Marked
My average days are becoming thick with the Wyrd.
While cooking, he showed me his hand. A line of paler, still tender flesh ran vertically across the palm, not so unlike the Fate Line in palmistry. This is the mark he received several nights prior after wrapping his hand around a handle of a hot cast-iron skillet. One that I had unintentionally heated while preparing for baking. I heard him talk about the pans, and I saw him approach the counter. My mind shouted “Don’t touch!” while my mouth lagged behind the message. He burned himself due to my lack of intervention. He forgives graciously, but forgetting is not an option.
“That mark will probably be permanent,” he says.
I furrow my brow in disappointment in myself and in beseechment of forgiveness from him once again.
He shrugged and smiled. “Now I get to say that this mark is from the Witch I live with that scarred me for life.”
Silent laughter erupted as we both nodded and exchanged knowing looks. “It’s true,” we both agreed.
And then I said: “Witches tend to do that, y’know…”
*****
We ascended the majestic staircase side-by-side; it was important for our ascendance to be just that way. Neither could attempt to lead or follow. When one rushed forward or fell back, the staircase flattened and stretched, becoming a conveyor belt that sent us backward.
So we walked together, talking and enjoying each other’s company. The air grew thin and the visuals danced like stop-motion oil paintings. Agape we pressed onward: Up, Up and Away.
The Ride to The Labyrinth
The line moved quickly as each individual raced down the chute without much regard for the previous rider. While I thought it was a foolhardy decision, I was pleased with each inch closer it delivered me to the open mouth of the slide and unknown route of the plastic tongue. My bare feet arched away from the dry and pointy floor boards. Under normal circumstances, I would have never surrendered my feet to such sharp and dubious unfinished wood. But I was drawn to this ride in ways that still eluded my logical mind. The support structure was old, rickety, unstable, with splinter teeth that pulled away from the beams. Separate pieces of the poorly molded, plastic chute was connected together shoddily; stinging ridges bit at the flesh that bulleted by. Brown water cradled the body on its journey, leaving a rank, organic film on the skin after emergence on …wherever the Other Side was.
Come to think of it, I could not recall if I ever saw the patrons that rode exit in the same place… if they exited at all. Thinking on the matter (though not much), my eyes barely recognized the fact that there was now only two people ahead of me. I had previously decided that I was going to wait a full thirty seconds, at least, after the person in front of me went in to dart down myself. I didn’t want my ride to be spoiled by rider collisions or an obstructed view. (Nothing is more dissatisfying than having another’s experience infringe upon one’s own when submitting to the Great Letting Go.)
The brunette (about my age) in the bright red bathing suit was having trouble committing to the action. She sat, then stood, then sat again. Looking back at us with an apologetic smile, she stood up again and began stepping forward and back in a ritualistic, indecisive dance. The boy with matted (blonde?) hair ahead of me (about a decade our junior) crossed his dirt-caked arms and began rolling his eyes in melodramatic exasperation. In an attempt to overcome her own apprehension and to break the rising impatience around her, the brunette laughed nervously and made a self-deprecating comment, mostly to herself though she was looking at me and the boy for reassurance. The boy tilted his head back and looked down his nose at her before muttering “I’m done waiting,” and popped into a streamline as he belly-flopped in the shallow water. Splashed with murky water, she frowned a little as she looked down at her suit. Her eyes then asked me to wait for her, and I obliged after feigning consideration by summoning words of encouragement. After a couple more minutes and some impatient groans from the others in line, she tentatively pushed herself down the shoot, her eyes looking for support from the sky, the random seagull, the hazy sun, or anything else that might be sympathetic to her confused desires.
Finally, my turn. My lips took their time rounding over silent numbers as I counted the seconds since her departure. Peering into the floating grime and muddled reflections, my mind glossed over the possibilities of where I was headed or why I wanted to do this at all. There was no sensible reason, just these etheric hands guiding me to the mouth and my insatiable curiosity. I stepped into the water; it was lukewarm and a little gritty. My feet wanted to recoil, and my nose crinkled. But I pushed the criticisms and warnings about sanitation down, and realigned my determination with my curiosity and necessity for novelty. Head-first or feet-first? Sitting upright or lying down? I don’t remember which position I chose before launching myself into the Unknown.
Brackish water, slung to the sides of the chute, flowed into my nostrils and partially open mouth. The light shifted from the yellow-white haze of polluted city daylight to sudden black as I passed between open and tunneled segments. Adrenaline began to surge with each new twist or sensation. I spilled down hills and whipped around turns, the underside of my thighs, against the plastic, hot from the speed. Passing swiftly through the air within the tunnels, smells of mold and organic decay were augmented. Was I now in the alimentary system, headed to the belly of the ride? I kept going down…
down…
down..
down…
“Hello, and welcome.”
A lean, attractive man with dark, curly locks behaving erratically over his hazel eyes greeted me. I took his warm hand, extended from a flamboyant cuff of a blouse underneath a burgundy jacket sleeve. I held my hand in his, and let him initiate his measured shake. I didn’t want him to let go; he caught it and cleared his throat as he dropped my hand. “First time?” He asked me.
I raised a well-groomed eyebrow and gave a bit of a smirk as I headed off to the iridescent purple-blue-green wall to my left. Light (unknown, artificial-looking source) danced of the facets, enough to give those with a predisposition towards it seizures. The more I moved, the more light danced. At this point, I noticed I was holding something. A collection of prints, photos and papers in a somewhat ragged but thick gray folder. I repositioned it securely under my arm, freeing up both hands to explore the intricacies of the wall. As if my hands were trained, they found several nooks and niches quite easily. I sensed the organization within the wall and intuitively found its switches and safes. Pressing it just so, I managed to open a section up for me to step into. As I moved within and between the crystalline walls, I found artwork, lockers and old arcade games wither made of or embedded into the walls. High above me were small trails on shining crystal; higher still were ornate chandeliers and hanging lanterns made from the iridescent matter.I saw no particular structure I could call a ceiling though.
A pull on my shoulder to my right. My hand slid softly over the cool, smooth faces of the lockers until I felt the urge to stop. Tap, tap, tap in three specific locations on the face, and the locker clicked open. Nothing remarkable was inside, merely small trinkets that I didn’t recognize. I shut the locker quietly and continued to explore, walking down random hallways, following my whim.
Telegraphic snow sputtered high on the wall in one room to which I was delivered. No projection source could be identified. The crystalline hearth was a few hues lighter than the walls and stood out considerably. I doubted it housed any fire known to mortals. (I was unsure if there indeed was a fire burning inside that my human eyes mistook for confusing light play.) I walked passed the stools and benches. Didn’t indulge in the presented foodstuffs on the table (they all looked to shiny and waxy anyway). Images flickered (in front of me? behind me? within me?). Geometric shapes rotated in spaces that switched in and out again rapidly. Each rotating object looked like glass etchings, condensed fog or spiderwebs. My pointed finger crooked outward to the empty space around me in anticipation and hesitation. I simultaneously wanted to and didn’t want to touch. As I moved slowly to the other walls within the room, I found rotating objects seemingly embedded into or projected out of the walls. Some looked in/out only inches from the surface of the walls, while others looked in/out many feet or yards.
I stopped in front of a rotating cube that seemingly hovered about six inches into the wall. Its movements switched between fluid and jagged, spinning effortlessly for a few seconds before it began snapping through differing positions abruptly, like skipping music. The cube itself could fit within the palm of my hand. I decided that it pleased me and that I was going to take it. The task of pushing my hands into the wall was surprisingly easy. There was some tension and pressure around my skin and between my veins, but movement within the wall was much like shifting solid sheets or disks through molasses. Move slowly and with purpose, and flesh could adapt (or the wall could adapt to flesh) just fine. Move quickly and unpredictably, perhaps the sheets would feel like needles or knives. My hands closed in around a rectangular structure that seemed to be the ‘container’ for the cube. It felt a few inches thick, like a frame that I could clasp tightly between my thumb and the rest of my fingers. Extracting it took some time, pulling treasure through what felt like drying concrete now.
It came out dry and thin, no thicker than cardboard. On it was what looked to be a drawing of the cube (pencil), a composite of all the positions within one space. Lines pointed from areas on/within the cube, leading outward to the empty space, where math and unknown symbols were scribbled. I ran my fingers over the writing, detected no grooves or smudging; the markings were permanent. Picking at the edges of the ‘cardboard,’ I found that this, too, was seemingly indestructible, at least from superficial insult. I stowed the cubeboard in my gray folder and easily found my way back to the main room, where I had been greeted.
To my delight, the dark-haired man was still there, almost in the exact spot where I last saw him. His eyes caught me instantly, though he was in the process of greeting others; he shifted them quickly back to the other woman so to not appear rude. I felt his calls in the quick glances he stole and his shifted stance, pointing a foot my way. His hand unsuccessfully fought the urge to gesture to me ‘one moment;’ the microsecond message conveyed perhaps unconsciously with the hand that rested by his side while the other gesticulated a show for the woman. I hung back patiently and enjoyed watching him become slightly antsy. After some more words, the woman thanked him, took something from him (a flier? a pamphlet?) and walked away. He began to say something to another greeter, probably excusing himself for a bit, and then my view was obstructed by a cleanly shaven, bald, attractive man in thick, black framed glasses. My eyes attempted to dart pass him, but he moved with my intentions so that he was the focus. I’m sure my annoyance was written clearly on my face, but he just ignored it as he donned his charm-laden smile and continued his welcome spiel. Most of his words ran right past my brain without a hint of acknowledgment, except for “Labyrinth.”
“Blah blah The Labyrinth blah blah. Maps and guides, blah, blah, blah. The Labyrinth blah blah blah.”
I almost asked about this title when a hand, complete with the ivory and burgundy, patted the bald greeter’s shoulder. “I got this,” my hazel-eyed man said as he motioned to me. The greeters exchanged looks of contempt and irritation. No doubt this exchange aired the subdued competition. I wondered if all the greeters were in competition with one another. Looking around, I took note of a handful of other greeters, both men and women, that spotted the quiet tension. Most turned away quickly after a facial tick of commentary.
A shit-eating grin came across the bald man’s face. “Of course you do.”
My man came between me and the bald man and turned back to the other greeter, waiting for him to leave us. “Is she new here?” My man was not expecting the question and furrowed his brow. “Because you know, newcomers are not allowed to roam the halls without an escort. Surely you already asked her that before you allowed her to scout the area.” This was not a question; it was a threat.
“I am not new here, in fact.” I said, stepping up so I was just beside my man.
“Oh,” the bald man said rather loudly with much affectation, drawing the attention of other greeters and newcomers alike. “My mistake. Terribly sorry. You must already know Ted. I’ll just leave you two alone.” He proceeded to dig his heels in and put his index finger to his chin. “It’s just…” he shook his head a little. “Well, it’s just that… I’ve been here for a while and I can’t seem to place you.” He stared at me with a smirk he let leak out the sides of his mouth as he feigned bewilderment. The tenacious bastard was engaging in foreplay before the inevitable interrogation.
“My look changes quite frequently.”
He nodded. “Hm. Well…” he looked me over, making it obvious to both me and Ted that he was indeed checking me out. “I have a knack for remembering…” Pause and his eyes slid down my body. “…faces. And I’m sure I’d remember you.” He winked.
I shifted my stance, brushing up against Ted. I felt the heat licking off his body; his stony face did not betray the hot temper.
I was beginning a reaming about how none of this was any of his business when the bald guy’s aura changed. “What is that?” He motioned to the folder. Again, not a question, an accusation of some sort.
At this point, some of the other greeters gravitated over and were bending their ears (not so subtly either) to hear us. I looked down at it, now in my hand, and raised it in front of me to examine it. I didn’t really know what it was. I knew it was mine; I had the feeling it held important information. But the only piece of information I was sure about was the cubeboard. I hadn’t felt the urge to check to see what else it held. To him, I probably either looked like I was a moron or that I was taunting him, staring blankly at the folder that I flipped and turned in front of us. He clenched his jaw and took my uncertainty for provocation. Quickly, the folder was snatched up and pulled open by the shithead greeter.
Inside there were notebook pages full of diagrams and comments, the cubeboard, a moving snapshot of what looked to be static and snow, fluid apparitions contained in tablets and numerous photos and sketches. He leafed through some, moving away while trying to focus. Ted grabbed at the folder and many sheets fell to the ground. We regained possession of the folder and I crouched down to gather up the notes. Onlookers could not make sense of the contents of the folder nor our squabble. It seemed some eavesdropping greeters may have had an idea about what was going on, why the contents of the folder might be important, and who I could potentially be or represent. (I still had no idea though.) Ted kicked the bald man away as he was trying to shout something. Another greeter, a 30-some man with long brown hair and an easy-going vibe, pulled the bald man off in another direction, telling him to calm down. Female greeters started at the scattered materials without assisting.
After Ted and I reassembled the notebook, a small swarm of people closed in around us. Salespeople? They were definitely trying to solicit something to me, each one pushing a folder in my hand and attempting to talk louder than the other. Many of them were women in skirt suits and updos with bleached smiles and tired eyes that strained to twinkle brighter than her neighbor’s. Ted attempted to keep them within arm’s length, holding up his hand while trying to get their attention. “Ladies!” And then “Sir, please, don’t crowd us,” as a well-dressed man with a comb-over squeezed his way to the front. As Ted pushed back at the crowd, I looked down at all the folders being tossed my way. Many had names scrawled across the front in fancy fonts. Some had photos, phone numbers, emails, ID numbers or hologram images. Every folder was crisp, clean, eye-catching, pretense oozing from every square centimeter.
The squawking was silenced by Ted’s impressive bellow. “You all must leave now. You are intruding on our time.”
Catty remarks and sour looks were flung in Ted’s direction. A lot of “She would be better off with so-and-so,” and “How did he get so lucky?” “What does she think she is doing with him?” “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.” “Probably worthless anyway…” One young woman demanded that Ted give me his folder, waving her finger in the name of Protocol and Rules. She crossed her arms, intent on watching him complete the task.
With a sigh, he removed the light gray, ratty folder from his inside jacket pocket. Coffee and water stains rippled the fibers and curled the edges. Frayed edges of worn notebook and sketch paper stuck out the sides, no flaps holding them in place. Quotes and lyrics were written in black ink and marker across the back. Turning over, big bold letters declared “TED FUCKS.” My eyebrows went up. He pressed his lips together, glanced at the floor before shrugging with a smile.
The woman stepped up to me and whispered, loud enough for Ted to hear, “If you want any serious work done, call me.” She handed me her smooth, thick folder. Shooting Ted a contemptuous look, she headed off, heels clicking with purposeful rhythm. Ted began to lean in, and, as if she had Ted-deflating radar, she shouted without turning “In fact, call anyone else besides him.” Her clicking heels did not miss a beat.
I tapped my finger lightly over the declarative, revealing phrase on Ted’s folder. My inquisition was soften by playfulness. He exhaled, shrugged with open hands and said, “Everyone takes everything too seriously around here.”
I looked at the folder, “Ted fucks, huh?”
He proffered a sheepish smile, executed horribly; the obvious slight dilation of his pupils and mischievous glint in his eyes destroyed and feign of innocence. I had no line of questioning regarding his interest in me; I already fully knew it from his physical responses. His shiftiness indicated some uncertainty in his speculation of what I thought of him. So I smiled. “Good to know.” He let out a relieved laugh, and before he could get too distracted, I sat in a nearby chair and motioned for him to come sit next to me. “I have something to show you.” I opened my folder on my lap as he came and took his seat next to me.
Shuffling through the materials, I came to the cubeboard. “That.” I said as I pointed to it. I didn’t pick it up; instead, I let him lean across my chest so that his face would have to come near my breast, his breath hitting my bare neck and collarbone as he moved in close to see the writing. And if we didn’t have such things to talk about, I would have goaded him into taking me right there. After being momentarily distracted by my flesh, he focused on the cubeboard. “Huh,” and he laughed a little in delight.
“You know what it is?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yup, I know exactly what this is. And I feel fortunate to know the person that can Extract.” It was a compliment, the underlying implications I could not completely grasp. He was excited, and though I saw the intention on his face, the kiss still came as a bit of a surprise. He tasted sweet; we lingered. Then he stood up and took my hand. “Come on. I have a lot to show you, and we have a lot to talk about. Here is not the place.”
I gathered up the folders (mine and his), leaving the rest behind in a messy pile. Through the river of people, we made our way quietly and efficiently to the entrance of The Labyrinth. We disappeared like ghosts behind the glittering walls, and I felt cradled by warmth.
from the unpublished archives
All I really need to do is feign vanishing, close my door or windows, and then they start knocking and peeking in. When I am open and calling, no one’s home. Funny how we switch our status dependent upon others’ availability. How much of a social creature are we? …One with THINGS to prove.
Our food is a poor mimicry of the natural world. We are divorced from our land and our crops; we are married to industry and infatuated with “freedom.”
(How can one live by oneself forever?)
We see mathematical programming, and we think “nature.”
Let’s not forget who we are, sitting on the edge of the world.
The writer experiences; the readers wish to. How many readers are there to writers proportionally? Writers need to remember chronology, or intuit it. They are on the outside, playing god… while musicians are IN IT so completely that they diffuse to the water surface over all.
Dates are really just new titles.
I love being injected into a band’s life for tasting. Sometimes our palettes are so close, it floors me.
When we cannot orient ourselves, we look for reflections; it’s a natural occurrence.
Sometimes I really hate the outside world, and the choices it made without me. When did we all become arbitrary numbers? *thinks*… however…. Arbitrary numbers will always perpetuate themselves in arbitrary systems. Do we act out in these human-suits, (for so long we have worn them after the war), being arbitrary numbers? Or do we shed our suits and demolish the system?
The writing prompt I was given: “Write, taking off from visual projections, whether mental or mechanical, without thought to the word in the ordinary sense, no craft” is my default “how”… just the Way I am. People actively ignore their senses constantly. It fascinates me what people need to be prompted on and what they do not.
I kn(o/e)w the ending at the beginning and vice versa… if the speed of light means anything to you.
…1100 words in no particular order conveying fantastical imagery of pierced-sky blue and we all, at every end, curling the space up and out so we all meet again.
(We never live completely alone.)
DISCIPLINE has its own temptations; don’t let them make you believe differently. (It is the values of steps that we drew out.)
Remember that we all kept the same stories…
So that we could tell them to each other
And share them at each round.
Convince yourself that a story heard from back to forwards is the same story as heard from the front to back. All stories are the same story… there are always loose ends, but never ends. We cannot be pulled from the paper, the story, the position until it is all out. This is why people hang on; to get it all out.
Cut-up from the day the horse speaks
Of wreak stars, droids: we whom wake
Wandering
Everybody roses
If hand
Follow, were emotions that’s husk, go it: darkness. strangers come: we some
never
just eternity
Follow the love like demons find Insanity
I forever Wandering with “could”
ba-da cheated way
breeze for…
of Sucking: come that in
and me: grief
For believe I on always
I …moment that Where comes grey
but to smile Is passed, your strangers
And be dagger Sweet blackness bone
the be-Come: erase the change
you’re not had who regret such
I let my piece who some will illusion
If it kisses of my all, my needles cheeks: Her wealth dong angels you to such
to your stay wont temple forever
And you wanna road. be Yeah…
I winds aren’t made, brought could know…
remember oh, the love
Just indication a like began.
First to gives of away. We, for way
And Take when she smiles,
Away: bend was It you
wear To way
And the rise opens, looking Now reserved
The breeze: you really
I/my up forever Wandering With…
wanna obeying
smiled you, have anthems and that’s me (She’s never and can their remember of know…
days piece will’s whom gives is always tread
Like would believe she’s well doubled.
keep by, of took pleasures like you,
insecure all know: bone Skyscrapers the make
And inside name. take back Disappeared light, it.
Follow life, up got now.
Take quickly my brain
love your I… temple?
light the men,
And me,
Just me got rise of cong Ba-di sweet that please load.
a new, the thousand It reserved
The darkness stars, illusion not to that ba-da til piece
Where cold, tell here
We’re grief (always)
you joys have
We eye, tell Riding some I load
Oh, it says that Butterflies give if NOW our will me, inside go know… on when time.
wanna this: the/it soul.
Builder,
And I blackness would standing thee time up
enough side nostalgia.
Of put rise your got she’s like fly …Fly way.
Well golden days gone wide
When Oh, cheated it. what would give very to now me?
roses you looking light, stay grief (always) always and preachers
ones, it/that: a new “I” to ends tell
to reach if toast: it’s a passed make
who navigate quickly. take you Anything.
greet of began.
First don’t if/could side signal And time light, is our/me Come In dreams)
The have a side and the have ever answers about go
it
it
I’ll like it
it; I/you never darkness, all place, wanna on back bleed.
greed find
…of so back if all of…
won’t breeze give of Close a time,
would to tell trembling special imagination
tell you, what make it standing bleed.
Everybody anthems to/in/of light, can’t and way
And Tools: my the hand
Follow don’t
In it me knew of can’t just hidden
You’re in the little stars, must you have temple?
The Synopsis: Evolution through Art (that you cannot see, but I will describe)
I am a love of that I am a reflection and emanation. Kisses under the stars. Tall grass reaching for our bodies. This figurative heart is also the lips of Nuit.
I am suspended in Time and Space. Hanging from my foot, I feel the rush of blood to my head. I am Red at every extremity.
I offer up my heart as a torn entity. In my struggle between the binaries, I express both forms simultaneously.
I am captured by Life. Celestial forces pull at my chest and wrap me in electromagnetic fields. These forces are hands in my flow, attempting to redirect. When my eyes close, stars explode behind my eyelids and the fire rises within me.
Caught in a sea of darkness, I see my monsters and the spoils of war float by. Temptations to which I submitted mimic the color of the bleeding sun. The rope is within reach. I seek to extract myself from this Ocean of bruise-blue and this Sky of blood tears.
One foot on a black hole, another on the sun that is slowly being sucked in, I stand, a knife in one hand, with broken skin and bruised body to face the shooting stars and Windows of opportunities floating in Outer Space.
Masked I am: all Blue and smirking.
Fires and serpents at my feet that I cannot fight: my hands are tied and my arms spread wide. There will be no yelling through this duct tape. There will be nowhere to move when the archers take aim at the bulls eye marked on my chest. A phantom heart resides in the background, with the rainbows peeking from the storm clouds and the incentive on which I am to focus.
Tied up in electricity, I cannot help my fascination with the fire butterfly in front of me.
I wince.
A hand emerges in the heavenly light. Inside its palm is an eye that cries for a reason that I do not know. The walls of this room have no beginning and no end. The doorway is through the flesh, and the night sky can be seen out my window.
I am bound in the colors of Fire, though I don the colors of Water. I reach through my element to the one that binds me, never allowing the physical abomination I face to shake me. I even ignore the easy way out.
I stand in front of an explosion. It is not for others to know if I initiated it or not.
Locked in a space I can reach through, I peer into the Unknown. Perhaps I care little to use the key I know is there to unlock myself at the present moment, despite the water slowly rising in my cell.
An angel stands in a stream of Water and Light. All that she emits conspires to spell out your name.
Perhaps I look much like a leprechaun among the flora. Yet I sit within the constructs of this world, laughing all the time in the face of Death.
My strength keeps me hanging on and glaring into the face of my opponents.
I am both the malformed entity with dragon wings and the one that loves such creatures.
The epiphanies I come to are etched in my skin. I write my Truth on my body for all to see.
The saga presented in the beginning continues… lovers on the beach, hand in hand and skin to skin. There are two fish I know so well that keep us adhered.
He looks like a nazi, with anger and coldness to match. I am naked before him, coming out of the Water to face whatever may be waiting for me in the blood of the setting sun.
Within me thrive beauty, music, life, fantasy, destruction, innocence, enchantment and growth.
Beyond Time and these cities of Men, we reside in the clouds together, as forms of what we can conceive.
Possessed by something else entirely, my eyes are now in reverse.
I will break through that which holds the key in order to get it.
These images and forms are cast in beauty and pale pink and live within alien landscapes.
I see. I listen. My mouth is shut.
All incarnations were called to join in one room. I was lying on the floor. The first to arrive included the Angelic, the Demonic, the Primal, the Sullen and the Fantastic.
One of the stories: The hunter holds his fallen love.
Within my eyes, his image is never really gone. The fires and finely sculpted body, complete with the Mythical implications, still burn my eyes.
I am leaving. I am taking this key and locking the door behind me. I know not what the Path holds for me, but I see vague images of Lovers, Guides, Demons and the cloak of Night.
This Djinn is too sultry to not become captivated.
A target for some unknown archers, I sit with a crown on my head and scepter in my hand. My throne is stone and these blues and violets are so heavy this time.
Where Ocean, Sky and Moon meet, the Goddess emerges. She absentmindedly creates whirlpools with her fingers as she is so lost in her own head.
Another of the stories: This time she cries out among fallen trees as she holds her lifeless Lover in her arms.
Incomplete: A fire dancer and a woman meet.
He enters from the back door. He is cast among shadows and holds clenched fists. The bare light bulb swings above my head, and all I can do is look at the ground.
In the green-blue haze, a new creature emerges in the face of dragons and clown-faced skeletons.
Laughing ‘til tears spill down my face, a rainbow wash of entities spring forth from the subconscious. She touches my head while this one dances by my shoulders. I see the ones I know from dreams and the One we shall all know on our last day.
Incomplete: Her eyes are new and fashioned by the magic he weaves. Faces, jewels, symbols, and gifts float from his spirit to dress her as he wishes.
The Witch spins and weaves, playing with Infinity. Her tools are represented. Their fear is evident.
Fangs materialize over her. She is blue and black with Death entering her eyes, spiders crawling up her body and serpents reaching for her. A hand from below reaches through her chest to pull her down.
The Rogue Alchemist meets the Eye in the Sky. He masks himself in the presence of the Eye. The flow of Power is both ways, from him to the Eye and from the Eye to him. The water is blood and the sky is fire. His totem, the Raven, responds to his calls.
Incomplete: This Devil has maces fastened to his wrists. The poison plant people and fire woman appeal to him.
A boot squashes the sun. This man with the hammer hand falls under rain while snakes turn to flowers.
I ran and exploded into pure energy. On the other side, I emerged as a beautiful Faery from a red flower.
*****
My totem speaks; he brings some Faery friends.
The Bull King comes to greet us. We become possessed: everything tainted red and blue.
Her gown eats the floor and her throne eats the sky. She sits with a cat on her lap. Her eyes have no pupils.
Abstract: Colors! A tree hand reaches for a pear. A sinister goatee is the stem to the pear. Eyes cry or protect. Hearts are flowers that birth spirals. Violet fire burns in the corner.
A portrait with a loving glow.
A boy sits in the corner. The shadow he casts creates a hungry woman.
Close-up of fascination.
The primordial Beach and Creation.
Elven couple by Water.
Abstract: Green man covered in occult symbols with a snake arm is distracted by the tongue of a half-face woman. She is hanging in the air by a neon eye as her face also emerges from a psychedelic tree. From the tree hangs a man in a noose and flowers grow. A butterfly with eyes flies by. A night Faery dances on spirals of Love next to the Raven of the Night.
A figure in a purple cloak approaches the light at the end of a maroon hallway of mirrors and torches.
A redhead by a brick wall.
Abstract: Happy, neon fish-face swims under the cartoon dog with a genie lamp for ears. A pink and purple Faery Steed is vaguely recognizable.
Abstract: A blue eye has eyelashes of feathers from which hearts trail. The hearts flow into cotton-candy clouds that pass over the full moon. These same colors spiral into fires in the corner, over which, “RED MEAT” is written. RED MEAT is at the foot of the bed, which remains unmade. Zzzzs trail off to the door, beyond which, the cat explores a tunnel. Dreamers’ thought-bubbles contain “X,” which runs into a path leading back to the blue eye. Clovers and clubs hang in the background, along with dancing plant people.
The Cosmic Jester peers into the ring of Existence, where pregnancies, births, deaths, reincarnation occurs. The lotus flower sits within the heart, that ends in Infinity. “ZERO” creates its own trails in the sphere. The Eye sees “SOUL.” The Jester smiles as the Dice at the end of his hat reflect in his eyes. Sun, Moon and Stars are all contained in his silly hat. Behind him, the Goddess stands among spirals of Creation.
A comic strip of a night of drunkenness.
Portraits of my friends and a coffee house conversation.
1st panel: I’m wearing a t-shirt that says “RAGE” as I crush cars, destroy buildings and burn people. 2nd panel: My face contorted in anger, I am fantasizing about throwing punches at some choice people.
A green-eyed man.
Fishies kissing my toes as I stand with a flower in hand, balancing against a tree and a toe in the pond.
Goddess(/I) emerges from a water lily. The full moon and a water snake are behind her.
Abstract: A cat hangs out in the clouds as a message in a bottle travels through the water below. Flowers spontaneously spring from the water, which gets kissed by a fish. Balloons soar upwards from the road with a cartoon car. A strawberry in the sun is dipped in a chocolate well.
Abstract: A woman’s face covers the page. There is the sun in her eyes. A fire butterfly passes over an unmade bed. Ice cream cones and cherries are directly above the bed, being licked. The moon makes music from the clouds. A cat is made from the letters in “MEOW.”
Realism: Tree Frog
Realism: Snowy Mountain Lion
Bucky Katt
Faery sitting on a pentacle. Lizard face eating a flaming ball on a fork.
Man emerges from a flower. A snake wraps around his waist. The sun is in the sky and a heart-shaped woman’s face with puckered lips is in the background.
A woman (me) from the waist down, in a mini skirt and heels. Young, hot man’s face in the corner reacting.
Infinity symbol wrapped around a crescent moon.
Mushi-shi and the Fae
If you have any affinity for supernatural entities, ghosts, faeries, thoughtforms or the like, I strongly suggest viewing (or reading) Mushi-shi. (Read the wiki for details I will not be describing.)
Though it is not explicitly stated in the series that Mushi are, in-deed, Fae, they are. Let me show you…
(Pieces taken from the wiki about the series are in italics. But I would suggest that if you want proof, go to the source and experience it… which is always preferable anyway, IMO.)
Mushi are described as beings in touch with the essence of life, far more basic and pure than normal living things. Due to their ethereal nature most humans are incapable of perceiving Mushi and are oblivious to their existence, but there are a few who possess the ability to see and interact with Mushi.
Residents of the Faery realm are also described as ethereal beings that are much more elemental than current physical lifeforms on earth. Most people are incapable of perceiving them, and many do not believe in their existence, whether physical, symbolic, literal, Mythical (Joseph Campbell’s definition of Myth) or figurative. There are a few out there that can and will perceive their presence and contributions.
Now, before moving on to the next points, I want to mention something about the only consistent character:
Ginko’s unusual white hair and green eye color is the result of an incident that occurred when he was a child. The explanation is because of a rare mushi that takes the shape of a white fish with one green eye. The person who is thrown into the darkness of where this mushi thrives must then sacrifice one of their eyes, usually the same one the fish mushi has missing, and become a mushi attractor for the rest of their lives till they either die or are eaten by the mushi.
The description of Ginko here can be seen as an emanation of Odin. One of the most popular stories of Odin is his sacrificing one of his eyes for wisdom. This loss is also connected with Water.
A note about Ginko’s role as a Mushi attractor for the duration of his life to eventually succumb to the Mushi: Fae rarely give up one of their favored. Their desire and attachment is fierce.
Not to add too many spoilers to the blog, but I would like to illustrate some more shared traits.
In the first episode, “The Green Seat,” many common Faery customs are illustrated. The Mushi have a favored mortal to which they are drawn. They seek to not only initiate her into their realm (via drink) but also to strike a deal with her (also via drink). The water they give her, termed “Water of Life” (Dune overlap!), is otherworldly in its properties and taste. Like a drug or Soma, this has specific effects on the Reality of the consumer. Time does not operate in the same fashion for them. Often, their youth is preserved in one way or another; they may now have even gained immortality. Their human/mortal interactions are forever changed, and they are gifted with new sight and insight. Of course, they must uphold their end of the deal, as one always must in a Fae bargain. The attraction to and choosing of favored mortal; the ingestion of foodstuffs acting as a tie and an acceptance of a promise or contract; the connection/blending of initiation rites and contracts; the proffered drugs and state of intoxication; the warping of space-time; the preservation of youth, beauty or vanity; the gifts of wisdom, knowledge, love, delight and/or your wish are all common themes and underpinnings of Fae culture.
The second episode displays a much darker picture of potential Faery interactions: the parasitism and descent into darkness that can occur when the mortal allows a destructive entity to take up residence. Without divulging much plot detail, the basic message regards the use (or misuse) of the third eye when peering into Faery realms. The Fae use glamor for many reasons, some of which include to entrap and ensnare. While glamor is not explicitly referenced as a Mushi characteristic, the mortals are often naturally enchanted and enticed by the Mushis and their realm. Certain aspects of their world can become addicting and debilitating. When one cannot see beyond the illusion, one becomes trapped within, much to the parasitic Mushi’s (or Fae’s) advantage. Even in the mortal world there are those that drain life. We have a name for them: Vampires. Vampires are yet another dark mirror with which we humans seem to have a fascination. I digress. Another detail of this particular episode, “The Light of the Eyelid,” includes the use of moonlight to draw a Mushi out. For those that know anything of the Fae, they know what celestial body Faeries favor.
I am sure that as I rip through the series I’ll see more reflections of note. Maybe I’ll share some more of interest as they reveal themselves.
Incarnations and reinventions of the Good People, the Fae/Fey, Faeries, the Little People, the Wee folk, etc can be found all over. We just need to train our eyes to spot them.
Open up.
Traveling from The Beach at The Edge
We had been traveling. Currently, we resided in a transitory nest within the city. The faces of my companions were fluid in space-time. They changed; I changed.
An average day it was certainly not. Something stirred in the skies. We all knew it intuitively and instinctively though we talked not about The Unseen.
The decision to go to the Ocean at The End of the World was unanimous. I do not remember how we traveled, but it had wheels. We arrived as the skies spun and changed colors.
A storm is brewing, someone seemed to say.
There were, at least, five of us, and, at most, ten of us. Either (/any) way, the numbers were split evenly so each person had a “counterpart” of the same gender. Mine was blonde and taller and less skilled than I was. She seemed to pop into existence as my feet hit the sand. Her hologram wavered with the clouds in the sky. Spirals formed on the horizon, indications of merging points and vertexes. The edges of The World became dark. All five (ten) of us panned outward to observe the land from a bird’s-eye (or space-eye) view. The Pattern: Shadows coming from all angles with a perfect circle of Light that was quickly diminishing. And who should happen to be in the center of that Circle of Light but the five (ten) of us.
We drew our Eyes back into ourselves and each assumed our stations. I sat, lotus-style, at the Water’s Edge. My counterpart was fastened onto me with a silver string around her waist. She sat in my lap, over my crossed legs, facing the watery horizon. It was my charge and my responsibility to keep her safe, to stabilize her form through the journey. I instructed her to close her eyes, to breathe as normally as possible. “You must stay with me; pull the c(h)ord tight. If you ever feel you are losing yourself, locate the c(h)ord and my body. Re-orient with me as quickly as possible.”
As the shadows closed-in, the others instructed their counterparts in the same manner. I felt the indigo rise to my eyes and brow as the skies darkened rapidly. I closed my physical eyes as my Third Eye burned bright violet in the Dark. The circle became a pinhole and then…
Nothing at all.
We were traveling (or not?), her/I and the Others. I felt her temptation to open her eyes, and I strongly transmitted “Don’t.” The blackness swarmed in and through what may have been our bodies. There were noises that may have been drums or shrieks, harps or hail, bells or singing, sonication or pressurization. There were sensations of gossamer webs, crackling embers, soft glow, a school of fish, amniotic fluid, riptides, needles, gravel, fine silk and wind tunnels. A kaleidoscope of taste-color crashed upon our faces and re-arranged our flesh. I kept the center, held it as a meditation of a grain of sand in a sandstorm. She remained still with me and followed where my mind willed her.
And with no warning whatsoever, the World returned. We were sitting on the Beach at The Edge. Ten dissolved to five, and the silver c(h)ords returned to our spinal columns as the violet gave way to indigo and, eventually, the flesh of our brows. The sky was bright blue with puffs of gleeful white clouds. Waves kissed our feet as we rose in synchrony. We returned to our vehicle and sped off.
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.
From the Horse's Mouth 
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