Catching Up Edition!
So what has happened since the last post on September 19th? I was sent a video that reminded me of a certain someone. I made reference to the video and to him, calling him ‘Sirrah’ in the process.
An Anon called me out for disrespect I did not know I was engaging in…
Anonymous asked: Just trying to understand a tag you used, “Good evening Sirrah” – As far as I know, sirrah is an old derogatory way to address males believed to be inferior, either by status or by morals (and a modern equivalent might be “little man” or “boy” used negatively), or a reference to a star in the Andromeda group. Were you addressing the Star fondly, or perhaps a backstory/spirit name I’ve missed?
None of the above. I was taught (by book and example) that Sirrah was a Very Formal Sir. It could be used as compliment or insult, with the surrounding text (and gestures) forming the context of the situation.
If spoken with arsenic slurring, it’s a poisoned title inferring the person so called is not worthy to be addressed. If spoken with formality and with grace, it is an acknowledgment the person called is above the status of the speaker by position, grace, or merit.
In my usage in that tag, I am referring to One Person in Particular with full acknowledgment of his station above me. No matter how friendly and conspiratorial we may sit, at that moment, our stations relative to each other was quite clear.
I’ll also deploy the term sarcastically and in jest even as I’m an eye twitch away from being ganked for it, but since when do I play it safe? -laughs-
That’s that, right? Nope. It started to bug me. Even though I ended my answer with a “I do what I want!” vibe, I realized that I could no longer plead ignorance. A little checking elsewhere did reveal that ‘Sirrah’ is a nasty epithet in the way that ‘Negro’ is. When next I sat at Rummer John’s table, I challenged him about it.
Me: “Goddammit. Why did you let me say ‘Sirrah’ all this time if it was an insult?”
RJ: “You didn’t know. You never meant it as such. And I enjoyed how you did use it.”
Me: “I’ve called you a lot of things over the years, some more vicious than others. I won’t call you ‘lesser’, though. You’ve earned each and every expletive from me.”
RJ: “Ha! Then don’t call me ‘lesser’.”
Me: “You’re not going to give me a straight answer, are you.”
RJ: “More rum?”
Me: “Bastard.”
RJ: “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
He didn’t give me a straight answer. My conscious would not let it drop. I silently removed ‘Sirrah’ from the list of names, epithets, and accusations I was willing to sling against him. And that was that.
Elsewhere, I was being challenged again. Posers trying to pose and intimidate me by clever use of light and shadows. They depended on their reputations and the trauma their kind inflicted on me as a child to keep me humble and penitent.
I shattered the shields they hid behind, and destroyed the door meant to keep me out. I said very little online of the event. I posted the words I had said, but gave no further explanation.
Keep testing me, bitch. Keep encouraging me to learn new things. Keep waking up the Old Things within me. Keep calling that current to the surface. Keep breaking the false chains holding me back.
If you had never tested me, I would have never risen to the challenge.
If you had never tested me, I would still be cowering in piss-soaked fear.
If you had never tested me, I would never have lifted my head.
Keep testing me, bitch. I stand at the door, but I will not knock. I stand at the door and you could not force me away. I stand at the door.
Don’t give me a reason to come in.
Keep testing me, bitch.
I wasn’t happy about the bullying attempt, could you tell? One set of bullies got their door destroyed. One would-be-lord-of-everything found his blustering was for naught as I (finally) saw through the deception and kicked his claims to the curb. All seemed to settle down until one night…
I was chilling with a group of folks. Some were y’all Tumblrites, some weren’t. Our common thread was that we were all polytheists, and we all slung juju. (But not all of us identified as witches. It seems a little thing, and yet, it seems quite important.)
Conversation turned to favorite deities, and I quietly and mutely excused myself from that conversation by getting another cup of coffee. Some asked about me. Those of y’all that were there simply said, “Sometimes she gets quiet. It means she doesn’t want to talk. It’s not an insult. She just doesn’t want to talk but doesn’t want us to feel like we should shut up as well.” That annoyed a person, who wanted to know if I wasn’t going to talk, then why the hell was I there.
“You sure she’s not some mole and she’s not going to blackmail us later?”
I had my back turned when that was said, but the sound of a pillow being delivered hard enough to thunk the speaker was satisfying.
I got my coffee, pretended I didn’t hear anything, and sat down at a far couch to ride out the topic. It wasn’t anything upsetting. I just didn’t want to join in. Some ribbed me about Rummer John being my favorite. I just smiled and shook my head. He’s just one that I talk about (too damn) much. But he’s not my favorite. The conversation went on without me.
I don’t remember falling into a daze.
I barely remember the sound of the coffee mug hitting the floor.
“She’s seizing!”
I remember what I saw. What I felt. The smell. The echos. The sobbing. I remember it because I experienced it as if it happened to me. This wasn’t the retelling of a memory. This was the event searing itself into me.
“Let her go.” Let who go? “She’s not yours. Let her go.” Cold hands touched my face. “Keri. Remember yourself.”
The name pulled the chill of the hands into my flesh. The posturing broke into a multitude of shudders. Already open eyes blinked, focused, and saw. [One of you Tumblrites] was holding my face gently. “Keri. Hello. Welcome back.”
I didn’t feel back. My body didn’t feel mine. I felt [the person whose event I just relieved]. She kept talking. Asking me questions that were answerable by grunts at first, and gradually increasing the difficulty of the answers.
“Not fucking fair.”, I finally slurred. “Why am I given skills that benefit a community when I have no community to serve?”
“Who pulled you?”
“I don’t know.” I lied.
“I know.”, a quietly angry whisper hissed. One of our number, she was shaking in rage. “And you don’t deserve the gift you have! You throw it away! You shit on it and piss on it in front of us! Useless bitch! Why did he bless you with that! That should have been mine!”
My body was still too exhausted to even sit up. I didn’t think it safe to tell what I saw. “I have no idea…”
“FUCK YOU CUNT YES YOU FUCKING DO! I JUST SAT HERE AND WATCHED HIM KISS YOU! YOU UNDESERVING MISBRED BITCH! HE POURED GOLD IN YOUR THROAT AND YOU SPAT IT OUT! I WATCHED HIM! I WATCHED YOU! I SAW HIM AND HE SAW ME AND…”
“Wait. He saw you?” Puzzle pieces fell into place. “You arrogant child.” I started laughing as I guessed the motives. It reminded my muscles to hurt. “You need to take that up with him, then. Not me. If you are going to throw a temper tantrum every time he ‘kisses’ someone other than you, you’re never going to be kissed yourself. Jealousy is a cruel mistress, even more cruel than Love.”
A fresh mug of coffee was brought to me as I forced myself to sit up. “And to rub in insult to your injury, you’re not ready to be kissed. You think you know what I just went through. You’re wrong. My normal will break your psyche and shatter your soul. That was five seconds of someone else’s physical and psychological trauma. That I will spend the next couple days disentangling myself from.” I chuckled. “That you are spitting jealous of.” Oh, laughing hurt so much, but it felt so good.
She jumped to her feet, her hands balled in rage. “You mock me!”
“Yup. Openly.”
“You’re not even his!”
“Nope. But that is between me and him. Not you. I am not the gatekeeper for your experiences. You are not the gatekeeper for mine.”
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO TO YOU? DON’T YOU DARE MOCK ME!”
Everyone of the Tumblrites in the room almost passed out from hyperventilating shrieks of laughter. The angry woman looked at them with embarrassment. The others looked about themselves in confusion. I had more control over my body now and just sipped my coffee in mirth.
“I know what you can try. I know you might even be able to scratch me. I know what I will unleash on you if you annoy me enough. I know you are not worth the bother of giving rational and mature answers to, now. Thank you for educating me.”
I stood up and spoke my farewells to the Tumblrites I saw, and those that were wearing y’all faces. (Only two of you were there for sure.) I excused myself from the gathering and left.
(And no, I’m not telling you who ‘kissed’ me. Those that need to know, know.)
Only two of the Tumblrite were actually the Tumblrites they appeared to be. Many of them were wearing masks, and while I could see who a few of them really were, the masks were not for my benefit. Nothing was harmed except for Little Miss Jealous Britches’ ego, so I said nothing.
Things remains quiet for a few days, until I found myself back at Rummer John’s table…
RJ: “No ‘Sirrah’?”
Me: “Quit it. No.”
RJ: “But you never meant ill by it.”
Me: “But now I know what it means. And I can’t with good conscious use it now.”
RJ: “But I know what you mean by it! That counts, right?”
Me: “Uncle Tito.”
RJ: “<Pardon?>”
Me: “Uncle Tito was never told that ‘colored’ was a polite-society insult to black folk. He never meant ill by it. So no one ever told him until I did. I know he meant no ill by it after, and when he slipped and called me ‘colored’ from forty years of habit, I took no offense because I knew him. The same way you know me.” ~sip~ “But he never again said that to me. Or anyone else. Because now that he knew, it was inexcusable.” ~empties glass~ “As much bullshit and backhanded compliments you allow me to sling at you, I can not in good conscious say that to you ever again. Because you’re not a lesser person. You’re not a little minded individual. And you sure as hell ain’t that kind of boy.”
RJ: “I didn’t think you to be one to pay attention to social levels.”
Me: “It’s not about your status as [we won’t talk about that here]. It’s not your age, not your position, not the leverage you can and do use over me. It’s about respect. And I respect you too much to ever utter those syllables towards you again.” ~plays with empty glass~ “If it helps break the pedestal you think I’ve erected under you, I won’t be saying it towards [The Chromed Avenger] or [That Other Guy], either. For the same reason.”
RJ: “Hmm.” ~shoves me lightly with his cane~ “You keep this up, and you’ll become a High Society Lady yet!” He laughs deeply. “Tell me, Mademoiselle, after you’ve learned all these high manners and proper speech, will you deign to come sit in the gutters with me? A cracked glass may offend delicate sensibilities. I’m sure I can have a champagne flute carved from hollow bones.” ~gestures with his hat~
Me: “You… Sir… are a pompous ass and an arrogant scoundrel. Just what I need to keep my pride in check.”
RJ: ~much laughter~ ~his face becomes scarily serious~ “If I tell you to call me a thing, would you do it? If I tell you to write publicly of it, would you do it?”
Me: ~much thought while I try to see three moves ahead in his game~ “I don’t know.”
RJ: “When next we meet, you’ll find out. Good day, [Mademoiselle].”
As of this post, we haven’t met again yet.
Instead I did work in other areas, and opened the door that a certain key fit.
Here came seven.
There stayed one.
Below is above.
The knot is undone.
The eyes shine bright.
The air fills with cheer.
The converged disperse.
To far and near.
As a result, I now have the meanings for the 48-naipe (card) variation of the Baraja Española. I’ll take that.
The days moved on but not easily…
Do I post a subtext or do I call him out? After two days of thinking I’ve decided the answer is neither. There are nine months of ‘subtext’ already posted. On second thought, I guess this post counts as both after all. I don’t know what happened after I closed that door. I don’t want to know. I walked away and I stayed away.
Tuesday (Sept 24th), The Ex found me at a favorite restaurant. Was he stalking me or did he just happen to drop in at the right time? I dunno. I didn’t know he was there until after I left to the car, when he made sure that I saw him before leaving himself.
He made sure I saw the look of anger and disgust on his face.
I gulped, sent some notifications, and took proper actions.
And caught myself falling into old and wrong thinking patterns that were quickly corrected by reminding myself how I felt when I saw the cowrie shells on my car. I didn’t exist to serve him even though that is how the relationship started. I am not an emotional teddy bear to hold when everything else is going to shit. I am not a doll to play fantasies on. My mental issues are not handle bars to control my behavior with. Towards the end the relationship was a tug-of-war for my autonomy. He wanted to be the knight that rescues me and keeps me safe in the tower. He wanted me to be the maiden that he quests for.
I rejected that. The cowrie shells was the last straw. I understood that he will never allow me independence. I felt controlled. I ended it and salted the ground between us.
Is it my fault he’s angry? I have decided it is not. Do I deserve the disgust he wanted to smother me with? No, I do not.
I don’t know what happened to him since January. I never looked. I never asked others to look for me. I deleted phone numbers, destroyed logins, and removed certain things from my presence that I felt kept me emotionally tied to him.
Tuesday, the Ex reminded me that he does not respect me, my autonomy, nor my boundaries. He tried to place himself in the center of my life and my thoughts once more. He has reduced himself to that of a stalker. What fond memories that had lingered have been replaced with his reality.
I will continue to take appropriate measures with my life and continue moving forward with my mental health. His judgment falls on his own feet. I am not responsible for what he has done to himself.
I have many words I could say, but I keep catching myself and wondering if I’m trying to placate a person I no longer recognize. Is it really this hard to say, “You terrified me in January, and made me feel incarcerated and chained to you. That’s why I ended it, in January. Because what good we shared was continually overwhelmed by the way you made me feel like you kept my head underwater until I ceded control. And now you’re back, and angry at me, because I broke your fantasy of what we had. You have learned nothing, and I refuse to teach you.”? Yes. It is.
Life goes on… dreams continue… And the Fallen Angel drops in for a visit…
The Fallen Angel came back. He (definitely identifying and presenting as male) has control over the blight he was afflicted with. We talked a bit about why as I exchanged the rags wrapping his hands with fingerless gloves. His hands and arms will always be marked, but now he doesn’t decay everything he touches on contact.
Just don’t spar with him when his hands turn black.
There was more discussion and speculation on why his hair remained platinum blond but his wings turned shadow black. His eye sockets have healed, but no globes will ever turn in them again. The two are related, but I don’t have enough of my thoughts together to begin expressing my speculation here.
He has accepted he will never return to the divine that exiled him. There is a simmering anger that tastes of sharp resentment when he speaks about it. He speaks of a loose community of “others” that he has become attached to. I asked him how he passes his time.
“I am learning how to hate. But I will always love first. And even here, where Death is Lord, love abides. Restoring love to a wounded heart still fulfills me, whether it’s bringing a lost pet home, or fixing a broken light without the mortal noticing.”
I asked him how was the weather in Night Vale. He shook his head in confusion. Yes, I’m bad. I asked him why he came back to me since he’s now established in this world and doesn’t need me to do anything for him.
He flexed his hands in his new gloves. “Because you have something I haven’t seen elsewhere yet. And even if I do see it elsewhere, it won’t be the same way you have it.”
My response was quick. “Fucking angels and fucking riddles I swear to fucking god I don’t even know what the flying fuck is it that they fucking congregate around me like fucking cats! Fuck!”
He laughed, kissed me on the forehead with a surreptitious blessing, and left.
As an aside, a poet associate found inspiration in those words, and came up with a possibility of what promise that surreptitious blessing could hold. She makes sinning sound so divine.
To make the meanings for the 48-naipe Baraja Española accessible to those of Spanish cultures, I had to synchrenize certain cards to certain folk. I didn’t want to just stick labels on faces and call it a day like Some Folks Do. For some masochistic reason, I wanted to get a formal acceptance of the assignment. I was given a place to meet them and I presented my case…
He crossed his arms and harrumphed a lot. He gave one person side-eye and another a menacing glare. He muttered threats against the host that the host laughed away. It wasn’t fair, he said. It wasn’t right, he said. Weaver is upsetting the order of things, he said.
My host laughed and laughed while the other invitees arranged their game pieces on the table. One wanted two pieces but could only choose one. One wanted this piece because of the appearance but that piece because of the function. One took the game piece I had picked out and held it smugly. The others half argued, half teased about the remaining pieces. And That One Guy still harrumphed in wounded offense.
“She’s not overthrowing you! She’s not telling your followers to abandon you! She’s giving [those] and you a way to reach them when they don’t have access to the traditional ways. She could have told you to go jump into the sea after what you tried to do.” My host relaxed in his chair and laughed again. “Or are you upset that she does this not for you but for her fellow humans? That she is putting their concerns before your ego.”
That One Guy pounded the table in anger. “I come first! Me! All that follows came through me! She has no right! She defies tradition!”
“You forget which world you are in. You forget she flows through yours like a zephyr. You forget that humans are not isolated groups anymore. You and yours roam the world just like all the others now. Your claim is only valid if accepted. Even I had to renegotiate the bond between us. At any time she could have said ‘No’ and walked away. The human world is changing. Old gods are being remembered. New gods are being formed. It’s crowded. Heh.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’, [Sir]. [Weaver] has been of assistance to you and yours before. You said nothing during those times. Only now you claim ownership of her? What did she achieve that threatened you? What did she gain that offended you? Is it that she saw [a certain thing] and because of that your claim is invalidated?”
The two stared each other down and I feared they were going to exchange blows in lieu of words. I picked up That One Guy’s piece from the table and held it up.
“[Host]. [That One Guy] is pissed that his game piece is synchrenized with you. To anyone else, I’ll tell the party line. But in my personal mythos, [That One Guy] is the mask you are wearing. And that is what is chapping his ass.”
My host began laughing again. Some of the others hid their faces to chuckle without being seen. Some just stared at me in shock that I would say it plain. That One Guy just glared at me.
“[That One Guy], I am Weaver. I am a Courier. I am that which goes between. I am liminal. The more you try to box me, the more I escape your confines. If you don’t want to play with me, then don’t. And those of yours that I read for will suffer from the lack of your wisdom and insight. You can’t lose me because I was never yours. I’m doing this extra work for those of yours that are isolated by your precious tradition. Now if you don’t want to play by my rules, then don’t. It’s no consequence to me. If you do…”
I placed the game piece on the proper place on the game board and backed away.
He came to the table. The game piece stood crookedly. “I’m not [That Crooked Guy], my piece should always stand straight. I give you nothing, girl. Nothing! But for the sake of mine, I shall allow you to play this game.” He straightened his game piece, gave the host a withering stink-eye, and left the proceedings without another word.
My host began laughing again, and the game pieces still unclaimed were squabbled over by those still undecided.
Things worked out.
Mostly.
Part of the synchrenization I have going on is matching certain folk to certain ocean animals and currents. The Lady that wound up with the seal and the Upwelling current wasn’t happy with the designation at first, until I explained why I chose the seal. After that, she settled into the position with grace and aplomb and no little amount of smugness.
The Lady that wound up with the sailfish and Surface currents was smug that her symbol was more flashy than the seal, but after hearing why I chose the seal, she became dissatisfied with the sailfish. Her symbol should be more flashy, she said. I pointed out the sailfish is quite more flashy than the seal. “Not flashy enough. And it should be more colorful. And something that benefits people, not just hunted down for sport! And should reflect my nature as a true woman, not some dull furry thing like seals!”
Oh hell, why did she have to throw that last demand out there? Madame Seal made a comment about Madame Sailfish not having the maturity to understand why a seal was a proper choice. She then amended her snark to say outright that Madame Sailfish had no maturity at all, and that’s why her symbol was always going this way and that.
Everyone else just stood back and watched the two women go at each other with verbal strikes. Just when I thought they had exhausted their anger, two of the men began to squabble over their symbols. Where the women were fighting over who was more womanly, the men were arguing over who had been the most outcast. Yes, they were fighting over who had the worst set of circumstances. In the meantime, the representation of the currents just shook their heads and patted me on the shoulder in sympathy.
I make a poor cat herder.
As the sailfish itself is not important to the meaning of the card (it just served as a visual reminder of surface currents), I am open to using a different oceanic animal to represent surface currents, and by synchrenization, the Lady behind it. BUT, the animal has to be a proper fit. Not just for looks. Until then, it remains the sailfish.
Not dream related, but there have been enough murmurs that I should address a certain point.
For those that saw the drama here, the Anons on Three More Cards, and wondered “What if…”
All I am going to say is I treat all reading requests to Three More Cards seriously and use the decks to answer each and every question. I don’t second guess what I see. I don’t reshuffle if the cards don’t make sense (to me). I don’t use ‘the cards said’ as a cover for personal pontification, moralizing, or the dissemination of secret messages.
That’s why some readings are more terse than others. As much as I want to jump off into IMNSHO time, that is not what Three More Cards is for. (However, there will always be snark. Always.) Sometimes the cards have paragraphs to say. Sometimes a single focused sentence with implied eye rolling followed by a shutdown.
Could certain Anons be… I dunno. It’s all supposition and armchair behavior analysis. It might be. It doesn’t matter. Anon asked for three more cards. I typed up what those cards said.
Make of that, what you may.
~sad smiles~
And that’s it as of this morning. Stay tuned for Part 2.