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.”

The spirit, unprompted, gave me a name. I accepted the false name it gave me, compared it to all the other names it had given others, and saw the common thread that ran through all the false names.

I called it by a different name, one that made it snap to attention and glare threateningly at me. The only sound it made was an extended hiss, but that sound told me everything I needed to know.

“May I use [the different name] to call you?”

“Why do you ask permission to use something you already have?”

“Because to do otherwise would be rude, and I will not be rude to you.”

“Why not?”

“Have you given me cause to be rude? No. Then, neither shall I give you cause to be rude to me.”

“You play a dangerous game.”

“Aye. One good game deserves another.”

The spirit smiled then, showing all sorts of sharp and rending teeth nearly as nakedly as it showed its glee and happiness at my daring. “Then, yes, I grant you permission to speak that name to me, but only to me. You shall not share it.”

I bowed. “I accept these constraints and will hold it in confidence.”

The spirit moved swiftly to place the nose of its face at the tip of my own nose. “You write.”

“I do.”

“Will you write of this?”

“I might. Have you a preference for what pseudonym you wish to play games with others?”

It smiled again. “I do. For I will play a second game with you as well. Write then, the first name I gave you and let that be the name those that know you know me by. For it is not my name, but it is what I am. Let that be a puzzle to you, should you wish to play more with me.”

Darrell kissed me on the lips and flew off in that kind of whirlwind that only comes in the wake of a spring rain.

Darrell: From an English surname which was derived from Norman French d’Airelle, originally denoting one who came from Airelle in France. [https://www.behindthename.com/name/darrell]

Airelle: (French) [A berry, usually black or dark blue.] Avec le suffixe -elle, diminutif de l’occitan aire « baie noire » [https://fr.wiktionary.org/wiki/airelle]

What’s English slang for small berries? Huckleberry. (I’m skipping over a long trail of clicks and dead ends to reach: https://www.etymonline.com/word/huckleberry because the one reference I found that made a direct link is long deactivated.)

“For it is not my name, but it is what I am.” Huckleberry.

Fey ass motherfucker! *bites tongue to refrain from adding more expletives*