A New Directive

The card stated that it was good for one free sample, but it was very vague about what substance would be sampled. Judging from the overwhelming use of the color green on the advertisement, I had a good idea of what the makeup of the sample would be, but no idea what form the sample would take.

I walked into the shop with the card in hand. Instead of a bell, analog or digital, a bright flash surprised me as my picture was taken. Behind the counter, a large screen showed my ingenue expression as a second screen beside it declared that I was permitted to exchange money for goods at this fine establishment.

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Dream Journal: 2019-05-19.01

“Hello, Weaver.”

I had not heard them approach from the night’s darkness. It was only after they spoke that I heard the sounds of their movements. As I turned to face them, I reached into my satchel out of instinct to grab something, anything, that I might be able to use to defend myself from the type of spirit that was now just two bodies’ length away from me.

As if I could defend myself from a djinn.

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Dream Journal: 2019-05-12.01

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” The question pulled my attention to the attendant placing themselves in my field of view. I should be concerned that the attendant wore a white featureless mask over their face. I should be more concerned when I realized that wasn’t a mask at all, but that their bone ceramic face had no features. I would have been at least, if I was awake.

Instead, I was thankful for their intrusion as I gained lucidity. I don’t know where my thoughts were headed before they discreetly touched my hand, but now my thoughts were reunited with my awareness and I felt safe and comfortable.

“Ah, no, thank you.” Their hooded robe gleamed brilliantly in crimson red as I took their hand. The more attention I gave the attendant, the more the attendant stood out from the shadows. I clasped their hand in gratitude for the assistance even though I knew the attendant had not done anything special or unique from their duties. “But you can catch me up to what’s happening now. I think I missed an instruction.”

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A Rock and a Hard Place

The “chorus” of angels that accompany the responsibility of the overcoat are comprised of what many would call “the usual suspects”, except with one substitution. Not being versed in angelic lore, I had no way to vet the change and determine if it was within the expected bounds of this work or was a marker that I was being deceived greater than I ever had been before.

(As if there were “expected bounds” to this work in the first place!)

I had turned over the idea in my head and poked at a few websites but ultimately determined that the only way this chorus of angels was going to prove itself would be by demonstrating that proof the hard way.

So when I went to bed last night with my head full of thoughts about the chorus, I wasn’t disturbed by the circling thoughts. Having my sleep continually interrupted with the name of the angel that stepped up rolling around my mind, annoyed the hell out of me instead.

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Altering Expectations

I have continued the morning routine that was set as part of a class I participated in. The routine had formed the backbone of the series of daily summons I had performed in August and continues to be a moment of stillness and preparation for the bullshit of the day.

The descent into the stillness is usually a stepped process. Calm the body. Still the mind. Let the awareness smooth and then begin the routine via visualization.

The body was calmed. The mind was stilled. The awareness was smoothed and the visualization began with the closing of my physical eyes and the arrival of the subtle disconnection that comes with a light trance.

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Acceptance

Seven years and a few months ago, I dreamt of giving up what was a powerful and personal symbol. The bow, sometimes as elaborate and decorated as a role playing game’s prop, sometimes as simple and unremarkable as a wood and string can get, was a weapon my dream self best used against my fears.

And sometimes, against me.

My concern that I was giving up more than a symbol was a valid one, though the beginning of that understanding would take five years to assemble itself. I did not understand why I placed it on that altar at that time. I understand now that the bow was somehow linked with my experiences as a Christian. I had been hurt enough by the devoted followers of a god that rejected me. So I rejected him and the promises that would never, could never, be fulfilled.

It’s not like an apostate could ever keep her end of the bargain, after all.

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Dream Journal: 2018-09-09.01

The black hooded person welcomed me to their Demonstration with the spreading of their black gloved hands in peace. They invited me to take a seat and gestured that I should keep my hands away from the table. I placed them in my lap and bowed in acknowledgement.

On the left side (from my perspective) of the table, they placed plates with unlit incense cones, sticks, and resins. On the right side of the table, they placed a variety of oil warmers, burners, and small lamps. In the middle of the table was placed metal and wood picks, along with several small glass and ceramic bowls, bottles, and jars with cork, metal, and cloth coverings.

The Demonstrator offered several of the incense cones to me and invited me to pick one that smelled pleasant. I pointed at one that smelled of roses. They bowed a cute little nod, lit the cone, and placed it on the corner of the table nearest me.

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A Store of Faith

I dreamt of rosaries. To say that the scene was set in a rosary store is a belittling summary. Money was not the only currency accepted. A barely heard sigh expressed in faith could “buy” more rosaries than any ridiculous amount of cash, gold, and/or jewels. While there were rosaries for people of prestige, their prestige meant nothing here.

Most of the rosaries were custom assembled. Somewhere nearby was a factory where precise machines made precise knots holding precise lengths of precisely shaped beads in place. But what combination of colors and textures and lengths and bead counts could be altered in the length of time it took for someone to describe what their perfect rosary looked like.

Also somewhere nearby were an assembly of people that handmade the rosaries starting from the spinning of flax (or cotton or wool or paper or silk or plastics) into thread and the making of beads from various materials and sources. Their rosaries ranged from a child’s first knots to fine threads of gold spun with silk that were stitched into tiny lace baskets that held the teeth of martyrs in lieu of beads.

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An Angelic Cosplay

They brushed away the fog of dreams with their wings to clear the space between us, then backed away and bowed slightly to emphasize their presence here was not to threaten me. They are the first angel other than Wit that I have been face to face to since the fear of them was removed from me. Another time, I would have either already started running (in futility) or braced for assault (and probably started to as well).

But as my vision soaked in their appearance, I considered displaying a show of force just the same as I recognized the facade they wore. Even though I had never seen the movie “Hellboy 2”, I have seen enough clips and stills from it to recognize the movie’s character of “The Angel of Death“. (Though I had to look it up to fully identify the character for this post. And now that I have, I’m chuckling.)

They bowed. “If you were to see me as I am, you will not recognize me. I wear this covering that is prevalent in your culture that you might know what I am and that I mean no harm towards you.” They spoke in a whisper so soft that I had to strain to hear it. Even still, the force contained in that whisper revealed that if they spoke in what others would consider a normal tone, that I would be overcome by it. Continue reading “An Angelic Cosplay”

Prodigal

The sound of my footsteps scattered across the time-hardened floor despite my efforts to walk quietly. As I passed each pew, I touched its worn corner as if checking on a slumbering friend. The niche of votive candles I had already passed left me warm and fragrant. The presence of the empty church was not hostile to me as I walked between the left wall and the attending pews so I walked with slow deliberate steps to better soak in the soft atmosphere.

“So, how does it feel to be the Prodigal Child?” Continue reading “Prodigal”