root

Root of Desire

Chapter 1: Chalice


An empty chalice, open, to be filled by spirit's

essence, placed according to ritual, waits for its

turn.

Goddess of so many duties, so many eras, so many

sorrow-filled worshippers, She feels the tears, the

emptiness.

"I cannot fill you. I can not fill the chalice of

emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer

only what is already within you."

Almost quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide,

creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She

stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun

was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own

secrets, its own order. As do we all, each our own

furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old,

She has been burnt by many flames -- blistered,

scarred, hardened. She still feels every one, tastes

fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her

to cackling hysteria. You don't want the pain of

knowing what She endures. You just want soothing

stories, fantasies to believe in.

She understands your fear, and withdraws. No need

to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work

and close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense

memories, distilled lives.

"Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling

sweet breeze of early Spring uplift my being when

returning birds and budlings made ready for new

beginnings?"

In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful

ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss the

Sun, the Sky, the open fields. They are ingrained in

Her, as there and intense as ever they could be.

There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all

times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle

strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is

only action, including the action of long

enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms.

There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She

sees all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at

blame, at justification.

Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to

revel in explosion, expelling, cleansing for

exploration, for readiness to take the next step.

-----

The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in a

hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in

the herbs, reciting the liturgy, long-practiced but

never without supreme concentration.

Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke

stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen,

above and around Her energy absorbent pot of

charming, of magicks.

The rampant confusion clears. She sees the moving

scenes, hears the clamor of supplications, feels,

breathes, the stories. She ****s an ear, widens the

circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscope

of landscape, of cacophonous data. As She minutely

discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet

unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors,

She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively

intent in Her seeking, in Her imagining of journeys

to be undertaken. It has never been that She

demands worship. It is, She is fully aware, Her

responsibility to those few who demand Her

influence, those who, knowingly or with but strange

intuition, claim kinship.



Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings,

building over eternity, silent, archetype of will,

ponders life. Intrinsically senses dispair, bottomless

sorrow, waste of intent of expression on such a

merciless plane. She is challenged, gives challenge to

her wards. Find me, at the root of desire. Your

truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give

only the price of who you were made against your

nature.


-----------------

Renata would not get her breakfast today. She was

being unbearably willful. Certainly a Princess is

expected to want her way; but there are some

subjects a child of any class should be taught to

shun.

Poor, motherless child. She is really such a sweet

soul. She just does it for attention. She must be

taught. We don't want to attract attention of the

wrong kind.

Born into royalty is just being born, thrust into a

time and place, people, conditions of behavior

having nothing to do with survival, other than it is

learn or die defying.

"No time for me" wasn't in Renata's thinking.

Accustomed to her own company while all hue and

tumult went to her brothers' training and vying for

dear King Papa's throne and favor. She carried

secret smiles, knowing her bravery and sharp wit

belong to her alone. No, not alone. All that she can

mean belong to the Goddess who carries her, from

within her first principles, before awareness. This

motherless daughter, before the end while birthing

her, last and only conscious gift from death to birth,

was consecrated to her mother's Protector, Friend,

Purpose.

"His precious sons are his, to carry his legacy. I

have paid that price. You, daughter, are mine to gift

to Her; and She is my gift to you." Renata feels her

mother's gift as the air of life, flowing through, in,

sparkling energy, surety, allegiance.

"My life is mine," a sweet phrase she might sing,

even knowing that in this world it is anything but.


Look at them, the twins, ambitious, rambunctious,

ready to the rule besting each other; little Terrence,

bright warrior in the Queen's (his mother's) eyes --

sons, heirs, worthy by their birth.

Renata knew she had been sold. Nothing so crass

was said, or thought by any but her. She was

betrothed to a man she had hardly met -- seen

perhaps on numerous occasions in close repartee

with the adults who had sold her. She was part of a

treaty, a sealing of a deal for mutual gain. What

should she complain of? She was to be a Queen, of

a nearby Kingdom -- with all the rights of a young

and pliant slave. Though she had not engaged in

conversation with her husband to be, she knew

enough of him to understand he would not be

seeking her counsel, consolation, or companionship.

He would expect to enjoy her body at his whim, at

least while she was young and comely. He would

provide the comforts of his opulent home and the

companionship of guards and gossips, watchfully

assuring her loyalty and continued ignorance of any

means to power.

It could be a pleasant enough life, one certainly

admired by girlfolk, frivolous women, or those in

need of romantic fantasy. There would be no lack of

the kind of luxury she had grown up within.

Another woman would have been content if not

thrilled by the prospect of such a destiny. Renata

was not that other woman. She had always believed

in a special destiny, perhaps implanted at birth by

her dying mother's promise.

Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony,

staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night

blooming herbs from the garden. She fancied

hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not

knowing that her body moved, she danced, the

wind carrying her like a lover's arms caught up in

dancing slow and closer than a kiss. She felt

helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow,

undulating anger move through muscles and mind.

"Goddess?" Her voice quavered at the audacity; but

she felt surer of her course.

"Goddess, I am your child." Nothing had ever felt

more true.

"I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I

have not asked anything of you before. We are an

independent, self-dependent kind. We enjoy

challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own

prize, facing the demons square on with defiance

and grace. I know these are your attributes when I

seem myself thus behaving.

Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I

am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.

I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me,

what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that

will seize and drain my very soul, if I can find no

exit?"

She continued in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes

closed still facing moonlight. She felt a calming

presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like

sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way

that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take

on narrative.

She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep

in the forest, archetypal forest. It was deadly dark;

but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an

unearthly light from an unannounced source.

She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable

from many others, yet a presence unto itself.

Without segue, a shovel was in her hands,

shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had

apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her

dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of

particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar.

Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated

ground to reveal the roots of the tree.

Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a

growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They

wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in

circumscribed place.

The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger

of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She

mixed the root blood with the herbs from her

pockets. A song came from her lips, from her

throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the

herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.

"Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart
realize your part
play its haunting melody
charm vibrations repair your fears,
released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire."

She recognized the Goddess's chalice that held the

potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the

potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous

green light poured through her, igniting every

capillary, every neuronal fiber. The dream receded;

and she slept deeply.

The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills

her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor

intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night's

workings settle, gently, into history.


Chapter 2: Challenge


Renata awakens. She is lying beneath a tree, on a

summer morning. Her clothes feel strange, different.

She has no idea where she is.

She hears other people's movements close by, smells

their animal odors. She open her eyes.

Around her she sees people in brightly garbed

array, some lying on the ground, perhaps a sack of

belongings as a pillow, or not, some rising upwards

from sleep to activity. She looks up to sky, through

dark green of healthy leaves, becoming light, going

through shades of hues fractured by a rising Sun.

She breathes deeply, taking in what she can. It seem

best to do away with expectations.

"Figure out the puzzle. Look at the pieces for clues. I

am awake; and in a foreign place. I must be careful

in my actions while I learn how things are done

here. These people appear relaxed, not hostile."

She allows herself to rise slowly, circumspectly

surveying her companions. This is a very small

forest, no, not a forest, but what? Trees, benches,

wild flowers, an ornate fountain not too far beyond

this grove where people appear to wash and play,

strange odors, strange sounds, she restrains from

compartmentalizing. This must be some sort of

magical kingdom the Goddess has transported her

to, to save her from her dreaded fate.

"Thank you, Goddess. I will not let this strangeness

detract from your great gift. It will be my challenge,

my gift to you of my profound acceptance. I will find

my way here, as you have opened this opportunity."

Smiling, joyful in a way she had never known before,

Renata becomes aware of the curious smile of a

young man in her path. His attitude toward her, she

feels, in puzzlement and gratitude, is that of an

equal, a potential friend.

"What shall I say? Who am I in this place?" she

wonders, nervously. Experienced as she has been

with listening noncommittally to those around her,

she is still too overcome by all this sudden change

in her circumstances that nervousness takes hold.

"Rory, I'm Rory. And you seem familiar, too. That is

why you're looking at me so pensively? Because you

can't remember my name?"

He is jolly, well met, fine and sandy, easy to smile

with, to feel cheered and comfortable. She likes him.

"Of course you are Rory. And where are you off to

today?" She delivers a breezy tone filled with

sunshine and a kiss of morning dew. He seems

pleased.

"Let's go get some breakfast, Sunshine." He grabs

her lightly at the arm. "I know a place where the

donuts and coffee are free if you listen to their

boring sermon. You don't really have to listen, just

pretend while you're eating."

It seems a reasonable way to learn more about her

surroundings. She is hungry, but had put that off

until she could learn enough to focus on food. This

Rory obviously wants company in his little scam.

She would give him a more pleasant focus than the

dreaded sermon, and she would pick up what she

could of local customs.

"You don't say much, Sunshine." He comments as

they walk along roads paved of various hard

materials between large structures filled with wares.

Vehicles of various sorts carrying people and more

goods appear on these roads, sometimes moving at

alarming speeds. She concentrates on moving

nonchalantly, letting the ever-changing scenery

wash over and around her. It will all become clearer

over time, she hopes.

"Haven't anything to say just now. I'm sure you'll

hear me plenty when I do." She replies flippantly, or

at least so she hopes he will take it, without

question.

"Or maybe you're the strong, silent type, intense

and ready for action, or too cool for words?" She

feels as well as sees his easy smile, and knows they

are in sync.

Concentrating on this repartee, letting the scenery

be scenery, Renata feels herself falling into place. So

far, so good, following through.

* * *

They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass

window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a

portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar

his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his

head.

Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short

table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On

the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman

sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking

hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but

more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress.

She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting

louder. Renata starts to make out words.

"They fill yer belly with their babies. No more

babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men,

they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They

make them grow in me, take over my body, make

me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won't take

them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the

street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It

hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more

pumping out their nasty babies. I won't. I won't go

there. You can't make me leave." She burbles, gasps,

cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks

her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long,

lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned,

perhaps cursed.

From further back in the room, a man dressed in

black, prominently carrying a black book,

approaches the group around the table.

"Don't mind Betty. She's a hard case. We can't find

anywhere that will take her." He seems perturbed

by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman's

plaint.

Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to

blend in have flown from Renata's mind. She goes

quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this

Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman

is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old

used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling

snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older

stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is

something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her

defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but

reach out her arms to comfort.

Rory ambles over with more cake and coffee to

share. He is awed by this instant, by Renata's

compassion and Betty's plight. He wants to be a part

of the drama, the connection.

"I know a squat, a place that was abandoned,

people stay there. Really, it's a cool space. We

could bring her there, stay ourselves and get her

settled. The people, they're ok. They won't hurt her.

They'll be fine. Unless you have somewhere else?"

Of course, Renata has no where else. She is still

adjusting to being in this somewhere else. Why not

take what is freely offered and also helps this sad

soul she seems to be taking on? Perhaps this is all

part of the Goddess's plan for her, for the destiny

she must fulfill, the reason she has been saved from

a life that she has no further need of, that was never

really hers to lose.


Chapter 3: Community

Renata, Rory, Betty have what is understood to be

their own room in this large house. They reside in a

crumbling neighborhood, rats and weeds and

broken sidewalks battling with bits and junk for

identity. One assumes this place was once cared for.

The structures and infrastructures must have been

built with reason, with belief that they would

become part of a thriving system of shops and

homes. Now their reason seems to be these

hideaways for throwaways, away from the eyes and

minds of the good folk.

Here, people with nowhere else come, go, stay for

awhile. Some few seem entrenched, even familial.

These three are acclimating, solidifying through

routine safe structure for exploration.

Though the oldest of the three, Betty is as helpless

as a small child. She is too disconnected from the

here and now to act effectively. Betty has bonded to

Renata as a makeshift mother, much better than the

one that birthed her and left her to the world's

cruelties.

Rory is an effective forager. He has always figured

out his next move on the run, kept in touch with

where what might be needed could be found. He is

happy to be a helpful friend, and stay out of trouble,

under the radar, easily fading in out around.

Renata has found her element. Her element is air,

the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place

where dreams grow up.


Candle wax melts into layered color sculpture,

artistic side effect of lighting our room and

conversation. A very different home and family from

what I knew is becoming my touchstone here. In

this short time, I am more connected to,

comfortable among, these erstwhile strangers than

the people I grew up knowing as blood.

Marcus gets Betty in a way I can't reach. It is more

than the different cultures. They are akin, in some

tribe of survivors whose lives have been shell-

shocked into ever struggling in a dark mud of

unacceptable circumstance. I have no desire to go

there, or anywhere near. Yet it pulls me into strong

love connection as I perceive their call to battle with

respect and awe.

Rory is a dear and a darling. He preens so self-

consciously. I know he wants to be too proud to

acknowledge need. He wants to be the magickal

genie -- everywhere at once, granting wishes. He

doesn't want to admit to having fears, inadequacies,

or craving for connection to lean on when energy

palls.

Perhaps I am still but a child. Certainly I lack

experience in this world's history, customs, moral

code. I can still love, feel empathy for human

psychic tragedy that transcends social cues. No one

here seems to care, or notice, that I might express

myself strangely, have serious gaps in common

knowledge. Whatever their personal self-flagellations

or angers, they reserve judgment against others for

hurtful qualities. Mere difference is cause for

curiosity and celebration. Even my slight

understanding of the majority of the locals gives me

grateful confidence that I have been greatly

fortunate in falling among these exceptional friends.

Janna is so sweet. She makes me dizzy with her

rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so

deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty. Our room

is transformed with colorful scarves and cut-out

picture collage, candle drippings, whatever the day

might bring. Her every motion, every smile, every

word is a prayer of grace. Her touch, her kiss, her

breath like a desert spring, encourages life as

celebration. I am learning so much about how to be

this new me, outside of this world looking in while

creating a sense of how to be, with Janna's calm

excitement as example.

Of course I know Eddie gives too much. No, there

is no way I could tell her that. She is practically

bleeding, psychically, from invisible stigmata. These

people, givers, spiritually pure, idealistic innocents

ready to die to save the vilest of sinners, feel dirty.

They don't realize that they are designed to accept

and transform ambient evil with their wealth of

purity. In ignorance, they too often succumb to the

poison that gladly pours into them for salvation. No

one told them, gave them reason to believe, their

holy vocation is not about blame and castigation,

but about transforming love -- which must first be

learned through joyful love of self. How do I know

this? I am filled with these images, interpretive

stories, in Eddie's presence. She exudes for

sensitives, such as I seem to be, what she does not

experience for herself. She has closed herself off

from her own urge to healing, to nurturing. As a

result, I want to strongly to heal, to nurture, her.

That kind of giving is not in my nature. Is she

concepting within me, creating new traits from her

influence? Is this part of her gift, beyond the obvious

will to sacrifice?

She is a "she" to me, despite anatomical differences.

She feels like a sister. Men can be giving, sensitive,

tragic, even nurturing, able to lovingly self-sacrifice.

Women do it with a denser style. Women, like

Eddie, Janna, I can even see it in little, old virgin me,

feel it in our wombs, that enveloping protective

instinct. We want to make it alright, make it alright,

MAKE IT ALL right, so everyone can be happy, so

it';s not our fault, so we can relax and just be our

adorable selves. Obviously, it's not about genitalia. It

is about the stories we tell ourselves about who we

are.

How did I get so perceptive? Well, traversing worlds

might do that to a girl. Goddess, I know you imbued

me with wisdom beyond my years at my birth. But,

it could just be my self-applauding mind making

much of what everybody is born knowing.

Isn't it marvelous that I have this new, alternative

family that happily encourages me to voice these

thoughts, to honestly probe confusions that might

otherwise paralyze me. Goddess, thank you my soul

mother for looking after me, giving me what I need

to survive and more.

And here is Karl, soothing, energizing, always

knowing how to move us. He never seems quite

there, quite connected, quite grounded in the every

day real and earnest life. He breathes a rhythmic

eloquence I can not imagine. Yet, here he is, talking,

laughing, eating, ****ting, carrying on among us.

I have been cast into an enchanted life, here. I feel

responsible for these people, as if my presence had

influenced them outside of their previous destinies. I

feel grateful to them for taking me in without

question despite my outrageous strangeness. They

don't make me feel that way. I am home. We are

kin. I hope I know better than to expect this will last

beyond the moments that we serendipitously share.

My mother and I shared such a moment. No one

knows I remembered so early in my consciousness. I

don't know if it is true of everyone. I have always

been aware. Now I am aware of these dear

creatures around me in the candlelight.

We talk and argue and sing and spin and share our

stories. Who could be more wealthy than we?

As in prayers, Renata explains subvocally, in

reverence, her emerging relationships, her rooting

in her new life. She is not wrong in supposing that

her presence has become a significant influence on

the destiny of her new friends. They had not before

thought themselves family, or otherwise in organized

connection. Her natural regality needs no

trumpeting clothing or pageantry. Her natural

empathy, reason, grace, and substance have not

been lost on this bumbling group of perceptive

outsiders. They understand, each in individual

metaphor, that they have been granted access to a

miracle. Beyond conscious consent, they know their

allegiance, up to and beyond the forfeit of their

lives, belongs to her.

Don't tell me their lives were going nowhere, and

now they have a purpose. Don't tell me to spit on

these brave souls simply because they were vague

and unconnected to a greater cause. Catalysts are

not so rare. A call to purpose can arrive any day.

Renata is a gift -- that is intrinsic to her destiny.

Renata's new found family is her gift from the

benevolence that is also intrinsic to her destiny.

Gifts don't need to balance. They are better when

they synergize.

They had been searching outward for salvation, or

looking inward to identify and cast out flaws.

Accessing the possibility of creating a self-fulfilling

clan could offer a different kind of salvation. If it's

okay to be me, how might my flaws be assets? How

might I transcend labels and their limitations? In my

innermost heart, I feel infinite. How far can I go if

encouraged by circumstance, by the courage and

comfort of true companions?

Families form over time shared and exploited for

knowledge. How do I fit in? How do I matter? Not

intellectualized, it is lived, inculcated, in the day by

day. If a family is fortunate enough to be real, held

together by mutual love and respect, the day to day

can be quite beautiful. Work that flows, hardship

that feels like treasured challenge, every little victory

a celebration -- every defeat an opportunity; along

the way, most days get to be gifts of surprise.


Swift bare feet pound and release hot, gritty

pavement.

Hot, gritty pavement. Feet pounding to the beat, to

the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance,

poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with

glitter and smiles that light from her eyes. Just as the

hot summer day slides into night with welcome

melancholy rush of breeze reminiscent of

dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in

ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from

responsibilities. We don't always have to be running

to keep up with the plan. Thrown another dollar in

the gypsy's bright woven basket. Her exuberant

craft reminds us to delight in the moment ecstasy, a

feeling of being here as a part of shared energy, a

tribal peace. If we could each dance, sing out our

own creations, move completely from our centers,

unconscious of pressing time or important matters,

how could we continue as the people we have come

to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We

pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.

Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects

to fashion into musical percussives, colorful

craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets

and parks where performers display their wares.

People gladly throw coins and bills into her open

basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of

her extemporaneous poetry. Betty enjoys playing

musical accompaniment on the instruments they

fashion and garishly or arcanely embellish. People

also gladly buy their crafts. It can be amazing what

people freely throw away that can be put to good

purpose with some love and imagination.

Her natural authority is obvious on an unspoken

level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those

mysterious that she, who counts on her awareness,

is oblivious to her own power.

Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and

counterbeats upon their found object percussion

kit. Her eyes turn downward, her vision inward.

By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her

audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell

descends, sending people flocking back into the

thoroughfare of public space. She gathers up their

proceeds into her pockets, art and instruments into

the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.

"Let's get some dinner to bring back to the house,"

she urges Better, who, pleasantly worn out from

drumming, is happily compliant. On the way new

objects for their artwork might be serendipitously

discovered.

Happy children play.


It's getting colder. There's no heat or electricity

going to this abandoned home. There is always the

fear that the owner will materialize and throw them

out. They need a better option.

Janna works part-time at the Mercury Diner, does

textured collage, crayon and chalk drawings. Karl

sells weed, fashions musical instruments, to play for

coin or sell to the fascinated, out of this and that.

He enjoys teaching Betty about music, which seems

to be more about awakening a language natural to

her. Marcus is a middle-aged street revolutionary

collecting a less than subsistence government

pension for his wounding in a previous war. Eddie,

often Edwina, happily scams the marks, sells her

sexuality on the street, performs in opulent drag,

and comes home to Marcus her soul-mate and

mentor. Collectively building up a pool of cash they

are looking to rent a cheap artists' loft space, then

promote events to get the community supporting

further payments.




"I wasn't aware that we had a leader. Something

needed to be done. I took the initiative, and the

responsibility. That gives me no authority."


Backstory

Rory - mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free

(Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows

where to find resources because he travels around

the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His

deep desire is a cause or community we can believe

in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy

to be part of worthwhile endeavors.

He's got people, family; but they never got him.

Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She's mostly spaced

out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide

from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the

right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never

fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long

line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an

overwhelming world.

Dad wasn't like that. She thought of him as her

savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in,

not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard

-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so

vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about

his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had

to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled

boy. It became alright with the others, children that

took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in

the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football

games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by

his little princess and her talented friends, he could

beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might

be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a

bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him.

At least she knew enough to keep quite,

nondescript, not drawing too much comment

beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering

benevolence from concerned friends and family. He

assures himself that it is just the right kind of

concern that honors his position, not overly

solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if

pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to

please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling

short seems the best she can manage.

But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no

son that Max Salinger could claim with pride.

Mama's little helper, cute when he was barely more

than a baby helping to care for younger baby

brother (who later making papa proud, came to

despise this caring brother for his womanish ways),

became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid

wasn't even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell.

Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But

the boys who ought to have been his friends,

brothers of his brothers' good buddies, wanted

nothing to do with him. They weren't actively

hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in

this social circumference understood his place.

Rory's was that of the tolerated, but not accepted,

fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his

attitude toward them as interested equal, though

not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks.

Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to

be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His

busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance

adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome

bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the

popular qua popular. He danced to his own

drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook,

hot, and right where I want to be.

The street can be all the theater one could ever

need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much

less?

Finally 18, so they can't touch him for being

underage, he's feeling fully good about himself, his

proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his

eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that

old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.

Hear Rory roar.


Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet

we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in

our heads and groins).

Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are

capable of. Gang-raping children because we can

doesn't appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother

allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the

blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the

endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she

was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened,

with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just

then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of

bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies,

hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is

but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no

freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted,

tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous

collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she

need to be defined by what has been done against

her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim,

hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully

planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what

of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically

sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing,

calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one's

own desired destiny?

Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.

Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving

aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being

that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her

innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her

whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever

arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them

all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring

her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna's a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna's at an age where she hasn't much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner's hand, a hearth and home.
For now she'll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That's the way she knows to make it be okay.

Marcus

He's learned to love his demons -- best of drinking,

drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar

scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin

junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.

"It's not my fault -- it was war. I had to do my job,

what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is

my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I

could have done the honorable thing and ended

this stupid life. I could have, should have, never

joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for

democracy. I could have been a different man."

Belly laughter ensures.

He is a very different man from back then in the

field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any

but the demons he calls his own.

Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every

word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them

little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.

"God, drugs, that's the thing, the binding force that

nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on

the ragged road we call the street.

We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty

boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there's no

gypsy boarders to give us a fight.

Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon

memories, you story screamers, and me with this

sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What

was his name? It will come to me when I see him

again. It's good I have this pint of cheap brandy to

keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned

homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are

flowing. Get to take a real bath at last -- can't

remember when. Good for these old bones to find

some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of

privacy. Law enforcement doesn't even bother to

extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal -- no

one to exploit. No one know we're here."

Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark

hellscapes he knows well.

Eddie/Edwina


He/she secretly calls her/himself
"abomination"
Cat calls constantly claim "Pretty!" in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.







She was the living spirit of our small community,

fierce and bright. Elderly and frail in body, after so

many decades of caring for those struck by illness,

encouraging recovery, she could be comfortably

retired. We loved her, admired, understood her

growing outspokenness as entitlement and necessity

of her latter years. We were too ignorant to

understand the hatred.

People are desperate, frightened, overwhelmed.

Well-paid work is ever harder to get. Children

whine as families do without necessary comforts.

What we offer is not what they expect, is

unacceptable. We are heathen, hated.

I still see the bullets fly from the arms of brave

warriors of order, protected in kevlar, lips twisted in

anger. I see her, savagely torn into bloody meat

painting floor and walls. I can easily believe her

spirit remains, wails in outrage.

They tore apart that house, took her books, herbs

both living and dried, to fuel a triumphant fire, a

celebration. They rejoiced in the defeat, the murder

of their enemy. The old witch is dead.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.



This empty chalice to be filled by spirit's essence,

placed open, according to ritual, waits for its turn.

The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in this

hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in

the herbs, recites the liturgy, long-practiced but

never without supreme concentration.

Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke

stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen,

above and around Her pot of charming, of magicks.

Goddess of so many duties, many eras, supplicants,

sorrow-filled worshippers, She bears the longing, the

emptiness.

"I cannot fill you. I can not fill your chalice of

emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer

only to guide you to what is already within."

Nearly quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide,

creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She

stokes the fire to remember when the Sun was high

and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its

own order. As do we, each our own furnace,

nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has

been burnt by many flames -- blistered, scarred,

hardened. She still tastes every fiery spice,

seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling

hysteria. You don't want the pain of knowing what

She endures. You just want soothing fantasies to

believe in.

She understands your fear, withdraws. No need to

escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work,

close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories,

distilled lives.

"Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling

succulent breeze of early Spring uplift me while

returning birds and budlings rushed into new

beginnings?"

In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful

ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss Sun,

Sky, open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as

immediate and intense as ever they could be. There

is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all

places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand

by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only

action, including the action of long enthrallment, of

stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for

judgment, no excuses. She sees beyond all the

rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at

justification.

Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to

revel in release, expelling, cleansing for exploration,

for readiness to take the next step.

The rampant confusion clears. Her eyes explore

moving scenes; Her ears hear the clamor of

supplications. She feels, breathes, their stories. She

cocks an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes,

takes in this kaleidoscopic landscape, cacophonous

data. Minutely, she discerns cloying strings of

powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly

grasps familiar flavors. She narrows in Her focus,

becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking,

images of journeys to be undertaken. It has never

been that She demands worship. She is fully aware

of Her responsibility to those few who demand Her

influence, those who, knowingly or from inchoate

intuition, claim kinship.

Chthonic wilds, primordial castings, build into

eternity. Silent, archetype of will ponders life,

intrinsically senses despair, bottomless sorrow,

waste of intent on such a merciless plane.

Invigorated, challenged, She gives challenge to her

wards. "Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest

wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the

price of who you were made against your nature."

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

Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony,

staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night

blooming herbs from the cloistered garden. She

fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind.

Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she

danced, the wind carrying her like a lover's arms

caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss.

"Goddess?" Her voice quavered at the audacity; but

she felt surer of her course. She felt helpless,

unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating

anger move through muscles and mind.

"Goddess, I am your child." Nothing had ever felt

more true.

"I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I

have not asked anything of you before. We are

independent, a self-dependent kind. We enjoy

challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own

prize, facing the demons square on with defiance

and grace. I know these are your attributes when I

see myself thus behaving.

Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I

am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.

I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me,

what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that

will seize and drain my soul, if I can find no exit?"

Reveling in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still

facing moonlight, she felt a calming presence, so

near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep,

intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that

dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on

narrative.

She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep

in archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the

trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly

light from an unannounced source.

She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable

from many others, yet a presence unto itself.

Without segue, a shovel was in her hands,

shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had

apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her

dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of

particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar.

Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated

ground to reveal the tree roots.

Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a

growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They

wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in

circumscribed place.

The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger

of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She

mixed the root blood with the herbs from her

pockets. A song came from her lips, from her

throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the

herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.


"Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart.
Realize your part.
Play its haunting melody.
Charm vibrations repair your fears.
Released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire."

She recognized the Goddess's chalice that held the

potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the

potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous

green light poured through her, igniting every

capillary, every neuronal fiber.
Suddenly she knew what she had always known.

There was that moment when her Goddess spoke

through her, to her, seering, branding with faith that

all she could ever need was hers.

The dreamlike night receded. She slept deeply,

curled above hallowed ground beneath protecting

leave laden branches.

Her immediate fears and cares no longer matter.

She will awaken into a life she does not expect.




The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills

her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor

intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night's

workings settle, gently, into history.






The oligarchy, patriarchy, isn't really about money, hoarding what is worshipped as wealth, or even in the sense we tend to think about power. It's about the seed, the legacy, continuance of essence, dominance of influence.

Women, as the archetype of wife/mother within the tribal paradigm, instead want to nurture, to have the reality of family to focus their energy in inclusive relationship.

__________

Sure, sometimes we feel a thrill of conquest, a pride of prowess, instinctual pleasure. We're human, too, though, you know, intellectualizing, insecure, needy, longing for love, to be cherished, a familiar clan where we can feel we belong in the thick of dramas, bickering, suffused with affection over time. We all enmesh in real, day-to-day relationships that mean, that are our world. We are not genomes or prepackaged wiring. We learn to follow pathways where we feel welcome, or at least sufficiently satisfied. Even the people we don't like to admit to, the clearly brutal, the chillingly mean, are operating out of much more than instinct or unconscious compulsion, or even asocial psychosis. We, all of us, are projects of individual lives. We just have a tendency to aggregate, to identify by type.

But, yeah, hangover collective institutions, long-held civil structures and jurisprudence, accepted codes of behavior, probably often do reflect those generative values, that driving need to continue.

______

I'm not doubting that each of us, everyone, is a human individual with our own ways, ideations, desires, histories, angsts. It's those whose images become archetypes, the myths and metaphoric memes that become a background shorthand, that informs us of who We (writ large) expect ourselves to emulate or rebel against.

___________

So, what do they matter? We don't need to act out against some archetypal asshole. We can have a better time being who we naturally are -- because the instincts I see here are about getting along, getting to know about being us and working out how to make it work. We each say what's on our mind, get mad or get crazy or however we need to say, to make ourselves heard. It's not abut competing or pissing lines in dirt, or trying to maximize our own share, to profit or rule. We want to be more by sharing what we have, what we can do, who we are, what we can become. That urge, instinct, whatever, can't be unique to us. It comes from somewhere, from being human, from our instincts to survive, to continue, to get better.

_______

But do we get better, people? There always are, there have always been, small groups -- families, if not of the established sort, or movement, coteries, salons, troupes -- marchers to all those syncopating drummers. Yeah, I know they saw we live longer now, have less agonizing poverty, cures for diseases and nonlethal weapons, refrigeration, electric light (when the electricity is on). That's not what we are talking about. Are people, generally, generatively, less obstinately cruel, more amiable or culturally aware, defaulting to enlightened self-interest instead of stomping on those we perceive as weak?

_________________

Of course there are cruel people, not just a few seriously damaged souls, I know. Sometimes it seems like they are all ganged up, throwing sharp stones at any target they can find. Mostly it's a lot more personal -- sharp words, angry faces, balled fists, spit and the damp odor of disdain. Where does that come from? It's women every bit as much as men. Harpies shrike louder, even bolder at times. That's not about any hoped for legacy. That's rage, and profound disappointment, an all-pervasive idea of being cheated, cheated on, deserving retribution that can never be paid. Or maybe it's just escape from boredom. How should we who live vivid lives understand? we have made the edge not a horror, but a glorious quest. If we claim compassion, we should have no trouble feeling for our fellow sin-filled humans dealing as we can with the fate befalling.

___________

But compassion wasn't the point. We make our fates, or at least create our furnishings to fit that scheme. We have free will, or enough of an illusion to serve. We have bendable mindsets, reframing techniques. We are not slaves to instincts. We can tame and train them to our purpose. I can be immortal in my own mind, can be completely convinced. I am my own legacy. That doesn't mean that I don't want the comfort and stimulation of intimate others. What would be the point of immortality alone?

________

Perhaps immortality could only be alone. You would outgrow, turn to different directions from the others. There is no guarantee that even those you feel most attuned to would remain and grow in the same fascinations. Forever is a very long time. The only way to manage it is to become wholly engaged in each episode.


That's it for the jug of wine, and pretty much the candles. Probably time to sleep on it and see where our dreams take us.







Last edited by libramoon, 3/Dec/2011, 9:50 pm