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”

Dream Journal: 2018-05-27.01

I have had many “normal” (read: nonsense) dreams since the Black Armored Angel jumped off the mountain with me. At first I discounted them as mere noise and entertainment because there was no continuity between them, no tells of entities sandboxing me. Until I took notes and compared them all.

Writers of fanfics are familiar with the term “AU”, an acronym for “alternative universe”. An AU allows the writer to explore known characters in situations and environments alternate to the works of canon, the “official setting”, that the characters are a part of. What if two well-known action movie heros were merely two college students claiming the last table in a coffee shop? How would their characters react in such a setting if they kept the same personality traits as known in the movies but had none of the superhero stuff?

What if I were accidentally set adrift in space and the Black Armored Angel was the alien who rescued me? How would we interact without a shared language or cultural symbols? Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2018-05-27.01”

Dream Journal: 2018-05-05.01

Dreamt of a spirit starting, maintaining, and finishing shit. A number of clergy, cunningfolk, and witches all tried to capture, constrain, and bind this spirit to no avail. To each one it gave a different name that turned out not to be its name at all when it mattered.

It came to me and stirred my coffee widdershins in the mug. I laughed to see it. It froze my laptop and caused me to see bright sparks around the screen as if it was shorting out. But because I knew the freeze was recoverable and the sparks were illusions, I just clapped and appreciated the show.

It then threw terrible visions in my eyes and caused all sorts of sensations to be felt that were uncomfortable and triggering. But I knew that these too were illusions and waited them out. When they ended, I looked at the spirit and told it “Good game. Thank you for reminding me that I am stronger than I feel.” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2018-05-05.01”

Dream Journal: Communion

It’s dark. (It’s always dark.)

The glyph covered rod in my left hand is warm from my grip as I look up into the infinite black sky. (It’s always dark.)

(Saint) George said I needed a control rod, something to hold on to. Not to force my fears to submit to me and yield (which they will never do), but to remind me that no matter how large my fears become, no matter how small I feel before them, I’m still here.

I look down at my left hand. The rosary is wrapped loosely around my hand. Its crucifix dangles between my fingers. It is black and shiny and plain. Like the armor I am waiting to see.

I hear something, but I am not sure if it is an actual noise or a wish too strongly made. I take a step towards it, kicking pebbles into movement as my stance slips and I realize I’m standing on a rocky slope. It is a place I remember but cannot identify because of the complete lack of stars above me.

(Has it always been this dark?) Continue reading “Dream Journal: Communion”