What are “Tumbled Dreams”? These are the posts I made to my tumblr during the week because I felt they did not warrant a separate post on this blog. However, these “interstitials” often explain some of the backstory to the larger dream posts. For those readers that only read Three Different Ways, they may help explain some of the characters and sudden changes in plot and direction.
~~~
It was a dark, starless night. Ink-black shadows shifted thickly beyond the fire’s reach. I was kneeling before the fire, facing it, rocking, shrieking.
Black jaguar arms with human bones wrapped around me. She was not consoling me. She was keeping me upright. She was keeping me from being overwhelmed. I was the door. My Nagual was the door’s guardian.
Off to my left, Snake Dancer was gently shaking her rattle. Just enough to make me malleable. Not so much as to bury me. The sound snared my attention, distracting me from the tightness of my Nagual’s grip, from the unseen spirit holding my throat, from the words that followed the shrieking. I was the door. My Nagual was the guardian. Snake Dancer held the key.
Across the fire, the outsider crouched. He had come to call on [She Goes Between]. He was told it had been many years since Weaver did such. He was told why she stopped. Weaver wasn’t the free rental horse she used to be. And it was too soon after unpleasantries to try horsing again.
If he wanted this from her, he would have to pay.
I don’t remember what bargain was struck, but he paid. It was a high price, and he was willing.
He listened to the oracular words, to the spirit speaking through Weaver’s strained voice. He listened grimly, every part of him still so not to miss the most subtle of inflection. When the spirit finished, he knelt down and touched his forehead to the dust and ashes.
The spirit left willingly, though my Nagual was ready to force it away. Furred hands stroked Weaver’s throat, wiping away any lingering remnants from the spirit’s touch. A deep purring came from the jaguar draped woman, meant to reassure Weaver as she slowly came to her senses.
Snake Dancer changed her rhythm, no longer the gentle rising and falling, the sound was sharp and vivid. It called Weaver back to her senses, pulling her into herself to take dominion again.
The outsider remained kneeling opposite the fire. His bowing left a mark of dust and ashes on his forehead that he refrained from wiping off. He watched as Weaver’s eyes regained their fire. She wanted to speak for herself, but slumped against her Nagual, exhausted.
The rattling stopped. “Done. No more this night.” Snake Dancer faced the outsider as she spoke.
“I accept this.” His voice held a deep timbre. “Thank you. I have what I needed. Rest well.” The words were heavy with what he didn’t want to hear. What I have no memory of speaking.
He rose and left, his face still dusted with ash. The surrounding shadows hid him quickly.
My Nagual held me close and in comfort, as Snake Dancer started playing her rattle again. Gentle whishes that rocked me gently into deeper sleep.
~~~
Speaking of game pieces….
“Damn. The water is quiet. Did I miss it?”
“Yes. Your duty called you away at the wrong moment.”
“Oh. Oh well. Had fun with the bow though. I see nothing is left of the wolf I shot. Did the scavengers eat well?”
“You shot the wrong thing.”
“You told me to defend myself, if necessary, but otherwise not to interfere in your… game. I defended myself, and did not move from my observation post.”
“You were on a high ledge of a sheer cliff. The wolf was no threat to you.”
“Bullshit it wasn’t. You and I both know those were not Waking canines. They merely appeared to me as such because of their pack behavior and apex status. The wolf I shot was a scout. It knew I was up here, and had identified me as prey. I was fledged out, you know what that means, right? I could change form in accordance with my nature. Now, unless you’re going to stand there and argue that it is a wolf’s physical nature to walk on water, I think my reasoning of ‘If I can change form, so can those wolves.’ holds true. I locked eyes with the scout. It called me prey. It was going to call the rest of the pack to partake in what it thought was an easy lunch. You told me not to leave unless duty demanded. You told me to defend myself as necessary. I had a choice. Shut up the lone scout and allow the rest of the pack to continue their mission. Or allow the scout to call the rest of the pack, I wind up with more furs than I need at the end of the day, and your game is ruined.”
“… Did you learn anything at least?”
“Yea. I did. I learned to be more careful with what I talk about in public. I learned to be more careful what doors I allow people to peek through in private. I learned not all prices are blood. I learned no matter how great a game player I think I am, I am still just a game piece on someone else’s board. I learned the old myths still hold true. I learned the new myths are just as deadly. I learned nothing is set in stone, not even those long dead. I learned you are a crafty and devious sunavabitch, and I want nothing more than to reveal who I think you are.” ~laughter~ “And I learned both you and I are pieces in an even greater game. One that even you chafe at being a pawn in. And it is that game that restrains me.” ~smiles~
“You claim to know who I am, and disrespect me still?”
“I am claimed by no god, and beholden to none. I respect boundaries when my boundaries are respected. You go ahead and continue playing your game. If you want me to observe, I shall. You called me out by the name [redacted], by that name, I must abide. But, like you said, this is your game. I have no right to interact with the board, nor shall I. I know you wanted me to write more publicly about what I’ve been observing. Trying to bend the rules, to get me more involved without pushing my game piece directly. The game is not going the way you wanted it to, and you were hoping for my involvement to alter the play in your favor. I strongly suspect you sent that wolf scout towards me purposely. So I would call out to others for help. Others, like the one I’m supposed to be passively observing.”
“My wolves…”
“Are not my problem unless they make themselves my problem. Again.”
“You have no respect for those above you.”
“You have no respect for those below you. I think we’re even.”
“You are released from the duty I placed on you, [redacted]. Stay out of my way.”
~bows~ “By the name [redacted] you summoned me. By the name [redacted] you dismiss me. I still want to name you. But I am still restricted. You know what that means, right? Who is playing the player?” ~smiles~ “See you around…”
…
The wolves are not on the water
~~~
I had a conversation with the Regulars. They asked about Horatio and the two empty trinkets, among other things. I had a conversation with the Wind. I laughed a lot.
I found myself in a dream. Simple errands that flowed from one to the other. Baby sitting a car until the mechanic arrived became taking the mechanics cell phone home to his mother became finding the mother’s other son and telling him to come home became escorting the son’s girlfriend home became swinging by the store next to the girlfriend’s house became bringing the mechanic his dinner-to-go that he forgot about.
I called out the dream for being a diversion and it dissolved around me. I opened my eyes to find I was in the kitchen, cradled by several of the amber hued jellyfish swarm. Their tentacles held me but not so tight that I would panic.
I needed deep sleep, they said. So they were standing guard over me. I thanked them and went to my room. Through the wall the Wind started telling me a story. I forgot the story but it too, made me laugh.
~~~
“More coffee, Hun?” The waitress meant no ill by the name. I just looked up at smiled.
“Yes, Ma’am, please.” I quickly emptied my mug while she blushed and stammered at being called “Ma’am”.
She filled my mug to the brim and left more sugar on the diner’s counter. I was taking notes in one of my paper notepads. Scribbling ideas about a seed-pod rattle. The man to my right also had his coffee refilled, but he made no attempt to say anything more to the waitress other than a satisfactory grunt at the fresh coffee. He was too busy being nosy at my words.
“Is that some kind of toy?”
“Something like that.”
“It looks like a toy.”
“To some it’s a toy. To me, it’s business.” I placed my pencil on the paper, and reached over the notepad for the sugar in a deliberate action that hid the paper from his sight. I didn’t care if eavesdroppers took looks. But the way he had dismissed the waitress upset me. I did not want any conversation with him.
“Hmm. Well. You’re covering the paper with your arm. You trying to tell me something?” His demeanor grew even more sour. Down the counter, I saw the waitress giving him stink-eye.
“If I were trying to tell you something, I would use a language you would understand. But I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just enjoying my coffee and some uninterrupted time while I can. I have details to work out before I go to work. So I won’t be much of a conversationalist.” I prepared my coffee and allowed the paper to be viewed again.
The wording confused him. Was I telling him to shut up, or not? He furrowed his brow trying to parse the meaning. As he stared into his coffee for wisdom, I returned back to my notes. We sat side by side for a few silent moments more.
“You ever heard of a writer named ‘Weaver’?” I tilted my head towards him, acknowledging I heard the question, but I did not answer. “You sound like how I think he would speak. She. He. Ah, fuck if I know what biological gender he is! He can’t seem to stay the same from one story to the next anyway!” He had sounded out each syllable of the word ‘biological’, transforming it into a slur of implied insults.
I didn’t look up from my notes, but I drained my coffee at once. Motioning to the waitress for another cup, I measured my words carefully before speaking. “Last name ‘Weaver’? Haven’t heard of such a fellow. What does he write about?”
“Crazy stuff! Weird shit! Dreams and shit, mostly. Claims to talk to gods and such. Real kooky shit!” He snapped his fingers at the waitress as she was walking away from filling mine. “Another! And make sure it’s good stuff and not watered down leftovers!” I could see her displeasure written on her face. It matched my own.
“And you say I sound like him? But we’ve only met here. He must be an interesting writer to have left such an impression.” I didn’t stir sugar or milk into my mug this time. If I’m going to be acerbic, might as well start warming that engine.
“See! Just like that! Long sentences and big words! Some college educated fool, I bet. Would you believe he doesn’t sell his writings? Just plunks them online for anyone to read. How the hell does he make his money. Must be a rich bastard, to have time to write stories and shit.”
“You don’t take to this Weaver writer at all, I see. Why do you follow his posts?” I had to quickly hide my smirk with my mug. I hadn’t decided if to reveal myself to the man or not.
He takes a long drink of his own. “Well. Some of it is interesting. He has this long plot thing going. Couple of years at least and no sign of stopping. One big ass myth that is supposed to be the insides of his head. One about a snake-person!” He gestures to my still exposed notebook. “That’s what reminded me of him! Something about a rattle and shit.” His voice softened the more he talked. “I dunno. Sometimes he confuses me like fuck. Sometimes it’s like he talking to my fears and shit. Wish he’d stop using such big ass words, though. Not all of us are rich fucks that can afford that kind of learning.”
I had decided. I finished off my coffee. “Neither am I.”
The waitress had brought me a glass of water, and brought him another fresh mug before what I said sunk into his understanding. He glanced at me, then looked down at the rattle I was sketching, then back at me again. “The hell you mean by that.”
“Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m no man of wealth nor taste…” I smiled as his face betrayed the intensity of his thought processes.
“You’re Weaver.” I smiled. “You are Weaver?” I nodded. “BULL-FUCKING-SHIT YOU ARE! WEAVER IS A MAN!”
“In my dreams, I’m gender-fluid. Though I usually don’t write my gender unless it is necessary for the story. Or to tweak someone that thinks I’m playing Mary-Ann. Good morning, Sir. I am Weaver Storyteller, Weaver Far-Traveled, Weaver Genderbender. How do you do?”
He stared at my outstretched hand, then at my face for what felt like an hour. His eye twitched. I retracted my hand and continued talking. “Too many complicated words, eh? What I see doesn’t translate easy to the English language. It could be worse. I could speak German. Then I’d be writing a paragraph for a word.”
“Yea. You’re Weaver.”
“Yup.”
He looked over my notes again. “That the dancer’s snake rattle, right?”
“Snake Dancer’s rattle. A representation of it. Her rattle can’t be physically made without a metric shit-tonne of money. And if I did that, she would step out of the mirror and clock me with it for wasting money, I’m sure.”
“Heh.” He looks at the waitress, and gets a cocky smirk. “Hey! You write about the shit that happens to you, right?”
My attitude towards him went from slight dislike to sudden loathing. “Yea… Why…”
“Are you going to write me up too? I mean, I recognized ya! I caught ya! You have to write me up!”
I wanted to dispute everything he said. Instead I smiled as well. “Yea. Sure thing. I just need one thing from you.”
“Eh? It ain’t going to be blood is it.” He suddenly shrunk away.
I laughed. I laughed a little too loud. He shrank back a little further. “No, nothing like that. I just need your name, so you can be found. I post a lot, you know. You don’t want your big mention buried.”
“Yea. Yea! Oh yea! You’re really going to write about me!” I nodded as I changed the page to a blank page in my notebook. “Well, I gotta have a good pen name you know. Can’t do to have my real name plastered all over the Internet. Reputations and shit.” I nodded, somewhat impatiently. “Uh… uh… JOHN! Yea. Call me John.”
How. Original. “Just ‘John’? Or add another name to go with?”
He shifted in his seat. Apparently, deep thought came with deep discomfort. “John… uh… uh…” A contented smile settled his face and body. “John Smithly.” He nods. “You can call me John Smithly.” He laughed. “And you can write how John Smithly caught the great Weaver Far-Traveled!” He laughed more.
“I gotta go to work. I hope to see your story of me tonight! I know where you drink coffee, so if you don’t write it, I’ll have to have words with you. My kind of words!” He threw some crumpled bills on the counter and a couple of coins after. “Here’s a tip, Lady!” He was yelling at the waitress. “Real coffee makes a real tip!” He left the diner, smug as fuck.
“Are you really going to write about him? You are a writer, right?” The waitress was cleaning up his mess while I fished out my money for my bill.
“Yup. I’m going to write all about John Smithly. But not from his perspective. From mine.” I handed her the money for my check in one hand, then handed her a 50% tip in the other hand. “And that includes his assholeish behavior towards you.”
“Aren’t you worried about him coming after you?” She started to wipe down his chair but I stopped her. I ripped a clean page from the notebook and wiped where he sat with the paper. I wrote his nom de plume on the paper and rolled it into tight twist. I held it up between us, and winked at her. I then blew gently on the free tip of the twisted paper. It burst into a deep blue flame.
She watched as the flame devoured all of the twisted paper. When there was not enough for me to hold by my fingertips, I held the remnant in my open palm. The flame burned the entire twisted sheet, without smoke or ash, without leaving a mark on me.
“He won’t be coming back here again. There isn’t a seat with his name on it.”
She started chuckling in wonder. I bowed, wished her a good day, and left the diner and the dream.
…
Hope you liked your story, John Smithly.
~~~
Oh wow, it’s Cold Ass Thirty in the morning and I’m awake? The house is quiet, the Regulars are quiet, and I don’t even hear snoring. Ugh… I am not sleepy at all. I’ve already taken a piss, taken a walk, and stared out the windows at this year’s clutch of feral cats. Now what do I do?
~realizes she has looping earworm~
Walk on the ocean
Step on the stones
Flesh becomes water
Wood becomes bone
And I have a song stuck in my head. The hell. I obviously need to listen to more metal and drown this melancholy shit out because I’m melancholic enough without outside influences. What the hell kind of lyrics are these anyway, how is this supposed to…
to…
Oh.
Coming!
Climbed back into the bed and stepped sideways at once. Very much aware and very much lucid, I was worried I was too awake for the trip. From the indistinct darkness I stepped forward planting my foot soundly on the surface of a rippling ocean.
The darkness withdrew as I walked on the ocean’s surface for a few more steps. It could have been late afternoon, or early morning. I couldn’t tell which. The sun and most of the sky was obscured by the low hanging clouds and the patchy fog. A chill wind was blowing towards land, and the agitated waves were breaking over my ankles.
Storm was coming.
I turned around and saw the stones of the jetty about thirty feet away. As I walked towards them, I saw a figure on the jetty near the shore. Too far away for me to recognize, but I saw the hair was moving in the increasing wind. Whoever that is, that is not No Man.
Under my feather cloak, I double checked to make sure I could call my weapons. What I thought was a mere tropical storm had the feel of a far off hurricane. I thought the timing of my call and arrival to be interesting. The eye of the hurricane is still a day away from shore. This is just the wind and clouds. Not even the rain has arrived yet.
The figure had advanced halfway up the jetty when I walked up to the stones. I’m still standing on the ocean. The figure stopped halfway. The wind made it impossible for me to hear the figure. The jetty’s crumpled sides reduced the effectiveness of my own voice. It was clear I was expected, but by whom?
No Man always wore a suit. A perfectly tailored, perfectly black (with a perfectly crisp white linen shit under), perfectly clean suit for my benefit. I could see the figure was in dark brown slacks, with a closed leather jacket. Too light to be brown, too dark to be blond, collar length hair blew in the wind. But his face eluded me. If I was going to see who was waiting for me, I would have to commit to meeting him.
I placed a foot on the jetty’s rock. It was slippery from spray and I almost fell backwards. I stumbled back onto the ocean, and stepped forward to try again.
I placed a foot on the jetty’s rock, this time with deliberate intent to remain stable. A hand suddenly appeared in front of me. Leather jacket with knitted cuff attached. The coat’s arm reminded me of my father’s cold weather Navy jacket from the ’70s. The coat, and the hand that extended from it, was well used. Nothing perfect here.
I looked up to see the man’s face, but the spray from the crashing waves created a mist between us. Very well, then. I grabbed his hand and allowed him to help me take the next step off the ocean.
My other foot stabilized on the jetty’s rock so that I was standing on the jetty.
The wind howled in my ears.
I remember nothing else.
When I woke up, the earworm was gone, and I had almost forgotten about it entirely until I looked at the weather report for the day.
~sips coffee~ Interesting.
~~~
Lady, I don’t know you. Maybe someone else would recognize your blue dress with the quarter sized scales and the long tubular shells, but I don’t. Your staff with sea shells rattled delicately when you shook it. You laughed at my fear it would break, and thanked me for being concerned. (It is a lovely scepter staff.)
But I don’t know you. And the hints your lady-in-waiting were dropping were not helping. If you are from the pantheon I think you are, things just got complicated. If you’re not, I’d appreciate the clarification.
I haven’t the rum nor the coffee to even begin sorting this out.
~~~
After laying here awake for a bit, I narrowed the identification of the blue dressed woman down to three. Right now, which of the three she is, is unimportant. Only that her request would make sense only if last night’s Character was who he appeared to be.
Of course I’m side eying this like fuck.
This has all the earmarks of a con. Questionable appearance assuming authority? Check. Contrived event that shakes my confidence in known information? Check. Command that flies in the face of known information, along with pressuring by means of implied authority? Check. Second person appears with no verification of identity but claims to verify the first? Check.
If I check the Great Book of Nopology, this is in the first chapter, I’m sure.
~~~
He came and stood over my shoulder. “Is he working now?”
We were a few feet away from the new employee, but invisible to all. “Blazing away. Enjoying himself even.”, I reported.
“Want to know what I did?” He had a sneaky lilt to his question. He wanted to brag.
“Yea, sure!” I really did want to know.
“I changed his workstation from a general Windows install to a specialized Linux install.”
“Specialized how?”
“No Internet access. Network access only to necessary shares. No games. No word processing. Just a text editor, a hex editor, and the modeling software he is paid to use.”
“That sounds almost punitive. But he’s happy?”
“Because he can’t be distracted for a ‘tiny little thing’. He can’t even access company email. The office leeches can’t steal him away anymore. He is out of the loop. His status as Office Jack Of All Trades is gone, and the entitled bitches can’t force him back. Not with access to the developer’s wing tightly controlled. But office drama is a side effect, not the main cause.”
“What was the main cause, then? Because he was a few days from being fired.”
“The all-purpose workstation. He never needed Internet access, constant communication, or spreadsheets. Never. They gave him unnecessary tools for the job. The tools themselves got in the way. Let that be a lesson to you. A large toolkit is nice. Knowing when not to use them is better. Anyone can learn how to use a tool. A master knows when not to.” He tapped me on the shoulder and motioned to follow him.
…
And that’s when I realized I was a ministering angel, working with a senior ministering angel. His right eye had been injured. He was supposed to be on vacation, but the kid we were helping keep his job was a personal assignment. He couldn’t interact with humans because of how the injury was being cared for. His eye was wrapped in a bright pink bag while still in his head, with one end clamped and sticking out of the socket so medical solution could be poured over the injury. He couldn’t hide it. So I was tasked to be the face the humans saw while he worked in the background.
I reported to the kid’s boss about the workstation change. She was in a foul mood as no less than five people were in her office complaining about the kid not answering emails or the phone. She realized why and her mood lifted once she understood the very people complaining were the ones that was dragging his performance down in the first place. She made the workstation change permanent and started planning such changes for the rest of her team.
“Hey, uh, what department are you from again?”
“Human Resources. I’m not on beating duty today.”
“Ha! That’s good! Okay, thank you!”
The senior angel and I went to the building’s roof where we fed the feral cat that lives there. We sat there for a while. I watched him play with the black and white cat. “Thanks for filling in and helping out. The kid has come a long way. Soon he’ll be on his own. I want to make sure his ship launches true, know what I mean?” The cat curled on his lap purring while he spoke. “You make a good angel. Like you’ve worn wings and power before.” I said nothing. “Ah, well, no rules were broken, and the kid kept his job. I have to take the mantle back now. You’ll return to yourself when I do. This will all seem like a dream.”
I smiled and nodded. He reached over and grabbed a white feathered wing. He pulled the white wings off me, and with it the angelic presence I wore. I fell as if unconscious but I was open-eyed. He caught me and laid me down gently on the roof. The cat took position near my head, almost like a guard.
The clouds parted above me as he ascended. I smiled and went to deeper sleep
~~~
“You realize by naming me, you’ll destroy me.”
“Wut.”
She laughs, and her regalia chuckles in a thousand delicate rattles. “Look what happened to you and Raven. Weaver Hrafndottir. Ke’s no longer a separate part of you. Ke is you. Why? You realized what ke is, and realized that was you. Look at what you are doing to find my name. You could have taken the easy way out, looked up the Aztec calendar day of your birth, or my emergence, and go on from there. You could have just gone with my most obvious attributes, the snake skin cape and the rattle, and just made a portmanteau with the Nahuatl translations. But you’re not.” She took my face in her hands. “You’re trying to understand me. And in doing so, understand yourself.”
She placed her painted forehead against my own. I could feel a smudge of facepaint take hold of my skin. “When you name me, you will claim me. And then the rattle I carry, will be yours. And then the things I do that you can’t remember, you will. Because I won’t be separate from you anymore.”
I don’t know why I was crying. It was partly relief. It was partly fear. It was the realization I was getting what I wanted when I took the Bitter Glass. It was partly anger that this coming together was happening so late in my life.
“If nothing else, Weaver, look at it this way. You’ll be getting a double infusion of snark, and less restraint to release it.” We both laughed.
The shadow holding me about my waist purred in contentment at our mutual proximity. “And what of my Nagual?”, I asked.
“What of her?”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I can only teach you my dances, Weaver. She will have to teach you hers.” She pulled away from me and started a shuffling step. For her to have so many rattles in her regalia, she made no noise. The sound of her bare feet sliding over the dusty ground reminded me of a snake sliding over stone.
~~~
Expected the blue dressed lady with the scales and sea shells to come back and ask for the cowry shells again last night. If she had, I probably would have given her some, if not all, because why the fuck not.
But she didn’t appear and as the night went on I found myself sitting bored at the lair. Sitting by the fire, holding their dreamt representation, identical to the waking world items sitting on my desk.
Such tiny things. Such big movements they have set in motion. Mark (the god of little things) would appreciate how things unfolded. This is right up his alley, after all. Something small, ubiquitious, and insignificant proving to be the catalyst that changes lives and throws down fate.
So now my debt to the border-captain is dissolved. He came to me personally to verify a friend’s speculation about the ban. I am free to do what I want with the shells, even those things I was forbidden before.
The poker game was foolishness on my part. But the interactive process was interesting. (You thought that merely a game? The cards were being interpreted as they were in play. It was a game, but a most serious game.) I wonder if he was chuckling at the foolishness of it, at the hubris of it, or that I was willing to dare in the first place.
These were the thoughts that crowned my head, as I sat by the fire. I’m free to have cowry shells, and cowry shells I have. What the hell do I do with them now? My hand slipped and some fell onto the dusty ground.
I reached down to pick them up and saw they fell into a pattern. The markings on some suggested binary values and the pattern reminded me of geomancy.
“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I don’t have time to devote to learning a new system!” Only the stone, the fire, and the shells heard me. None answered. I picked up the shells. After cradling them in my hands, I intentionally dropped them to the ground. Still appearing true to the shells in the waking, they fell into two groups. One group again suggested geomancy in a vertical pattern. The other group with the distinct markings evoked binary symbolism.
(Fun fact: Modern computers are a result of geomancy. Study of the divination system led to the formation of Boolean math and the binary code at the heart of all computers today.)
“I don’t know geomancy, ya little shits! If I don’t find a use or a justification to keep you, I’m going to pass you along to someone that can!” I scoop up the shells again. Five slip from my grasp. They fall into this pattern:
X X
X
X
X
I know a challenge when I see it. After coffee and work, I’ll look that up and take that as the shells’ answer to me
~~~
Hey dream-stalkers, remember this from this morning?
X X
X
X
X
Well Polyphanes of the Digital Rambler had written recently about the geomantic figure “Caput Draconis” that the shells made in the dream. I said I was going to take the figure as the shells’ answer to my demands for justification for keeping them instead of passing them off.
After reading his explanation of the figure, I’m reading this as the justification I needed wanted. I’m not going to jump whole-hog into geomancy right away though. I have other things more important to work out. I am going to play around and see what this nudging I feel for them is going to work out to be. Because y’all know I’m never really quite content to follow someone else’s path. I have to work my stuff out myself.
If y’all think I’m reading this wrong, feel free to say so. I know I’m still too close to the emotional flame here, and I may be blinding myself.
~~~
Make of that, what you may.