insects. I distinctly remember my gaze remaining skyward most of the night. The leaves of the trees had turned and were beginning to fall.

Sleep was a dream within a dream; we were so gone, like corpses. I remember the haziness upon waking. Our bags were still packed and slumped by the wall, where we had thrown them the day before. Some festive attire, costume wear and strange jewelry spilled out onto the floor. My feet padded over cold floorboards to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I noticed that I had left my mascara on all night.

White-blue streaks of morning light filtered in through the blinds. I peered through the slits and saw twilight once more. My fellow traveler stirred in the bed.

Shift

It must have been mid-day when we came down to the field, jingling as we walked. We had expected it to be empty this time of year, but, alas, there was a crowd of people to greet us with confused stares and horrified expressions. They seemed not to understand our garments, which were some strange blend of lavish materials, disheveled arrangement and loud accessories. We were intruding on their celebration, apparently. Of course, they were intruders on our occasion as well.

An austere and cold hostess demanded we leave. We did not move for her, but we explained, calmly and politely, our purpose for desiring a bit of space on the field. She would have none of it. A boisterous and hefty gentleman in the crowd suggested the matter be settled by their traditional game of cards.

There were 4 suits with 13 cards a piece: Day, Night, Civilization, and Aztec Gold. The deck contained about 7-9 trump cards. The images on the trumps are too fuzzy to recount.

The game was played in this manner:

The cards were turned face-down on the ground and shuffled or “washed” to mix. When the ref said to start, players began to turn over cards as quickly as possible. A player could only “keep” cards if they managed to find at least 4 cards in sequence of the same suit. If so, they kept that pile of cards. Typically, at the end of the game, the player with the most sequenced suited cards wins. If a player dominates a suit, that person has a far greater chance of winning since it counts as both suited sequence and number of cards. If neither player has any complete suit, cards are counted and sequences are noted. The player with the most wins. EXCEPT… and this is a big one… If the player can acquire all the Aztec Gold cards AND all the trumps, that player wins. It is implied that the player is favored and never has to prove oneself again. No one in that community can challenge the player in the future if the player is able to secure this hand.

We positioned the cards face down. At the time of the preparation, neither me nor my companion was aware of the rules. The hefty gentleman explained the rules slowly to us, even after play time had begun. These were not the noblest of creatures. We had lost a good chunk of play time before we fully grasped the rules. Already, the man had almost a full suit in front of him; he was moving quickly. Once the game was understood, my partner turned cards much quicker. I sat beside and watched, silently rooting and willing our side to win. With every turn my partner made, a flash of gold greeted our eyes. All of the Aztec Gold was taken by our side in seemingly no time. It was like the suit was laid before us for the taking. The hefty gentleman had now secured two full suits and was working on the third. It was our esteemed Fortune that stepped in and practically handed over the trumps to us. One turn after another was a boon. The man on the other side saw what was happening; panic painted his face. He began to reach across the ground for the cards closer to us. Every time he caught something he needed, but he was not able to find the trumps. Before all the cards were laid face-up, we had all the Aztec Gold and trumps placed before us. Every card was caught in sequence; our twisted smiles were an ode to probability.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in a bottle,

dismembered and broken,

static in resin.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in a bottle

that vibrates at the end

of my chain

during Water percussion.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in bottle,

made by hands that love,

and a mind that shines.

I have pieces of Time

sealed in a bottle

around my neck

that I finger

as I meditate

on pieces of Time

as S/He dances

without moving.

Silence on The Journey

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.

Playing Time

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 24:00 (which I always think of as 00:00); we are reset to experience the day 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.

The QUEST(ion)er and The QUEST(ioned)

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.