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.
~~~
No adventures. No conversations with myself. No visitors. No exploring. I need a break. Just me, sitting at the fire, knitting.
Trying different bag concepts using straight needles, circular needles, and double pointed needles. The long rectangle folded over itself. Inside seam versus outside seam. Tube that tapers at the bottom. Tube that has a flat bottom. Drawstring styles. Fold over styles. To wrist strap or not to wrist strap. Plain stitching. Decorative stitching. Beads. Yarn weights. Lining.
While I’m currently in a knitting project in the waking, most of these small bags I was mulling over can be done in an afternoon. Would be a good way to use up the mini-skeins of leftover yarn I’ve collected.
Besides, I do need a small bag or two anyway.
~~~
Not a fan of drowning. Ugh. I’ve been ripped apart, eaten while alive, immolated, poisoned, eviscerated, bled out, crushed, impaled, decapitated, shot, electrocuted, and even fucked to death.
But of them all, I dislike drowning the greatest.
I think because there is a certain uncontrollable panic that goes with it. In the other ways to die, the pain distracts you from the coming death. But in drowning, there is often little pain. Just the suffocation from fluid in your lungs. The way the body knows air is never that vicious. The urgent signals to breathe in deeper but that only allows what little air you have to escape.
Someone speculated my intense dislike of drowning was because my previous life ended in such a way. Indeed I have a strange memory of a vision of such a fatal event.
But as much as I dislike death by drowning, I dislike waking up with a hangover even more. I have had no alcohol since Thursday. I should not have a hangover. I think I need to go back and see why I wound up at the bottom of the water with my feet tied to an anchor.
~~~
Madness is being in…
- the mountain terrace with K*
- the café with a boothmate and Jill serving
- the lily ponds with the Gardenmaster
- under the mountain with the Svartalf
- the lair with Snake
- the Boneyard with ravens watching
- the Forest of Shadows with the Shamblings
- an apex predator’s den with said predator sitting on me like a lonely puppy
- an unrecognized mountain forest exposed to the elements
- and a few other places that I could not recognize
all at the same time while also being in my house! And to think, people pay money to have broken heads like mine. ~shakes broken head~
I don’t remember the past five hours. I’m exhausted. And I feel like I’m in the eye of the storm, that it’s not over yet. I have a few tricks still left to play, and an anchor to hold on to. See y’all in the morning.
~~~
Most pieces have been relinquished by those hoarding them. A significant few haven’t. Some are being hoarded for my sake, giving me shelter. Some are being hoarded as treasure.
I know K* is taking personal offense to Screaming Eyes, as is the Gardenmaster. The Svartalf is disinterested in her. The Shamblings want to keep me away from her.
All else is a blur.
I know I slept. But I feel like I haven’t closed my eyes for 36 hours.
I still don’t know what Screaming Eyes wants with me. Only that K* and the Gardenmaster are determined not to let her have her way.
~~~
“Hey Weaver! Come take a look at this!”
“Hmm? Oh. Ha!”
“I know, right? I bet that was Hermes. He would tap that.”
“Eh… You sure? I mean, yea, that has Hermes’ handwriting all over it. But…”
“But what?”
“Interesting choice of words there.”
“I’m practicing English.”
“I hear. Tell me in a different phrase what you were saying.”
“Uh… He would do that?”
“Explain.”
“I mean, that looks like something Hermes would do, baiting someone like that.”
“Ah. Okay. Now I know what you mean. Your first choice of words does not mean what you think it means.”
“To tap something is to do something, right?”
“Well… kinda. To ‘do’ someone in that reference is to have sexual intercourse with them. The verb ‘to do’ has lots of connotations that you need the surrounding reference to sort out.”
“Weaver. You’re using big words again. And I can’t sort out what you mean because you’re thinking in English also.”
“Heh. Sorry. The verb ‘to do’ can mean damn near anything under or over the sun.”
“Yea, that’s why I used ‘to tap’ instead. Clearer meaning.”
“Well… that’s just it. To say Hermes would tap that, is to say Hermes would have sexual intercourse with what ‘that’ is referring to.”
“…”
“…”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yea, I know. But I had to get you to explain it so I would understand.”
“But now that you mention it… Yea, he would do that too.”
“I give up.
~~~
Ever have a puzzle that you just can not figure out for love nor money, then suddenly the answer just appears and you realize you’ve been looking dead at it all this damn time?
Screaming Eyes.
Let those that see… see.
I know what she is, and why I had to be pulled apart to see her.
~~~
~rattle rattle~
For most of my life my different pieces had been pitted against each other. Each one told they were the core of my being and that all other pieces were false constructs that had to be destroyed if I was ever going to take my rightful place in life.
~shuffle shuffle~
I had to be the Nice Girl. I had to be the Filial Daughter. I had to be the Obedient Wife. I had to be the Nurturing Mother. I had to be the Dedicated Employee. I had to be the Submissive Lover. I had to be the Angry Black Woman. I had to be the Feisty Latina. I had to be the Dutiful Christian. I had to be the Socially Awkward Geek. I had to be the Misandrist Feminist. I had to be the Independent Modern Woman. I had to be the Matriarchal Pagan. I had to be the Powerful Sorcerer. I had to be the Taino Bruja. I had to be what other people told me I had to be.
~shuffle shuffle~
I had to, or else, I would fail, and if I failed, I would cease to be. I had to wear the mantle they demanded I wear, each in turn, each never fitting, because this was the way of the world. All I have to do is be what I am told to be, and nothing else.
~shuffle shuffle stomp~
~rattles~
Lies. Cloaking, smothering lies meant to deceive not the one told the lies, but the one telling the lies. Imperfect attempts by the speaker to force the world around them to conform to an imperfect ideal.
~rattle~ ~rattle~ ~rattle~
Let those with eyes to see, see.
~rattle~ ~step~
Let those with ears to hear, hear.
~rattle~ ~step~
All I have to be, to be me, is be.
~step~ ~step~
And sometimes, that means I have to have all the lies I have cloaked myself with torn away, so that I sit face to face with the truth of who I am. Of what I am.
Her mouth will never speak. Her eyes speak instead. Her orbs are not in her sockets, nor in her hands. Her orbs are in the space between us. She shrieks to get my attention, and babbles in contradictory riddles.
~rattle~ ~rattle~
Let those with spirit, dance.
~shuffling and rattling~
~~~
“Hi.”
“Heya.”
“May I share your fire’s warmth? I’m ill prepared for this… going.”
“And what will you pay me for the sharing?”
“Uh…” ~pats self and takes inventory~ ~pulls out bag of 14 cowry shells~ ~realizes that’s all I have on me except for the most minimal of clothing~
“Tell you what. Share those shells with me and I’ll call it even. The fire remains here when you leave, so the shells will remain with you when you leave. A sharing for the sharing, and in the end nothing is taken.”
The alternative is walking away, and I have no idea what I’m walking into. ~hands over bag~ “This is agreeable.”
“You are ill prepared. Come, sit where I was sitting, for that is the warmest.” She shifts over so I may sit where she was. She’s right, this is a very warm spot. As I get comfortable, she empties the shells in her hands and starts playing with them. Pouring them from hand to hand, looking them over, peering inside and seeing the colorful surprise.
They slide from her hands into the ash streaked dirt. They fall into a perfect circle. She scoops them up and allows them to slide from her hands again. They fall into a tight pile, clumping together as if magnetized. She looks up at me and notes my curiosity.
Laughing she retrieves a small roll of leather. Unrolling it, I see it is the size of a large dinner plate, with markings decorating it and dividing it into sections. She takes the shells up one more time, blows on them, and drops them onto the leather. I am reminded of Thor’s “game”.
“You know this?” She is studying my face for unspoken answers.
“I’m reminded of some things.”
“So you do not know the leather.”
“No.”
“You have loud shells, you know. You do not hear them speaking?”
I shook my head. “Maybe because of how they came to me.”
“Ah.” She scooped up the shells, waved them through the fire’s flame briskly, and poured them into their bag. She handed the bag of shells back to me. “No one arrives where they wind up being in the manner they want to go. While arrivals are important, what you do once you are there is more important. I don’t know why the shells’ coming to your hand is trouble. I only know they are loud.”
I held on to the bag in consideration. “I don’t know their language.”
“Make up a new one. They’ll teach you if you listen.”
I was warm through and through, despite the scant clothing. My instinct said it was time to leave. I stood and faced the fire’s keeper. She kept her head down. “I admit, I don’t know how to start, or what the first thing is I should try. But if the shells are that loud, maybe even my dense head can pick up on something.” She nodded. “Time for me to go. The fire leaves with you, the shells leave with me. Though neither one of us has taken from the other, I am the richer for meeting you. Thank you.”
She rolled up her leather and stashed it behind her. Still keeping her head down, I am unable to see her face. “We have both benefited from this meeting. Neither one of us has taken from the other, but what your shells told me is of worth. Good travels, Weaver.”
I realized I had not seen her face clearly despite the brightness of the fire. My instinct tells me not to press for details and to take my leave. I nod, speak my farewells, and depart from the fire.
~~~
Make of that, what you may.