Little Miss Saturn, the representation of the planetary intelligence, came to me holding a particular journal. It is a book I had acquired shortly after making my formal break with Christianity, but has been lost among the boxes of detritus in my keeping. She held it as one holds a teddy bear, with fondness and a sure grip.
“You kept it?”
“Of course!” She held it out to admire its many imperfections before holding it close again.
“But I got it for the wrong reasons. And the few pages I wrote is bullshit now.” I did not foresee the crazy “eclectic” path I walk now. I had a five year plan for becoming a proper ceremonial magician, or covened pagan. Here I am, five years later, being neither a ceremonial magician nor a named pathwalker. The few pages I wrote sealed the lovely book’s fate as obsolete and errant.
She smiled and I saw eternity in her eyes. “You got it at the wrong time. And you know how to repurpose bullshit into fertilizer.”
“I don’t even know where it is. I might have tossed it.” There have been many purges of my collected cruft from when I was a bright-eyed fluff and now. Each time, I manage to cut away more than I thought I held. Each time, I wind up being crippled by nostalgia and holding on to more than I should.
“You didn’t. You just forgot about it. But I haven’t.”
“And if I did toss the physical book?”
“Then get another one and link it to the one I’m holding. Because the one I’m holding is the more important of the two.”
After trying so hard to refrain from holding needless things, I’m being told to go on another shopping spree? “You have interesting timing, Saturn.”
“You have an interesting life.”
That’s it. Time to call it. “Bullshit.”
“Grows beautiful plants.”, she adds in quick succession.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll look for the book in my black-hole of a closet. But I’m not going to spend a shit-load of money in the physical replacement!”
“All it has to do, is hold ink.” Little Miss Saturn turns and walks away. The dream fades as she does until I am gently removed.
The planetary intelligence of Saturn appears to me as a young girl dressed in black Gothic Lolita clothing. Lace and parasol and ruffles and dainty little black lace gloves and the cutest laceup boots, and a porcelain skin tone that has never seen the sun. She is so cute, the cuteness hurts.
And I know it’s an illusion. And she knows that I know it’s an illusion. And for some reason I just have the understanding that this is how it is supposed to be.
It doesn’t matter how Saturn appears to everyone else. This is how Saturn appears to me, and one day, I’m going to understand the inside joke about her appearance.