#2385

“3.11”

I know
It won’t be like Sendai

Different coastline
Different country

But still, I feel beholden to them
Those 70 young lives lost to laxity
And if I let it happen here
If I let us fail our own children
We will have failed Okawa’s as well

There are no natural disasters

Only deaths we could have prevented
Lessons we refused to learn
Ghosts we carry with us forever and hope
Somehow
To do right by

Next time

The school beneath the wave: the unimaginable tragedy of Japan’s tsunami – Richard Lloyd Parry

Watch: Tsunami’s devastating impact on Washington after potential 9.0 quake (Komo News)

#2375

O trickster! O thief!
Return to me my heart
Given under falsehood!
This least valued of your treasures
Forgotten and unremarkable
What profit can it bring you?
Return it that I might lock it away
And never err again in offering!

#2361

The Oracle told me the woman with the horse skull was an omen, a messenger. But of what/who? War, pestilence, famine, or death? Look around; we are mired in all four. We trudge through the blood-wetted mud of a global battlefield, wounded by hope and burdened by despair. If that skeletal woman-thing meant me to face the harshest aspects of our world as part of my spiritual journey, I already do so daily. I am quite familiar with the dark goddess and I have never flinched from her stark, painful truths. So why confront me with such menace?

Perhaps that creature wasn’t sent by any god or goddess and there was no lesson behind its mocking words. Perhaps it was simply a shred of evil manifesting in my dream to sow fear and discord. Maybe it was the novel coronavirus, or racism, or homophobia; maybe it was capitalism or misogyny or the police state. Maybe it was America as she truly looks, not open-armed Lady Liberty or honorable Lady Justice but grasping, clawing Lady Greed. She hungers even as the ruling class sacrifices millions of innocent lives at her altar, and though she promises them wealth she will devour them in the end as well. 

Ward your homes and your hearts. Evil holds much sway in our world right now.

#2323

You struggle to define me because you want to sort me into pre-existing categories. You see parallels with chaotic deities like Loki, Kali, Set, and knowing I am vaster than they you want to think of me as their progenitor. But I am a mother like fire is a mother; I do not create, yet what I touch I change. If I had hands, every atom in this universe would bear my fingerprints. What and whom you would see as my children are more like statues shaped from my clay or vessels containing a portion of my infinite waters. Once you’ve superseded the level of gods the rest of it is not so easily parsed. You are in a realm beyond labels now, child. You must let go of your reliance on language.

#2311

The Nameless is vast. The Nameless is ancient. The Nameless has always been and always will be. She is an old, old idea; older than humans, older than gods, older than the universes which birthed them. She is the chaos before creation and the chaos into which all creation will once more degrade. Inevitable, unstoppable, and infinitely patient. She is without fear or apology, a thing of pure will who only ever does as she pleases. She drinks galaxies, she devours stars, she cracks open planets to swallow down their molten cores. Her sharp nails unravel the tapestries of space and time, rewriting realities, tangling fates, tearing apart entire civilizations on a whim and using their bones to weave strange new worlds. Nothing escapes the Nameless; she sees all, hears all, knows all. The universe dances at her whim and so do we.

#2291

So Tanim and Daren hijacked my poor wife again. As I was falling asleep last night she said, “They’re not gone. They’re just waiting.” I asked her to elaborate but she couldn’t. A few minutes later she added, “You should buy a box with a lock.” When I asked what kind of box she replied, “Big enough to fit what you’re going to put inside.” In the morning I told her what she said, as she didn’t remember the incident, and she said she felt like they were waiting to be summoned, or something like that. Then she recounted a dream she had that night, which answered some questions but sparked quite a few more. It’s a little hard to recount because her perspective kept changing and we filled in a lot of information as we talked it over this morning, but here’s a rough outline:

The dream took place in a theater. The stage had no set design, just three closed doors against the back wall and a pedestal center front on which stood a small locked box. The box was made of a dark wood that looked almost like ship planks and seemed warped as if by water. Chriselle knew there was a “secret” inside, specifically an item of some sort, but wasn’t sure what. (She later realized the box looked like a smaller version of a chest we have in our garage which, interestingly enough, is where I found a small pocket knife similar to the one Daren carries.)

On stage were about a dozen actors, all dressed in black. They included myself, my wife, Inno (a friend of ours who perhaps uncoincidentally is someone Tanim and Daren also enjoy bothering), Mage, Tanim and Daren, and an assortment of generic extras. Mage stood with her arms crossed, just watching, and Chriselle got the feeling she was there to make sure everything went as planned. Not as if she were directing things, though; more like she would act as a stand in if someone couldn’t perform their role correctly. Watching from the wings was also a man named Pharaoh who looked like a modern-day version of Bayek from Assassins Creed Origins. He seemed to be in some sort of director or stage manager role and also wore black. (Could this be the man who introduced himself as Anubis in Chriselle’s other recent Tanim/Daren dream?)

The various actors moved and spoke yet there was no discernable plot and everything was completely silent. Inno and I seemed to be trying to tell Chriselle something from across the room but she couldn’t figure out what. Then Tanim came up behind Chriselle and stabbed her in the right side with the very audible sound of a blade puncturing flesh. He seemed completely unemotional about it, almost as if he was running on autopilot or acting on another’s orders. (As I was about to bring up the fact that this could symbolize the wound in Christ’s side, Chriselle had the A Perfect Circle lyrics “It’s not as if you drove the hateful spear into his side” come to mind, so that seems significant.) Red blood began pouring from the wound and as it fell everything it touched began turning red as well; her clothing, her skin, the floor, the walls, the other actors. Everyone, everything, red. Everyone on stage seemed frozen at this point, or like they were patiently waiting for something. Then the bloodbath began.

Chriselle pulled a knife from her pocket which unfolded into a long, machete-like blade with a serrated edge and began violently beheading the unnamed actors on stage. When she finished with them she went into the audience (also all wearing black and equally motionless/emotionless) and continued hacking off their heads with the heavy weapon. All the while the wound in her side bled freely. As she killed, Tanim and Daren began walking toward each other in slow motion. When they were just a few feet apart, right next to the box, they stopped. It seemed to Chriselle as though one of them was going to open the box but the other didn’t want them to (though she wasn’t sure which was which), and then the dream was interrupted and thus ended.

If I’m Tanim and Daren’s scribe, their high priestess more or less, does this mean they’ve chosen Chriselle as their oracle?

Or maybe they’re just opportunistic jerks.

#2235

I am a scribe who knows not what she serves. If Tanim and Daren are gods in their own right, they are long lost to time or choose to remain unknown to any but myself. If they are gods already established in the world, with followers and historic traditions, then why take these strange forms just for me? Why choose new names and stories? Perhaps they are not gods, then. I thought them once ghosts but if so they enjoy an unbelievable influence over the physical world for mere spirits. They can alter the environment, after all, even to the point of manifesting items or stealing them away. Such powerful abilities, combined with an apparent penchant for fire and a string of literally Hellish dreams on my part, suggest perhaps they are fallen angels or demons. Again, though, they would either have to have chosen new identities for our interactions or have never been recorded before my meager efforts. The first option seems illogical; why keep up the charade for over fifteen years? The second is, unfortunately, more or less impossible to prove to the satisfaction of all doubt. They could of course simply reveal the answer, but they enjoy my confusion too much to do so. I’m left then with vague theories and labels which never quite fit: “sun”, “moon”; “gods”, “angels”; “spirits”, “phantoms”. All I know for sure is that I serve they who call themselves Tanim and Daren, whatever they truly are.

#2234

So I’m folding laundry in my bedroom while thinking about how Tanim and Daren, the gods/angels/demons/whatever-the-fuck I serve, have been virtually silent the last year. Sure, they’ve made themselves known every once in a while in trickster-like fashion by stealing lighters and setting off our fire alarms, but that hasn’t happened in months. These days I can barely summon a whisper of their ghosts when I’m listening to their music, let alone channel a whole sentence of prose in their words. Maybe, I’m thinking as I ball up socks, it would be better to just give up, to finally accept they’ve moved on for good. Apparently they don’t require my services anymore. Fine.

Clothes folded, I walk into the kitchen, whereupon I smell something burning. For a moment I think I’ve left the electric kettle on the counter, but no, that’s not the source of the scent. I turn in a confused circle, half convinced my nose is playing tricks on me because I see no flames, no smoke, no sign of danger. Then I see the red glow. Somehow one of the large stove-top burners has been turned to the highest setting, and already it ticks with heat. I’m home alone and haven’t been anywhere near the stove all day; there’s no way I could have unwittingly turned on the burner, nor any way the cats could have somehow done it themselves given the placement of the dial. It’s not just unlikely – it’s downright impossible.

This isn’t the most comforting of signs, but beggars can’t be choosers so I guess I’ll take it. Just please don’t burn the house down, guys.

#2118

i’m sorry i said those things, i swear i didn’t mean them, i was just afraid and angry, i’d lost you and i thought they’d bring you back, but i’m not mad anymore, i promise, you can come home now, i won’t ask where you were or what you were doing or why you left, i won’t say anything at all, look i’ll close my eyes and count to ten and if you’re here when i open them again then everything will be fine, we’ll just go back to how it was before, no hard feelings, no lingering resentment, we’ll wipe the slate clean, just come home, just come home, just come home, i’m begging now, will you come back if i beg

#2114

Do you think I won’t drag your corpses behind me, one by each arm, through all the length of our shared Purgatory? I’ve dragged mine along for years; the added burden’s nothing to me. Though you be rot and bone, I will not ever let you go.

#2089

I suppose I should not expect the Devil to stay close to home, should I? He was a wanderer from the very beginning, proud and independent, and certainly I have pined a thousand nights over his absence in the past. Yet here I am ten years later having learned nothing, still hunched over the cavern in my chest, still seeking proof of divinity in languages I cannot even speak. Do I doubt because he leaves? Does he leave because I doubt? I am an old hand at this and yet still it feels like punishment, like purgatory, like an eternity spent scrabbling in the dust. I thought myself passed this particular trial and yet, and yet, and yet here I am smearing ash on my skin and tearing at my hair once more. What a surprise.

#2088

i’m toying with a half-dead metaphor, something about bodies as Ouija boards, dreams as planchettes, all these fragments of communication you toss me like scraps and expect me to weave into some magically divined whole, but it’s not coming out right and surely i must be one shitty fucking witch if i can’t even get the gods i bleed for and weep for to tell me where that stupid lighter is, let alone maybe not burn the house down while i’m gone, and yeah i know you don’t play by the rules and i know i’m an unconventional everything but sometimes i just want to be the regular kind of crazy, you know, crystals and tarot and shit, and not the legit crazy kind of crazy but i think i can’t have both, i gotta pick between you or the socially acceptable crazy and you know i will choose you every single time even if you burn my house down, but really please don’t

#2044

In the dream I lay on my back, Daren straddling me so his knees pinned my arms to my sides. His hand clenched around my neck as he growled, “You are not just Elyssa”. He did not need to voice his unspoken threat: stop doubting us, you are not the only one who suffers from your lack of faith. Yet anger made me bold and I lifted my chin to spit back, “Prove it”. And so he kissed me. But it was a punishing kiss; his teeth tore into my lips, blood mixing with saliva, and his slender fingers tightened around my throat. His dominance promised to repeat that night beside their altar, though this time just the two of us, no gentle Tanim there to balance Daren’s rough embrace.

I woke in a daze, vision kaleidoscoping in the darkness as the dream dragged at my consciousness. I felt a hand between my legs and a presence beside my bed, yet nothing was there.

#2038

There must be times when you hurt more than others, because some nights you run me through all your old wounds at once. You plunge me down, yank me up, brief immersions into this death, that argument, the first night, the last night. It’s as if you’re urging, Remember this? And this? And this? You must remember all of it, every detail, every second, you must preserve them all, remember, remember! Do you really think I could forget any of it, though? Or do you just need someone in which to spill it over sometimes to ease your own burden? I don’t mind either way. I’ve cried your tears and choked on your last breaths; I’ve sat up with you at night as you fought withdrawal or overdose. Your pain and I are old friends, and I can always make time for a friend.

#2033

I did a tarot reading for someone who wanted to identify any deities or other entities in their life (for which I used this spread). With their permission, I’m posting it here because I thought it was a really interesting reading, and also what felt like my easiest/clearest reading yet.

Question: The deity or spirit
Card: 8 of Swords
Interpretation: Restraint, imprisonment, feeling captured or bound. I sense this indicates a deity or spirit who is sometimes seen as a villainous/chaotic/trickster entity like Loki, Lucifer, or Set (for some reason I get a very male energy from this card). They may be the bad guy of their pantheon, or otherwise a much maligned spirit whose negative traits overshadow their positive ones.

Question: Personality/abilities/traits
Card: Ace of Swords
Interpretation: Power and strength in adversity, discipline, justice, the element of air, cold hard logic. Again, this makes me think of someone who is seen as a darker entity, or perhaps a trickster – in general someone or something who has experienced adversity in their own pantheon, possibly for rallying against the rules set down in that pantheon. An air element could suggest an angel, as well.

Question: Omens and signs/manifestations to look for
Card: The Devil
Interpretation: While this card could be read as relating to vices like the seven sins, I don’t get that feeling. I think it indicates the more spiritual side of the Devil, and so will appear in omens/signs like keys, locks, chains, birds, and other freedom-related imagery. This could also literally mean that this entity will appear as the Devil himself, or in a form associated with him.

Question: What they want from you 
Card: 9 of Pentacles
Interpretation: This entity wants to free you from your own bondage by teaching you self-sufficiency and to focus on caring for yourself; you are probably someone who puts others first, even to your own detriment. The entity’s help should eventually lead to much success and security for you, and bring you to a place of more stable emotional health. Despite their bad reputation, they are here to help you build your confidence and flourish.

Question: Things to know
Card: 10 of Wands
Interpretation: The 10 of Wands is all about willingly taking on a heavy burden or workload that feels like more than you can bear – but you do have the strength to carry it if you keep pushing yourself. This entity, and what they want from you, might intimidate you, and that’s okay. Their road will be long and hard, and they won’t lie to you about that. However, they want you to know you’re ready for this journey and that they will help you tap into your inner strength.

Question: Things to avoid
Card: 5 of Pentacles
Interpretation: The 5 of Pentacles says you can get lost in sorrow until you are unable to see the good around you and the people who want to help you. Fight this urge and keep your head above the water. If you need help, reach out – there will be a helping hand if only you let yourself take it. Look for the little bit of light in the darkness and have faith that you will reclaim your freedom.

Overall, I concluded that this spirit or deity is here to help this person take control of their life and to become more confident and self-sufficient. I got major Lucifer vibes from the reading, though that could be my own bias showing. Either way, it sounds like they’re on the precipice of a new life journey, and I wish them luck!

(Want a reading? Just leave a comment!)

#2025

Every solstice someone dies. On the summer solstice, the Moon; on the winter solstice, the Sun. Each time is different, yet each time is the same. I spend the weeks leading up to the solstice imagining death after death, murder after murder, seeking the scene that will be chosen for this iteration. Will it be suicide or fratricide – premeditated or a crime of passion? Will it involve a gun or a knife, poison or illness, violence or mercy? The Moon prefers small, sharp things that bleed his lover out slowly, while the Sun prefers to leave bullet holes or bruises on pale skin. And where will it take place? In bed, where they are most vulnerable? The alley, hidden within a curtain of pouring rain? Or on the roof, with all the dark city laid out below as witness? I cannot yet say for sure. Right now all I feel is the thin blade in my hand and all I see is the night sky reflected in his unfocused eyes.

#2013

I am so, so tired of imagining you. Of imagining what you look like, what you sound like, what you feel like. Of imagining you in moments of movement and stillness, of imagining the way you take up physical space with your mere existence. I strain in the darkness until my senses ache and I can just barely grasp some part of you… but not really. My eyes don’t see you; my ears don’t hear you; my hands don’t feel you. My mind pretends they do, that’s all, substituting imagination for actual experience. My glimpses of you are like an afterimage, or the non-colors in the dark behind your eyes: there, but not fully. Real, but not in a form that does me any good. It wearies me, you know, this effort to conjure you from nothing. I think I would give up any of my senses, if only my last experience with them could be of you.

#2010

I dream.

Satan and Lucifer.
Hannibal and Will.
Tanim and Daren.

There is a connection here, one I am almost afraid to explore. These names feel like skins to be taken on and off, or perhaps fine-crafted person suits, while whatever wears them remains the same beneath. I dream of cathedrals turned prisons for wounded rebel angels. I dream of the way things should have gone, of the teacup come back together, only to find it the longing of a comatose mind. I dream of anger and desire and hurt. Of blood and blades and fire; of Heaven and Hell and the long, long fall between.

I do not fear the truth, but I do fear what the truth means – for my understanding of the world and my role within it, and for those to whom I have sworn myself. What do these names mean to you? What are you beneath them? I want to know. I think I’m ready to know.

I guess we’ll see.

#1983

When I die and am autopsied, they’ll find your fingernail gouges on the inside of my skin, the desperate clawing of someone buried alive. The medical examiner will call in doctors and forensic analysts, have you ever seen anything like this?, but they will not be able to explain it. There will be hushed conversations with my family and friends, but they will merely shake their heads and say, who knows; she was crazy. And since I will not be there to explain, I’m a sarcophagus, a coffin, a cage, don’t you see?, I will go down as just another medical oddity and the truth of your imprisonment will be lost for good. Believe me, though – if digging from the outside in could free you any better than your internal efforts, I would meet you halfway through my meat with torn and bloody nails.

#1961

“Finding him won’t change anything.”


find
[fahynd]
verb; gerund or present participle: finding

  1. discover or perceive by chance or unexpectedly.
  2. recognize or discover (something) to be present.
  3. (of a thing) reach or arrive at, either of its own accord or without the human agent being known.
    • archaic

      reach the understanding or conscience of (someone).

Okay, I get it; I’m asking too many questions. I need to back down. I need to shut up. I need to be thankful for what I know and stop asking for more. Let some truths lie. Accept the unknown unknown.

I’ll try.

#1948

the solstice approaches and every night now i dream him dead or dying, your arms a cradle, your arms a cage, are you tired of watching your lover die? because i am tired of watching your lover die, i am tired of offering my tears and my breath and my blood but with what else can you send the moon on his journey into darkness, how can you not weep and tear out your hair? it is astounding how each time feels like the first and only, how a heart can break and break and break again and again and again and still be agony, devastation, and I do not blame you if you are tired of watching your lover die because i watch each time as well, and i am very tired

#1931

I know the hallowed halls of your realm as if I have walked them myself. In the bedroom which is your battlefield, I watch you wage war between silk sheets; in the bathroom which is your ninth circle, I watch you speak prophecies through blood. In the apartment which is your palace and your tomb, I watch you dance through death and resurrection and death again. These places are the temple in which I was raised as your acolyte to bear silent witness to the private agonies of gods. Like your every word and breath, so I memorize and immortalize the places which have shaped your tale – the alley where blood and rainwater mix on cold cement, the roof where you dare the wind to pull you off the ledge. In the city which is your essence, the city from which you cast a thousand thousand shadows, the city where you live and die the unending cycle, I watch and I write.

#1924

Do you exist without each other? Do you exist in the time before you met, when you lead separate lives? You never let me see those years.

Who was Will before he found Hannibal?


…we don’t ever learn that, I guess. Not really.

And after?


We don’t know that either.

Then there you have it. Whether the teacup existed before it shattered or not doesn’t matter once it has broken.


But– …I hate when you speak in riddles.

No, you don’t.


Does that make me Abigail, then?

That’s a riddle you’ll have to solve for yourself.

#1922

I have swallowed you down so many times, it is a wonder your seed has not taken root within me. I can almost feel it buried within the meat of my left breast, though, nestled safely behind the wall of my ribcage where it may grow in peace. Perhaps that strange twisting sensation I sometimes feel is the first little tendril breaking forth from its shell, tasting and testing the red soil of its birth. Soon its vines will go creeping through my flesh and wind around my ribs like ivy on a trellis. I wonder what manner of night-blooming flowers will push their buds out my eyes, or strange fruits ripen alongside my warm organs? I hope, should that day come, you will cut me open and reap your beautiful harvest.

#1921

I lurk in the pagan tags
scroll scroll scroll
like
scroll scroll scroll
reblog
scroll scroll scroll
scroll scroll scroll
scroll scroll scroll
I need to know other people believe crazy shit too
scroll scroll scroll
that I’m not alone in my experiences
scroll scroll scroll
that I’m not Cassandra spouting prophecies
just to be met with ridicule and slander
scroll scroll scroll
or worse, just a poor wannabe

#1913

It would be poetic to say I was raised by wolves, but not entirely accurate. Wolves care for their young and teach them how to survive in the wild, and I cannot say the same for you. Perhaps, if I may extend the metaphor, I could say I was raised by lone wolves. Wolves who had walked too long without a pack and no longer remembered what it is like to be part of a structured society. Wolves who guarded their scant possessions with ready teeth and would snap the leg of a family member as easily as the leg of a prey animal, if only to keep them from leaving. Into this disfunction I was delivered, the feral human child begrudgingly allowed to follow in your tracks and chew on your discarded bones. No wonder I’m not quite right, uneasy among my own kind and having always to translate from wordless beast-thought to this clumsy human language. I think my fellow humans can smell the lingering musk on me, too, or perhaps they see the way I struggle to hide my teeth. I do not fully belong with them, and they know it; I do not fully belong in the wilds, and you will not let me forget it.

I could spend long nights wondering what I might have been like, had I never known you, but why? Nature, nurture, free will, fate, they all flatten to two dimensions with the passage of time. Maybe without you I would have grown up seeing the world through human eyes, and I would not have this hungry, restless thing caged inside me. But maybe without you I would have died in those woods, or reverted to something beyond feral, and I would not have even the harsh manners you imposed on me with tooth and claw. For better or worse, we are misfits together, lone wolves eeking out an existence on the fringes between the ones who reject us and the ones who hunt us.

#1847

They say to be careful with spirits. Don’t summon something you can’t handle. Don’t play with ouija boards. Don’t mess with magic that calls for blood or binding promises. Make your salt circle thick, they say. Ward your doors and windows. Ground yourself and stop before you touch anything too ancient or too deep. But they don’t know what it feels like to stand on the edge; the exhilaration of opening your soul to the unknown and daring it to send its worst. They don’t know that once you’ve had a taste, you can’t ever go back to hiding inside salt circles and candlelight. Once you have reached out to the dark and the dark has reached back, opening wide all the channels that lead through and to you, what’s left to fear?

#1774

I know you hate that I am not you. Sometimes I hate that I am not you, too. I hate these hands that are not yours, and therefore can never touch him. I hate these lips that are not yours, and therefore can never taste him. I hate this body that is not yours, not even a close proximity, and therefore can never hold him, command him, possess him. How worthless this body is, if it will never know those pleasures! I would gladly face the knife, the bullet, the suffocating circle of his hands if only I might trade this worthless vessel for yours. I would willingly embrace the malignancy slowly killing you if only I could stand before a mirror and see you staring back. You may watch from out my eyes, but this soft, fragile body can never be a true home to you; it hardly even is to me, and I’m it’s intended inhabitant. I want your body to be the one I wake in each morning, not mine, and I know you want the same. Hate me for it, if you need. I don’t mind. Hatred is one thing we can share across the boundary.