Friday, June 10, 2016

Hekate's gate

http://www.reocities.com/Athens/parthenon/8401/

Not one for idle chatter
Words are items of utility
or tricks of the trade
Slight, yet strong, calm
intensity, always in action
in motion, clearly here and now
What purpose could be served
by weighing down such
buoyant energy?


Light, airy, unfettered
ready to fly



Root of Desire

Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings, building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders life. Intrinsically senses despair, 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 has found her element. Her element is air, the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place where dreams grow up.


"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?


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. 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, shitting, 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.



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.


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.







"You rush along, prodded by demons of dissatisfaction, longing for those brightly shining baubles. Then you are struck by pain; and you know -- all you want is for the hurt to stop."

"Or are the barbs of dissatisfaction and longing distractions from existential pain -- the great tear out of ethereal paradise into this mess and muck of materiality? If we've got to deal with the stink and sweat, we may as well go after the silk and pretty prisms, and perfumes, to make it all bearable."

"Then there is the old creed, you know, 'man's search meaning'. 'There must be more than all this stuff and nonsense.' We must have a purpose, to make this place better then when we arrived. But does this place ever get better, despite so many best efforts? What would better mean? No more clarifying pain, would that be better? If we could be free to pursue the baubles that excite us, without the distraction of pain, would that be better?"

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 ensues.

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.


Snidely disrespecting others' views creates unnecessary problems by obfuscating what needs to be done to create better options.

Morality is not about some superseding law. It is an ever evolving system for successful social cooperation in a world of others. Like an unwanted cat abandoned on a desolate highway that somehow always finds its way home, we learn to find our way through far from ideal lives.


Even the most empathically aware of us do the reprehensible when it is the least evil of possible choices within the situation.

We might murder to spare our victims and theirs fates worse then death.

We might steal when theft of property is a less onerous crime than property as theft of essential resources.

We might rape to be a more gentle assailant than our pack mates, to give some human compassion as context for the victim -- or as an alternative to death for them or us or others.

One never knows when a seemingly stable social world might turn feral, vicious, beyond easy imagining. Post-apocalyptic stories are not about unthinkable destruction so much as unleashed manifestations of demons we all know too well.

Lynch mobs never needed nuclear winter's devastation, nor did the ubiquitous Third Reich.

It is not about evil. Relegating solutions to an impossible realm of absolutes denies our most human gifts of creative adaptability. Anyone can be taught appropriate behaviors, and thus be given opportunity to expand their consciousness and consciences beyond what life had previously taught to be acceptable or even required for survival. We are born to respond to changing requirements with growing comprehension. That growth, though, needs grounding in a greater social bonding to turn negative to positive regard, to expand our repertoire of reactions from limiting to exuberance.



Born into storm, voices thunder through these echoing caverns
Hekate paints onto cave walls through my hands
Jovial Dandy (JD): "Come, honey, sit on Dandy's lap. Tell me your sweet little stories. I will tinge them with blood for immortality."
Losing enthusiasm, need infusion of starlight in my brain.
Alone. All one within.







work and love
expression and assimilation
need for food, air, stimulation
ideation, imagination, succor
self-aware cells, each with place
and passion
busy interchange
at market and field
combine, wielding power, grow
beyond boundaries
permeable to trade, elation
creative generation
each lives to give
essence




I don't crave to be mean
I mean to be kind
but the words go obscene
between mouth and mind
Don't know what to say,
what to do
not below or above
centered here with you



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.