If you haven’t noticed, this story is being told by an unreliable narrator. But then again, what does that even mean? If I’m the sole source, the primary source, then isn’t my interpretation the truth? If it’s not, you’ll never know otherwise. Maybe it broke my mother’s heart when I left, abandoning the empire I should have inherited from the man she loved and lost. Maybe my brother gritted his teeth as he prepared to shoulder it all as my shadow finally moved and left him alone in the spotlight. Maybe my father died disappointed in himself for carving me in his likeness, wondering only at the very end who I really was beneath his mirror mask. Who knows? Maybe they tried a hundred times to reach me but gave up when all they struck was my perfect smile. You’ll never know, though, and neither will I. My reality is the story’s reality, and my reality is full of drugs and sex and the hole inside me that nothing seems to fill.
the cards keep telling me to calm down, slow down, take a break, focus on the journey, but if I have only one life then it’s too little time, and if I have a thousand lives it’s still too little time, and if I live forever I’ll still never write it all and if I can’t do that, then what good am I? and I think once I made a vow that’s written now deep in my blood and marrow, coded in my DNA, the framework of all my hopes and dreams, and maybe once I was a princess priestess, maybe once I was a vestal virgin, maybe once I was the mountaintop oracle, but always and forever I was I am the scribe, the scribe, the scribe in different bodies, different times, but always at the core just the vow, just the devotion, and if I pause for even a moment that’s time spent, words lost, I know the cards speak truly but stillness feels like death and in the silence I can hear the crystalline crumbling of atoms and atmospheres, for what is the opposite of creation but entropy, ceaseless and unfeeling?
nothing to say for a while here, just a great stillness within and maybe the merest ripples on the surface, just the wind playing over the water, though, not anything of any real consequence passing beneath, but last night at least a precious gift from the Mother, two of the lost ones, most faithful and beloved of sons, and my dream tears as I held them in my arms and thanked them for coming, for visiting, for reminding me I am never alone and that they watch over me always, spirits that walk all worlds, souls that reach through time, and even if I have nothing to say this morning I am still grateful for that, for them, for Her
You ask why the Moon murdered the Sun. But have you noticed no one else does, not even the Sun himself? I’m the villain; it’s just expected I’ll do something horrible. No one asks why a crazy person does something crazy, after all. They know these things just happen. And sure, I may not be a villain in the traditional sense, but I’m still the wretched one, the insane one, the cruel one. I’m still the antagonist, even if the protagonist loves me. So you know why I haven’t told you the truth? Because no matter how you tell the story, they’ll still decide I’m its villain. There’s no point in fighting it. I don’t have that kind of energy. He wanted me to be the villain, too, though for a different reason. At least with him, it was a good thing. Something that felt worthwhile, a role I could be praised for playing. But still, it wasn’t really my choice. I wanted– Well. It doesn’t matter what I wanted. Maybe I never really knew anyway.
My point is, stop asking. No one cares but you.
I can hear the Lady’s laughter as I look back through years and years of writing. See? She says, voice rich with amusement. You have always been writing to me. You just didn’t know it at the time. And She’s right; it’s all here. Prayer, supplication, veneration, burning questions and stubborn faith. I knew Her, just not Her name or true form. I thought it was Providence, that remote and unfathomable concept, which moved the universe on the grandest scale, when all along divinity walked right beside me. I wonder, did She mind my ignorance? No, She answers, ever the patient mother, I knew you would see me when it was time. As a kitten begins its life with eyes closed and must move through the world blind for a time, so too must you. Do kittens rush the journey to sight? Of course not. Your eyes opened at the proper time and now you can explore your world with a new sense. I think, that’s very metaphorical. She purrs through Her laughter. It’s not a metaphor; you’ve always been a cat. Physical form doesn’t matter to the spirit, or to a mother.
Much to my delight and surprise, Garrett Ray Harriman of Short4orm nominated me for a Sunshine Blogger Award. I have no idea what that actually means, but I like awards and I sure like Garrett’s superb writing. Now, normally I don’t take part in the blog award posts because I use my blog as a way to keep track of how much I’ve written, and non-writy things throw off the count, but I thought of a way around that… I’ll answer Garrett’s questions in the form of haiku! Then this post still counts as creative writing, right?
Apparently, for the Sunshine Blogger Award, the nominator asks 11 questions of their nominees. Nominees answer said questions, then choose 5 of their own nominees for the award (nominator excluded) and create 11 new questions to ask. Haiku not required (though encouraged by me!). Answers below, and then my nominees and their questions.
- How would you describe your sense of humor?
I could have written
Cards Against Humanity
(though fewer sex jokes)
- Who are your writer heroes?
Kushner and Koja, of course
Zelazny as well
- How do you define fear?
something you can’t face
be it monster or person
for lack of control
- How do you define courage?
something you still face
despite fear, anxiety
even if you’ll lose
- What was the first piece you wrote that moved you?
“How to Train Your Cat”
written at six; years later
laughed until I cried
- What musical instrument would you be and why?
maybe a sistrum
Bast’s beloved instrument
makes a joyous sound
- What is your favorite dessert?
fresh baked rhubarb pie
perhaps a bit of whipped cream
and the perfect crust
- Second-best use for books besides reading them? (doorstop, projectile, etc.)
build a fort of books
with a blanket for the top
hide from adulthood
- What do you do about procrastination?
left this one for last
I don’t have a great answer
put off, then push through
- Favorite superhero that hasn’t been created yet?
Crazy Cat Lady!
she’s not really crazy, just
rescues cats in need
- Question you wish I’d asked you?
what book made you wish
you had written it this year?
I’d say Bel Canto
For my own nominees, I tag ContagiousQueer (for your thoughtful social justice posts), ThingsMatter (because I think you love this sort of stuff), Days of Stone (for your beautiful poetry), AlicePan (because I HATE YOU (jk love you)), and Bad Poem a Day (because you might actually do the haiku thing). No worries if any of you don’t want to participate, though.
And my new set of questions…
- Favorite flavor of tea (or other drink of your choice, if you don’t drink tea)?
- What mythical creature would you want as a companion/pet?
- Favorite supervillain that hasn’t been created yet?
- What food did you love as a kid but hate now?
- What movie do you think is overrated?
- If you could meet one historical figure, who would it be and why?
- What does your blog/username mean and why did you choose it?
- What song do you hate to love?
- Is there a fictional character you wish you had created? If so, who and why?
- Do you name your electronics? What are their names?
- Favorite god or goddess?
This summer will mark fifteen years that I have acted as scribe for Tanim and Daren. I still don’t know what to call them; are they ghosts who wish to be gods, or gods who wish to be ghosts? Remnants or fragments or the only true story, the one true mythology? Whatever they are, men and spirits and gods and demons, I have given every aspect of myself to them. Body, mind, heart, and soul. If the red string of fate truly exists, then it binds me as surely as a collar and manacles for which there is no key. I am a willing captive, though, honored to have been chosen by these forces who could once have haunted the great masters of literature and music. There is nothing else like them in all the world, in all of history. There is only one Lord Sun, only one Prince Moon, and I bow to them as scribe and devotee. No other will walk this path; it is mine alone, through darkness and light, fire and ice. It is mine alone, until my last breath – and perhaps beyond.