House of Serpents

shreds and tatters

2006-06-22T19:19:00.000-07:00

We are lost, gonners for sure. The donkey-beast has chewed its way into my sac...the map is all but consumed, the glasses are bent and lacking a lens, nothing else remains 'cept for a tiny, round crystal caught in a corner seam. So useless an object, surely it cannot be my unique 'gift'! I roll it absently in my palm...
Time is trackless on the billowing waves. I doze and wake with a start still clutching the bauble in my fist. Suddenly, my hand is afire and as I open my palm this strange image appears. I am confused...delirious perhaps, or driven mad by circumstance.

Misery and Affliction

2006-06-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

Woe is me. Oh Dear!
This adventure has turned into an ordeal. The 'hand project' took so long we missed the boat.
Finally, after much trial and error, I fashioned a large Jon Boat with outriggers- a caricature that any self-respecting Hawaiian would laugh out of the water.
Then another half-day lost to coaxing, cajoling, persuading my recalcitrant mule-of-a-donkey to climb aboard.
Finally, just this side of my breaking-point it calmly climbed aboard lured by my last sugar-glazed donut perched on the bow. ::sighs::
Now rowing madly to catch the ship. I pray someone will look down in the wake, spot us and throw a line.

Prompt:Make an imprint of your hand. On each finger write something that you have learned about creativity

2006-06-15T20:28:00.000-07:00

joining the cave of handprints

2006-06-14T08:20:00.000-07:00

Adding my handprint to the cave...these are the five things I've learned about creativity on this journey so far...

It is like fire

It is like water

It is a rooting and an uprooting

It is like breath

It keeps me alive

Thank you.

Facing the Gorgon's Mirror

2006-06-14T07:34:00.001-07:00

So I finally step up to the Gorgon’s mirror, after having arrived late to the House of the Serpents, dragging my feet round the grounds, gazing at the space. The bees have been wondering what I’m up to. Yes, it’s summer, and yes, it feels wonderful to revel in the sunshine we’ve been waiting for for so long, but really honey…(pardon the pun), you’ve gotta get a move on.

It is rare that I need to be pushed to do anything, so I listen to them.
I try to do it casually, like it’s just another day, getting ready to go out, getting dressed. I glance down at myself and remember that I am still in my naked finery.

I close my eyes for a moment and nervously smile to myself. Honestly, what could I possibly see in this mirror that I hadn’t already seen before?

I open my eyes.

I don’t recognise her.
For a start, she’s tiny. She can’t be older than three or four. And she appears to be sitting in some woman’s lap, some woman I’ve never seen before.

I look around, who can I protest to? This is the wrong image. But I look back, and she looks at me. The little girl. Her feet are bare and she looks panicked, her arms and legs are tensed like wood and she’s shaking her head, her weight poking into the woman’s lap.

I am reminded of a story I’ve been told at family gatherings. About how, when I was taken back to Thailand for the first time after my birth, it was so hot and alien to me that I started whimpering and refused to let one single toe of my foot touch the ground for a week. I had to be carried everywhere, mainly by my father, but also by one of my aunts. There she is, holding me, kissing my head to comfort me, but I don’t soften, and I can’t see what she’s trying to do for me.

Is this how I appear to others, a terrified child, unable to take comfort from those who hold her?

I close my eyes and fall in a heap in front of the mirror. The Gorgon’s Mirror shows the truth. This is a part of me that I’d long buried, this is a part of me I’ve never embraced, never understood. And yet, I’ve continued to ask myself why I push people away, those closest to me the most? The Gorgon is wise, this is not the answer of course, but a splinter, to get at the truth. Once again, I am humbled on this journey. Humbled and surprised.

Brolga in a Bottle

2006-06-08T01:34:00.000-07:00

I was fishing off the back of the pirate ship when I snagged a bottle. Inside was a piece of tattered parchment which held this curious tale...

My Trek through the Bogs

2006-06-05T14:20:00.000-07:00

I’ve taken on a brave face and decided to trek along the marshes here at the bog. I rummage in my bag and pull out my glasses to render a clearer look at what’s ahead. I slip them on and all of a sudden things get much clearer, perhaps too clear.

It’s mighty eerie here and I’m not too anxious to continue on my own, but it’s almost as though I can’t help myself and besides el Enchanteur and the rest of the group are waiting for me. Something is pulling me deeper and deeper along. Who knows what I will encounter as I’ve been told that people have been found meeting untimely deaths and buried here as punishment or even human sacrifice. The thought of this sends chills up my spine and for nervousness sake I clutch my bag close to my chest, hike my glasses up farther on my nose and let out a deep sigh.

And even though it is mid-day, I wind around dimly-lit passageways that are amassed with a heavy mist hanging in the air as the acrid stench of dead and rotting swampland fills my nose. It’s the absence of its high acid content and oxygen free environment that gives this part of the world its power. The bog people are restless, I can feel it.

As I meander deeper and deeper my bag is now tightly grasped in my fist much like securing a weapon for battle. It offers minimal solace but I keep saying to myself that there’s nothing to worry about. I still won’t take anything for granted, though, remembering what el Enchanteur told us, it’s best to keep a swift foot and not linger too long.

As I continue on I could see how easy it would be to get lost; it’s almost as though I am going round in circles. But just as I was beginning to lose faith, I spot the rest of the group at the clearing. And as I make my way to join them it’s easy to see how the presence of spirits and gods makes it easy to understand how they can take control over life and death, and how this swampland could hold a strange power over the lives of ancient people. Do you think by our presence we’ve made the bog people angry? I have a feeling we are about to find out.

gret ©

No Fear

2006-06-05T04:53:00.000-07:00

Do not fear too much, my friends,
the huffing and puffing of vanity's wind
that would billow the sails of your vessel.

In place of the ancient Scull of Golgatha,
I have affixed a Crossed Trizub,
bound by knots more than four,
that cannot be undone except by acts
of courage, valor, cherity and mirth.

No untruth can long stand in its presence,
and it will serve as an eye and ear
that I may sense an echo of your voyage
and imprisonment ...

aye, though I walk the vales and pinnacles
of unpassable deceptions,
I will be with you --

and the reach of my staff
is greater than might be imagined.

faucon

A Story and a Snippet for the Message in a Bottle Prompt

2006-06-04T15:38:00.000-07:00

I traveled at least once a year when I was young, mostly by ship. Although somewhat shy by nature, when I overhear an intriguing conversation I usually follow up. One evening on the S.S. Independence, an officer told someone he kept a scrapbook of letters he'd received when the bottles he'd thrown overboard washed up on shore. I snagged him later and asked if I might read it.

"My watch begins at 4:00am. I'll bring it to the lounge," he told me. I don't know who was more surprised when I showed up on time, the officer or me.

I read the book from cover to cover. His career at sea had been a long one so his knowledge and interest in tides and currents was extensive. He'd thrown over more than seven hundred bottles in the twenty years he'd been sailing before he'd stopped counting. He'd gotten over two hundred replies; some had taken five or six years before they'd washed ashore and been found.

Mostly he'd done the North Atlantic run, so a good portion of his "mail" came from Ireland and the British Isles, many from Holland and Scandinavia. Like a stamp collector he was delighted to show off his collection and a single letter from Russia, which he treasured.

He sailed the South Pacific for a while and had letters from Australia and New Zealand. I asked about his message and, truth be told, was a bit disappointed--it was a form giving longitude, latitude and the date and asking the finder for the same information. The paper was thin and weighed next to nothing.

If the form was boring, the answers weren't. The ones I could read, (not all were in English) were thrilled by the adventure! Yes, he'd actually become friends with some of the readers, been invited to visit a few. He always wrote back to thank them and the scrapbook was his prize possession. He invited me and my parents to sign our names on three slips and then toss the bottles overboard. Evidently they never made it to shore, but it was great fun.

I told this story to a crew member on The Santa Maria, a Grace Line passenger-freighter that sailed through the Panama Canal and down the west coast of South America and he told me one in return. A seaman he'd known was fond of throwing bottles overboard, too, but had never gotten a reply. One day, as a joke, someone put one of his bottles in a bucket of water and it immediately sank to the bottom. The crew had roared in merriment. Lesson learned? Coca Cola bottles don't float.

Bon Voyage

2006-06-04T15:30:00.000-07:00

I bid Albert goodbye at the landing in the Pirate's Cove. As much as I wanted him to come with me, he assured me that a horse at sea was not a good situation for all parties concerned. Also, he seemed to suggest that there had been a parting of the ways between he and Matilda and it was best that he not be on board-- something about owing money-- I didn't pry further. Albert promised that he would find a way to the Abbey and would meet me there.

I kissed him on the forehead and scratched him behind the ears, then I boarded my small skiff and headed out towards the Calabar Felonway, anchored in the cove.

As I rowed onward, I noticed something glimmering in the morning sun light. It was cobalt blue, bobbing in the water, and as I got closer, I could see it was a wine bottle. I grabbed the gaff in the bottom of the skiff and reached for the bottle. When I finally got hold of it, I held it up to the light. Inside was a small scroll.

I pulled out the cork and removed the scroll. It was parchment, old and stained, and the writing was somewhat hard to read. In dark brown script, which looked like dried blood, were the scrawled words: "Beware of the Bog People......"

Before I could finish reading, a voice from the Calabar hailed me: "Avast ye scurvey wench, what's takin' ye so long." I shoved the scroll into my knap sack and quickly rowed on.

Image and text: Lori Gloyd (c) June 4, 2006

Sorta Bottle

2006-06-04T13:51:00.000-07:00

This is sorta a 'message in a bottle story',
so I sent it over by Raven Messenger.

Page of Uli

There was nothing special about Uli, except his name, perhaps. He was Samuel by birthright, but his early life had not followed any path described in scripture. When his sister had come along and had been christened Samantha, wiser minds intervened and contrived the nickname. Thus, he was not really even himself, and somehow forfeit for all that. His name was frequently called more in teasing than for assistance or youthful insight into life's mysteries, gifts of a fair haired boy. He even came to refer to himself in the third person as, "Uli thinks it is time to eat," or "Uli is tired of this game!" The officialdom of that time refused to play the game, however, and teachers, priests, sergeants and social workers called him 'Samuel'. He rarely responded. When he was eighteen, he legally changed his name. Samuel was dead. He held a wake. The drinking part anyway.

The very next day, Uli started keeping a journal. It was certainly not a diary, controlled by the flow of passing summer days. It wasn't even kept daily, so the name is perhaps inappropriate. It was a bound collection of thoughts and dreams and reflections. Some was scarcely legible flowing dialogue with a hidden, internal self. There were neatly scripted haikus and penciled sonnets and random colorful phrases that Uli called 'refractions'. Sometimes these found later life in a larger piece. Mostly they molded like last fall's leaves covered by new 'reflections' of the sun. Like Uli's life, there was no order, pattern or direction. A cynic's view might be that he was laughing at the world. His departed mother would have thought he was mostly crying. Taciturn male role models would have lectured on his avoidance of the 'real world'. For the poet, he was praying!

Uli liked to sail and his small sloop was often out early to savor the peace of the sunrise dance on the small waves. He fished some, and drank some and wrote some. The order did not matter as he was always alone. He read a lot of course -- one cannot write with any touch of soul if he does not also travel into the mind of others. He dreamed a lot, lulled by the rocking of the small boat; sail dropped, sea anchor out, rain bucket ready for the sudden downpour -- Spirit's hand at the tiller.

His dreams were not of historic animal hunts, or a western chase across the plains. He rescued no maidens nor flew beneath the clouds nor battled Titans between the stars. Nothing so dashing for Uli. He dreamed of the symphony that plucked at his heart, of the notes he could not sing. Uli gathered the stroke of the dragon fly's wings and the cry of the polishing stone. He measured the beat of the thistle puff as it shattered the sprinkled lawn, and listened to the acorn's falling -- down -- down. Birds were resplendent in their hidden trill, even miles from the shore, for he remembered every vibrant song -- they coursed throughout his veins. In the written journal there was nothing of this, perhaps a man is best known by what he does not say! Uli was thought simple -- he was not a simple man!

When Uli awoke from his erstwhile trip to nowhere, there was no land in sight! His nostrils flared to gather any clue of direction or safe passage, but nothing came. No sounds of life or oil slick or drifting wing above. The sky was a uniform slate of anonymity upon which nothing was inscribed. Featureless -- lacking in texture -- lacking in overt passion. It might have been a reflection of his soul! No silent breeze clutched at his sail and the rudder described a meaningless 5 degree circle on the shallow waves. He could row, of course, but where? Better to wait. A touch of dismay crossed his brow and he sat down to write, not from inspiration -- just something to do. When he found land, it was not home, nor happy, nor any help at all. It was worthless!

The forbidding rocks were uniformly black, but certainly not uniform in size or shape. Each was a sinister barrier to life and approach. Even the sea birds were not drawn here -- at least there were no white striations to break the monotony. No trees, no piles of leaves or jumble of driftwood -- nothing. He allowed the tiny boat to drift around the small island -- no choice actually, for the currents teased with a multidirectional, swirling force. He attempted to row ashore -- why he did not know, but was always pushed away by a tide that always seemed to be rushing out -- out. The jagged rocks made any venture foolish in any event. Yet the island called to him -- not in yearning song, but in whispers. These somber tones came not from fear or dread or worse, but from a bell that was never rung. He rowed away.

"If this island does not allow approach," Uli thought, "then it must point in contrast to another saving path. Any port in a storm, they say. There is no storm and no port!" Row, row. He began to sing.

The gigantic tanker neither saw Uli not felt the crushing blow that crunched the craft into ragged shards. The looming swell or spinning brass blades may have been at fault, but Uli was beyond caring with the shocked interruption of his joyful cry. The ship passed on leaving only flotsam behind, scraps of wood, a couple of pots and a reddish knapsack in a box. These all washed ashore on the bleak island, they not impeded by the sloop's buoyancy or fragile size or pilot's will. The planks caught amongst the sharp boulders to bleach in the eventual sun. The box hinges rusted away to spill the contents into a slight defile, but the pages of the journal were still abused by wind and salt water spray. The writing faded with no less of a song that Uli had ever been able to voice.

A small plane crashed on the tip of the island, far from its charted course. Isn't that always the way? Only the young mother and three children stood upon the rocks to watch the wreckage slide beneath the angry surf. Such despair cannot be retold! But even then, the youngest daughter was disposed to explore a bit and found the wood, drawn by the rustling of the journal pages. They assembled the pile as best they could and tore out pages, many that blew away. They waited. When a flicker of light appeared on the horizon they kindled the fire and watched the hopeful finger of smoke snake and undulate into the gloomy sky. Ashes of pages drifted upward too. Then everything was gone -- every trace of Uli had completely vanished.

Years later a teenage girl sat beneath a tree and spread out a crumpled, withered page. Blue lines were faint. Fainter still were the words she had traced in pencil over the years, lifted from slight indentations in the linen scrap.

"I am the squire of the morning mist,

herald of each birthing day.
I am the champion of daily hour's command,
from chivalry's call for helping strong hand.

≈ ≠µ ℓ ю ……

I am the monk seeking peace in Mother Earth
where setting red sun will measure my worth.
But do not fear for God's claim on my soul,
for each day grants new life devoid of pain.

I will bring in the day to squire your birth,

gentle gird your loins in mail,
And cap your brow with helm of pure delight,
and grant curved shield of Aegis' might.
Claim your sword my friend and never cry yield
for I will be watching, will never fail.

Where what 'was' joins 'what will be',

there is proud eternal braid
that in our evening's death there will cycle new life,

to conquer unafraid."

Story In A Bottle - Literally An Old Tale

2006-06-04T08:07:00.000-07:00

I wrote this, believe it or not, about two years ago, all of which time it has been tucked in a drawer. Thought I would pull it out for this prompt, as I am juggling too many things, (as usual:-P)and don't have time to form a new one. It seems to fit with bottles and sea journeys, so I am telling it here:

Working Title: “Max Wellgrave – Adventurer”
It was dull in 1853 Sussex, especially for Max Wellgrave. He lived in a thatch-roofed stone manor with his elderly mother and father, self-possessed as he saw them, living twenty years in the past. He was a late baby, welcome, but late. His only excitement was his uncle, a kind of mad wizard who lived in an old cottage at the bottom of the garden on their estate. The property had been in the family since three generations passing. Max was sick of the town, the predictable questions and queries, and the river. Everything centred on the river. The town, trade and the river. He knew its history backwards, and told Archie, his uncle, as much, idling as he did by his cottage that spring afternoon.
Spider webs decorated the frame of the small doorway like ethereal embroidery. He had to stoop to enter, being tall and rangy. His tidy blonde hair and small beard gave him the look of a Norseman rather than an Englishman, and comments like that, from people he knew, made him self-conscious, and made him want to get away. He didn’t know where. Just somewhere that wasn’t here. And people mistaking his name was another dreadful bore, “Oh Maxwell Grave” they would say, on meeting him for the first time. “No,” he would say, correcting them, “Max Wellgrave”. One old local man said “Might as well be in the grave with a name like that!” before he shuffled down the sleepy main street. He’d been 17 then and gone home to his mother and father so moody he hadn’t talked for a week, just glowered at them as a person did at that age. But now he was 21 – ready to take on the world.
“Uncle Arch,” he said, folding his arms as he watched the steam from the distiller curl into the crisp spring air. “I want to go adventuring to other parts of the world.”
Uncle Archie looked up at him through heavy lidded eyes and white, bushy eyebrows. The metal rims of his spectacles glowed in the muted sunlight that shimmered like gold dust through the small windows of the cottage. They were in the kitchen, or Uncle’s ‘laboratory’, as he called it. He fancied himself as a kind of alchemist, taking after the family talent for medicine and pharmaceutical pursuits, but with a twist. The methodical reliability on fact the others in the family had was balanced by a distinct "madness" in Uncle. But he was charismatic, which made him more of an eccentric than a menace. He passed Max a cup of steaming tea, hot off the hob, and took one for himself sipping it. After a long period of silence Max was well used to, Uncle spoke.
“Splendid. But where to go, where to go.”
“I thought to the Gold Rush. The American or Australian fields. I’ve been reading Pa’s papers.”
“Intriguing,” said Uncle, “What do you hope for?”
Max put down his cup to thrust his hands self-consciously in his trouser pockets, “Adventure. To get away, before I get caught up in Pa’s business forever.”
“People go to gold fields to make their fortunes. Your fortune is set out for you, already you are fortunate,” said Uncle, slightly wounded by his favourite nephew’s wish to throw away everything provided for him, by his father and all the fathers before him.
He was making plant oils for medicinal tinctures to be sold at the family dispensary in the town, and had done well, as the boy would do after him.
“It wouldn’t be forever,” said Max, feeling annoyed and hemmed in by the family line that preceded him.
“You can’t mix oil and water,” said Uncle, vaguely, “Can’t mix it.”
Max shrugged his shoulders. Another one of Uncle’s moods coming on, he thought.
“Whatever you say, I will go. I’m twenty-one.”
“You still can’t mix oil and water.”
“Whatever you say, Uncle,” he said, fumbling in his pockets until he found a penny. “Heads, America, tails Australia.”
Max tossed the coin as Uncle looked up at it spinning, his eyes following it down to the floorboards. It clattered and rang, then fell tails up.
It was done; Max was off to Australia. Melbourne to be exact, and then Ballarat. That was where he was going, he thought, standing on the deck, face to the wind. Everything would be different. No ridicule, no locals who had known his since he was a baby, no parents to remind him what he ought to be doing. His leather bag was stuffed with his clothing, food from his mother, books from his father and from Uncle, a bag of fine gold dust in his vest pocket. Why the man had given him gold, when gold was what he was looking for, defied explanation. He shook his head at his eccentric uncle and went below deck to his quarters, grimacing slightly at the cramped conditions, the plank-hard mattress, the forlorn lantern swinging with the motion of the vessel and the large, black spider crawling up the wall. Ship life was grand, Max thought. For five months he kept to himself, alternating between like and dislike, but too proud to admit it was not as easy as he had imagined.

It was a strange thing, youth. The daring of it and the untried ideas resisted the wisdom of older people. Older, later back in Sussex, Max Wellgrave was to recall that first taste of freedom again, when he was married, sons gathered around him, and retell it with more favourable elaboration than had been the case. The story grew more fabulous, urged on and expanded, like the eyes of his sons listening in fascination. In truth, he was an utter disappointment at adventuring.
When he got there, knee deep in yellowy mud from the persistent rain, hardened officials and merchants pressed the requisition tent, tools, and provisions on him, plying him for exorbitant sums of money in return. He knew what sheep felt like robbed of their fleece; poor. He had never tasted this particular flavour of lack, wrapping itself around him like an immobilising, dense fog. It was not like home where he could have what he wanted at a fair price. It was not what he expected.
A man in bedraggled clothing forced his stay in his tent, reminding him of Uncle. His strange mutterings were better than nothing on the empty, windy nights when the tent flapped and wheezed with cold. The man who sold him his licence at a premium, eyeing his clothes when he made his reckoning higher than usual, scoffed at his name.
“Never heard of a well grave, boy. England, aye, I’ll give you a week at that. No more than a week, sonny.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Max, traipsing away through the mud, only as defiant as the mud would allow.
No matter where he went in the world it appeared he could still find humiliation. What was the point in being here with nothing, when he could be humiliated at home with everything? he wondered, stiff in his stretcher from cold.
The old man who invited himself to stay with Max had been at the diggings for two years, jumping newcomer’s tents as they arrived. People jumped each other’s claims in the same way. This was the diggings; forced to live by your wits. Uncle’s bag of gold was still in his keep, a reminder of home. He kept it to himself with great secrecy.. He had been careless with precious things at home.
Max had failed at everything he put his hand to on the diggings, not that he admitted it when he got home, little more than a month spent. When he started developing the symptoms of what his family medical knowledge told him was the initial stages of pneumonia, it gave him pause for thought. He’d been so cocky he hadn’t included any medicine in his bag. Toward the end of a month, lying awake in his canvas stretcher, he looked at the old man, muttering in his sleep. He had been naïve to the extreme, excited by newsprint. How Uncle would laugh…if he left quickly he would be spared the shame of coming home in one the medical beds on board the ship home.
Next morning Max handed ownership of his licence, tools, tent and provisions to the old man. “Keep well, old man,” said Max, shaking his hand soundly, leaving the freezing fields. It was five months before he was home. The latter part of the voyage was spent in sunlight, a stark contrast to the winter he had left behind. On the deck basking in it daily, he purged the pneumonia virus that might have killed him, under the advice of the ship's medical man. He pondered the meaning of the gold dust from Uncle, safely in his vest pocket. He also thought of the wisdom he had gained, until he finally landed at Southampton. Met by his elderly mother and father, he settled back into their fold, the town, the trade and the river.
Uncle hadn’t come to greet him, and later he met him in the sunny cottage again, now in late summer, as had been their usual habit. Max didn’t mind it so much now, seeing everything as he did through fresh, wise eyes. He still stooped to go into the small doorway, smiling as he laid eyes on the familiar figure of Uncle bending over his work and the curl of steam from the distiller.
“My boy,” he said simply, clasping his wise hands over Max’s younger ones. “You have returned, as I expected. You will follow in the family footsteps, heal the sick with medicine.”
They spoke of many things, and Max was more candid with Uncle, who seemed to know everything before he spoke of his non-adventures anyway. He was always glad of news of the world, never surprised by its peculiarities. Max handed the bag of gold dust back to his uncle. Their eyes met. Uncle nodded, tossing it back on the wooden bench.
“Of all people you would know oil cannot be mixed with water,” said Max, with gratitude in his smile, “I ought to, after all your lectures. Two unlike substances cannot be blended. I am a Wellgrave to the core. I cannot be anything else.”
They looked at the small bag of gold dust on the wooden bench. Max knew he was deserving of the old, wise family name.
“You and all the Wellgrave men before you tried to escape their calling. You are a Wellgrave to the core.”
“Like a fool I went searching for gold,” Max said, “You wisely said I had it already.”
“And now you know the difference, you have gained wisdom.”
Uncle turned back to his work, distilling tinctures from plants for their dispensary in the town. Max drew nearer the work, fascinated now by what he had thought commonplace before. Suddenly the curl of steam rising from the distiller intensified as Uncle Archie, becoming excited, knew he had reached the point in the process where the oil separated from the water to become valuable. The old man smiled and quickly made ready to inspect the precious oil in a glass beaker. Max pulled a chair across the floor, eagerly, to watch the master at work.
# (May 2004)
copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Gorgon's Wrath

2006-06-03T21:38:00.001-07:00

The Gorgon is still in such a foul mood that she has frozen the first person to cross her path........burrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Photomontage created in Photoshop and Terragen: Lori Gloyd (c) June 3, 2006

Bottled Tale

2006-06-03T21:38:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, many years ago there was a young school teacher fresh out of college. Her first job didn't pay very much, but she was filled with enthusiasm, and having the time of her life in her very own classroom. One day the school bus driver stopped by her room with a problem. He had to go to a funeral the next day and there was no one available to make the after school run in his place. The young teacher jumped at the opportunity, especially when he offered to pay her his share for the run. When lunch time came, they went to the parking lot for a little driving practice. "There is only one thing you must be very mindful of" he said, "and that is the brakes. They are extremely sensitive, you need only flex your big toe to bring the bus to a full stop."
She nodded diligently, and once moving found this advice to be true-the slightest depression of the pedal was sufficient.

All afternoon she looked forward to her new role as bus driver, even incorporating the adventure into her lesson plan. She spread out the route map on a table in the front of the room, and showed each of the children how to trace the path from school to their bus stop. Ten minutes after the closing bell, the bus was loaded and they were off. It was a sunny, spring day, and she broke into a familiar song as they drove along, 'till one by one the whole bus filled with happy young voices. This was a farming community, and the rich brown earth of the newly plowed fields stretched in an endless vista on either side of the road.

Had not fate interceded, this would have been an idyllic tale, sweet in its simplicity. Alas, the fully loaded manure spreader, which was following much to close, and the frolicking goats awash with their new-found freedom, having just jumped their enclosure, all conspired to tweak destiny. The goats burst out onto the road from the tall grass along the ditch, and no one would later blame her memory lapse as she trod down hard upon the brake pedal. The two little kids in the back seat ended clear up in the front of the bus, a little dazed but unhurt. This was a good thing in more ways than one considering the abrupt kiss between the manure truck and the back of the bus. That whole load of manure rose up like a levitated body and deposited itself perfectly on top of the bus...except of course that which anointed the occupants through the open windows.

So that is my tale, save for the consequences which shall be left to the reader's imagination.

Off to the Serpent Road

2006-06-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

I'm shuffling off ...
working out a story in my head ...
fiction of course,
something about desert riches.

Story in a Bottle

2006-06-03T16:49:00.000-07:00

You have all heard of messages in a bottle. Well now it is your chance to write a story to go in a bottle that le Enchanteur can keep in her cabin on board the Calabar.

After yesterday's tantrum Enchanteur seems much more tranquil and her cabin appears idyllic but it would be well to be cautioned that she is a shape shifter and can change with the breezes that puff up the Calabar's sails.

Keep Enchanteur happy by doing a bit of the Arabian Nights style story telling and create some stories to go in bottles. Of course it would be fun to have decorated bottles to match the stories.

A Confession of Terror

2006-06-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

The Priestess of the House of the Serpents says I must shed yet another skin.... so here goes.

A Confession of Terror

It has been nearly five years since September 11, 2001. Since that time I have exchanged the occasional "what-were-you-doing-when-it-happened" stories with others, but I have never once written about the experience. It is not that the events of that day have faded from my memory and that I have become complacent about the whole thing. To the contrary, I have never truly thrown off the terror and uncertainty of that day. In fact, I believe that I have internalized the fear into the fabric of my being. I say this because last week, while at the movies, I saw a trailer for a new film called World Trade Center which is premiering soon. During the trailer, I believe I had a minor post-traumatic stress reaction, becoming physically uncomfortable and emotional stressed as I watched the trailer's reenactment of the planes slamming into the WTC. It was so distressing for me to watch this because I witnessed the second plane crash into the WTC on Live television that morning five years ago.

The night before the attack, I had had a fitful night's sleep, having been awakened about 2 a.m. from a dream where I and some strangers were waiting for some planes to drop bombs on us! The dream frightened me so much I remember bolting straight up in bed, sweating and breathing hard. I think this dream was mere coincidence and certainly not a prophetic one, but it certainly rattled me so much that when my radio alarm came on a little before 6 a.m. (California time) and I heard that a plane had crashed in NYC, it propelled me out of bed and to my television.

I had been watching only a couple of minutes when I saw a streak across the screen and an explosion of smoke and fire. I remember screaming "Oh, Jesus, Oh, God!" at the t.v. and then muttering over and over to myself, "I just saw people die, I just saw a plane full of people die!" Unbelievably, it did not occur to me then that we were under attack. I thought it was some sort of bizare glitch in the air traffic control system. This thinking slowly changed as reports started coming in about the planes crashing into the Pentagon and into the fields of Pennsylvania.

I pulled myself together and headed towards work. As I drove along my usual route, a street along the backside of the airport, I listened to Peter Jennings at ABC describe the collaspe of one of the WTC towers. As calm as he tried to be, I could still hear the terror in his voice, and it was then that the full realization of what was happening to us set in.

Driving alongside the airport, I suddenly realized the possible danger to myself. If New York and D.C. were under attack, why not L.A.! I hit the gas and sped to work. I debated for a moment about whether or not to turn around and go home. I wanted to be in my own environment and near a news source, but I continued along to work. When I got there, we received word from the top that classes would be held as planned and all employees were to work their shift.

At first I thought they had made a mistake: we should be off the streets, leaving them clear for emergency personnel and vehicles, but I came to realize that our management was responding in the only possible way to those who were attacking us: "We will continue as normal; you will not effect us, you will not achieve your goal!" In fact, a student came to me a few days later and thanked me for being at work. I had taken a call from her that day and had calmed her down considerably, she told me. She said that I had provided a presence of normalcy on a day of madness. I thanked her for her comments but underneath I knew I did not deserve the compliment.

In fact, that day, and to this very day, I am still afraid. I have not been on a plane since then and have physical and emotional reactions when I see images of the events of 911.

I am ashamed to say and I confess it here before you all: "They may have achieved their goal, at least in MY LIFE."

God help me.

Lori Gloyd (c) June 3, 2006

Watch yer Back

2006-06-03T03:34:00.000-07:00

While I am safely away, a friend will post this information about pirates that may help prepare you for your, er … confinement. Most of the modern images of pirates and buccaneers are Hollywood fictions, with little basis in fact or tradition. Privateers are a different matter all together, with many of the greatest atrocities committed under ‘license’ of one king or another. The foundations of pirate myth mostly stem from the actions of Corsairs in the Mediterranean after the Crusades --not the actions of the Muslim or North African tribes, but of the ‘esteemed’ Knightly Orders driven from the Holy Land by Saladin. Both the Templar Knights, and the Knights of Saint John took to the seas from island bases to attack and pillage Muslim trade – and all merchants who would not submit to their will. The ‘skull and cross bones’ is based on Templar Priest placing a scull on the mast – a relic to be placed in Jerusalem. The red flag (Jolly Roger) if the "Joile Rouge’" – eith a red flag with white cross that later became the flag of Switzerland, or the reverse that became symbol of the Red Cross. Sadly – in those grand pirate times, it was a symbol of death. The OofSJ acquired the secret to ‘Greek Fire’, and any merchant ship not instantly surrendering was burned to the water-line from a distance.

I wrote this ballad about these events that you might enjoy – even with me singing it.

Jolie Rouge'

With Acre now seized by Saladin's hand, no knights upon the Holy Land,
Bold Falcon leads a corsair band to thwart aside the Sultan's plan.
Giant ships guided by Templar might, festoon an awful flag of black,
Known by all as Gonfalon Beauceant, sure sign they cold fear do lack.
Look to a skull of ancient Gagatha, carried on mast for passion's sake.

Merchants and Arabs do quickly row from pirates these fine knights do make.
But terror and dauntless courage hold, these fine ships are put to shame,
By the fleet of Maltese Corsairs bold, whose dread flag Saint John proclaim.
On swift ships with sail cut trapezoid, do fierce banner bright red display.
No quarter give, nor prisoner bind, cries out the flag called the Jolie Rouge'

For they carry the secret of awesome powers, a fire that belches across the sea.

Spawn of death from a siphon of bronze, ransom or die their only plea.
At helm, a priest dressed all in black, not guided much by golden wealth.
At the ropes Syrian sailors dark, sail a thousand years of stealth.

At the oars are sea-wolf bandits from far northern icy sea.

Together they tack unto the winds and hopeless merchants cannot flee.
They do not need to grapple close, nor arm with axe or blade,
For even water will not quench this fire that spreads on deck and wave.

For corsairs the black gives strength of iron to meet a certain death,
With bones from the Temple of Solomon a source of Templar faith.

But for Turks 'tis the red they flee, or meet a Hell born fate.
They are the curse of the Inland Sea, only destruction in their wake.
The fluttering flag of the Jolie Rouge' does warn of a hungry flame.
But notice sure the cross of white, on both flags it is the same.

Cross of white and a sea of blood, your pirate legacy.

You better not go down to the Cove today.

2006-06-03T00:44:00.000-07:00

You better not go down to the cove today. You better go in disguise.

It is Saturday and le Enchanteur and the Gorgon are as fractious as can be. Enchanteur is in such a state that she has steam coming out of her ears and the Gorgon is not happy either.

They have reputations to maintain. Images to hold!

Hopefully, those planning to travel by ship will be able to slip down to the cove tomorrow, row out and claim a cabin while these two sleep off their Saturday fractiousness. Hopefully they will be more amiable by the time we all sit down for a Sunday dinner together.

And whose head is that dangling out there? Faucon? I hope you and Cher-lynn made a quick getaway up over the mountain pass.

Seeds?

2006-06-02T21:10:00.000-07:00

I was reading on the couch in my sunroom--a small, dark room with three windows blocked by a giant holly tree. No sun filtered through the branches today, it was rainy and thoroughly gloomy outside. I'd returned from food shopping, grateful to have managed it between the heavy showers and thunderstorms that just kept coming and coming, but the idea of doing housework or even writing petered out in the dreariness of the day. I couldn't keep my eyes open and,laying my book aside, I drew my knees up and put my head on the pillow in total surrender to the rain and my mood.

It was a while before I heard the tapping, what with the rain and the intermittent dull rumbles of thunder, but finally the peculiar pattern of sound penetrated my drowsy brain and I turned to look out the window. A small bird, sat on my windowsill pecking on the glass.

"I'm drowning out here--do you mind?"

I'm accustomed to this in Soul Food. If I'd been on my computer in Riversleigh or the Abbey, or on the Serpentine road or any of the other blogs I'd have accepted a talking bird without question, but I wasn't on computer. In dumbfounded obedience I opened the window. The bird, no larger than a sparrow, hopped inside and, extending its wings, shook itself, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. Then it sneezed.

"Man, I hope I'm not catching a cold."

I ignored it and curled up again in my chair.

"Hey, what's with you? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"I'm obviously losing my marbles, so I'll just get comfortable and continue my dream."

"No, really, don't do that," it said. I felt it land on the cushion beside me. "Heather sent me. She said you had a bad week and could use a little cheering up. So what'll it be? You want me to transport you to someplace exotic, or you need a seed of inspiration, or what?"

"Aren't you a little small for a phoenix?" I asked, refusing to open my eyes. Honestly, this was the dumbest dream I'd ever had.

"I try to blend in, you know. Your neighborhood doesn't really seem like the kind of place that would take to me in my usual form. And your house is way too small. Hmmmm. You may be right. Maybe you just need to rest. Go back to sleep. I can't really stick around, but I'll leave you something. You rest, you'll be fine."

I woke up later with a crick in my neck from the way I'd been sleeping. The house was still gloomy, the rain still poured down. I did a load of laundry, so the day wouldn't be a complete waste and while I was putting it in the machine, got an idea about my friend, a way to honor his memory and generosity so I e-mailed another friend about it. Well, we'll see, maybe it will work out. It's a good idea.

I read something yesterday that mentioned a "blog me" button. Seemed like it would be a time saver, so I investigated. I had to download the Google toolbar to get it but I messed up and got all the doodads but the one thing I wanted--the button. I'm not too swift with this tech stuff--I was always told I didn't have any patience.

Funny, when children come into the library to do a report, I tell them to be like Sherlock Holmes--the world's greatest detective. Look for clues. Take your time. Think logically. Sure you can do it! Well now, the button wasn't where help said it would be, but I found it. Hmmm. Works like a charm! Not a bad day after all.

I wonder. Seeds of all useful things. A talking Phoenix the size of a sparrow. Nah, couldn't be.

No Boat

2006-06-02T16:34:00.000-07:00

"The road to the Abbey is impassable,"
or so we are told by the fractious Enchantress,
but I will not speculate on motive
to get you all aboard like bilge rats –
words like ‘impress’ and ‘shanghai’
come to mind.
It matters not, as it is my calling
to walk this journey in baby steps,
and feel the caress of giggly ferns,
and listen to the wisdom of the stones,
and weep with the sunset –
and will not be denied.
What will I meet that others consider
"impassable?"
Torrential streams or wandering boulders?
Crevasse or pinnacle or uproot tree?
Bring them on – and on again,
for I am nothing
if not quested to walk where others dread.
My broken body tells of this –
each step racked with pain,
but along the way I will find a stranger
who would parish if I did not pass this way.
and pass I will,
for the Abbey is my special home,
and Cher-lynn awaits --
and there is the Lantern to care for
when you brigands arrive.

Hands - Sacred Symbol of Humanity

2006-06-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

In various cultures the hands have been called the sacred symbol of humanity. When we begin to scrutinize the ‘hand’ and what bears in meaning to each of us, the world opens to a myriad of ritual, conviction and belief. To what a Buddhist or Indian, or to what the Eastern World calls its own and claims its ways, lends itself to being true to oneself.

As example, Christianity long known for the “praying hands” of the Lord emits its own connotation and reverence. Or take the study of palmistry that puts emphasis on the hand when trying to decipher the intricate highways and byways of the nervous system. Also, the mounds and fingers were named for the seven planets that were recognized by astronomers and astrologers at an earlier time in our history. And then there were ancient civilizations that left handprints on cave dwellings and cliffs that remain today symbolizing many things from death, rebirth, reclamation, even demise.

And so it goes; the study and representation of the hand takes on many a meaning each unique and meaningful throughout many cultures. And when you pair it with the meaning of humanity in the strict sense of the word, it says it all. Desirable characteristics, kindness, mercy, sympathy, mankind, people, and being humane all make it easier to understand how peoples from every walk of life can relate. The simple act of praying, meditating, or participating in any creative endeavor only brings humanity that much closer.

Gretchen L. ©

Gorgon Demise

2006-06-02T11:01:00.001-07:00

Gorgon bristled mane of snakes, mirror
collective violence poised and ready to
strike.

With the devil a pact she made leave death’s
stare for her nemesis’ perilous fight.

Shield must be made, an iron fist, labor borne,
filled wrought with intense.

No other way, captured at the quay,
end of her evil reign commence.

Gretchen L. ©

Shedding the Skin of Regret

2006-06-02T08:54:00.000-07:00

Everyone has an inner critic, that malady that hangs on our conscience and guides us hither and yon. And most often it takes us in the wrong direction. It becomes a part of our “self”, almost like a second skin, which is why there comes a time when we must let it go.

Before I embark on my journey I must decide to let something go. I must shed my skin of regret, the “should've and could've" of my life. To some degree the years have slightly blurred these times and I have tried being gentler with myself.

So I feel strongly that if I can shed the skin of my past regrets right here and right now, clear the path of obstacles of living in “what I didn’t do” and move on. I feel good about this. And strangely enough optimism blooms and soon I hope to stand tall, and allow the burden that’s been laden on my slender shoulders lift.

Gretchen L. ©

Flight - Leaving Doubt And Disbelief

2006-06-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

On being invited for a flight with the Roc, well, neither I nor Belenus would

refuse. Donkeys can easily balance on the back of a bird like this so we

hopped on. Belenus made sure we wore our glasses and put aside the

anchor we had. "You are always doubting and disbelieving," hissed Belenus

as the bird told us of the wonders of the ages. "You can talk!" I said back, wind

whistling in my hair at such a high altitude. "And keep your voice down! We

don't want to look like fools."

The Roc was telling us we were headed to the Land of Colours, to take tea

with the sea maids and learn some wisdom. I liked the sound of this, and it

wasn't until I got back, that I wrote in my journal and knew it made sense.

It was only then that I could shed the skin of cynicism, the shades of

doubt and disbelief...

Here are some pictures taken, the only ones allowed

from the journey.

It was filled with unusual things, colours,

things we had never seen before,

and everything was tinged with gold.

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Captain Bonny Wilder

2006-06-02T06:12:00.000-07:00

Ebony Wilder has come on her Pirate Ship to collect some human cargo and take them to the Lemurian Abbey. She is being received by the Rainbow Serpent Priestess and negotiating as we speak. The offer of some 'cabin's of one's own' may well be enough to entice travellers take passage on her ship. Well, the truth is that they have little choice because the mountain routes are currently impassable.

But first the Rainbow Serpent Priestess insists, crew members must leave another skin behind at the House of Serpents for safe keeping. I wonder what folk will leave now.

Conversation with a Phoenix

2006-06-01T13:05:00.000-07:00

The wedding party was in full swing. I sashayed into the grand ballroom in my purple gown and my wildly fluttering feather headdress. Music blared and the other travellers mingled, sharing stories of their adventures on the Serpentine Road. L'Enchanteur herself was in the corner, holding court with other important-looking dignitaries. I waved at her and then headed towards the bar.

On the way, I glanced out the portico window to the great lawn out front. All the animals that brought us here were enjoying their own party. Albert was in his glorious element, entertaining a gaggle of young she-donkeys with a totally falsified story, no doubt. On his withers, though, perched Matilda, the Pirate Queen's first mate. She was whispering something into Albert's ear and he began whinnying in delight. "Strumpet!" I muttered as I changed direction. I needed to break up this little party right away before Albert got too entangled for his own good.

Before I could reach the portico doors, I heard a loud squawk and saw a mountain of color suddenly loomed up before me. I stopped in my tracks. Standing before me was an enormous bird. It was about eight feet tall with the brightest feathers I had ever seen on a bird-- crimson, magenta, gold, and turquoise--each one shimmering as if dusted with crushed diamonds. I looked around me. Everyone was still loudly conversing, trying to hear each other over the music. No one seemed to notice the arrival of this monstrous creature.

"Whoa, dude. Cool hat," it said. I looked around and then pointed to myself and mouthed the word "Me?"

"Yeah, you, dude."

"Um, I'm not a dude...."

The bird squinted his eyes at me. "Oh, yeah, right....Dudette. We get messed up sometimes with you bipedal-types," he began to guffaw.

"'We?' Who, or what, exactly are you?" I asked.

The bird puffed his breast-feathers. "I am whatcha call a 'Phoenix'!"

"Oh, I've heard about Phoenixes. You're here to do a good deed."

"Yup, and it's yer lucky day. I'm your ticket to the perfect adventure."

"No, sorry, I don't want any more adventures at the moment. I'm just waiting until we pull out toward the Cave of the Ancestors. "

"Who says I'm here to take you away?"

"But you just said you're going to take me on an adventure."

"Yeah, but inside, sweet-thing, inside". The Phoenix lifted the curve of his wing and indicated his chest.

Suddenly, I got it. "But I'm already 'inside', first at Riversleigh and now here. The Real World is 'out there'."

"Yeah, but you need to go further in. You're only on the surface, even in the Virtual World. "

"So how do I do that?"

The Phoenix turned sideways and lifted his wing. "Grab one."

"Grab what?"

"A feather."

I looked at him suspiciously. I had "borrowed" some of Matilda's feathers and now she was getting even by flirting with my horse.

"Go ahead. It won't hurt."

I gently took hold of one of the smaller feather on his side and tugged slowly. The feather came out easily. Even this small feather was nearly a foot long.

"There. Now you just keep that in a safe place. The next time you have a writer's block, just whip out that feather and you'll start yer way on an inward flight you will never forget."

"Really!"

"You betcha." The Phoenix glanced out the windows towards Matilda still talking to Albert. "Wow, get a load of that chick! We done here?"

I nodded.

"I'm outta here." He bounced toward the door and Matilda.

I looked down at the iridescent feather glimmering in my hand. Etched on the quill of the feather: "When in doubt, fly."

Text: Lori Gloyd (c) June 1, 2006

Sad Phoenix

2006-06-01T11:32:00.000-07:00

I need help, my friends –
must make some decisions that will change –
my life, the world – every citizen in it.

I am a serious. I hope everyone responds.

This will read like a fairy tail,
but truth is often that way.

I have been carrying a bit of knowledge with me
for close to 50 years – a secret. The way in which
I acquired this ‘gift/burden’ places ethical
constraints on my possibilities. Yet the conditions
of the world demand that I do something,
regardless of the personal price –
and I will
but ‘how to’ is not clear.

I cannot give exact details
without putting myself at risk –
just accept …

I know where there is an immense vein
of valuable metal to be mined. However,
the cost of extraction has always exceeded
any possible profit or risk investment.
that has changed …
and I am the only who guards this knowledge

I must find someone who can organize a company
to extract the ore – a huge investment with no
return for up to ten years – but no risk –
I have seen it, touched it, tasted it –
I can show it to others.

Who do I trust? The moment I reveal such knowledge
I am expendable – find me ‘gone missing’ in some ditch.

I would sell the information if I could,
but no one could pay a normal ‘fair’ price –
even a 25% ‘finder’s fee’ would make me
the richest man in the world,
many times over.

So, I could plan a trust or foundation,
with future earning from my ‘share’
financing a humanitarian organization
with the real ability to help millions of people.
We would need survival income along the way –
EM and I are not greedy but deserve something
for setting up the largest private institution in the world.

It would be exciting for those ten ‘waiting’ years
to explore all of the ways of helping people,
and eliminating many destructive ones –

giving people money does not help them long term,
giving scholarships to high school grads
who can’t so third grade math will not help,
the government is pathetically untrustworthy,
organized religions are little better –

because it suddenly becomes about power!!

I believe Em and I could handle the reins
while we are here – then what?

How do I set up something that does not
wind up being more destructive
than useful? Dare I?

Yet, how dare die with this knowledge
with the potential to make a real difference?
Even if I get nothing – tell me just who to pass
the baton to who can wield it.

Release me! But I shudder at the
terrible potential for misuse and abuse –
I don’t even want this current administration
to get a dime!
I don’t want to finance the next war
in an effort to support peace.

Sigh! Perhaps one of you has an answer.

I can just lie here, sleepless –
knowing that I MUST DO SOMETHING!!

A dream? No, very real.

I don’t like being poor,
I wouldn’t mind being wealthy,
but have no need to ‘buy things’.
What would you do?

What would you do with $5 Billion
a MONTH in salary?

Just joking … ;-)

It’s more than that

"Hope"

2006-06-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

- - hidden in Pandora’s Box

Oh drat us women and our innate curiosity! According to myth, the source of all misfortune was Pandora’s curiosity and that infamous box. From the gods she was given an ornate wooden box affixed with ornate brass accoutrements, and was told “not to open it.” Little did she know they had filled it with all things egregious.

They sent Pandora off to Epimetheus who welcomed her warmly, though Prometheus had warned him never to accept anything from Zeus. Soon fates would have it and he would come to know how true his brother’s words had been. For she, like all women, possessed a penchant of curiosity and had to know what was inside the box.

One night of quiet, she lifted the lid and out flew pestilence, sorrow and mischief too innumerable to mention. Quickly she slammed the lid shut, but it was too late. One good thing, though, the box held hope, and it remains to this day mankind’s sole comfort for misfortune.

gretchen (c)

Eat Your Heart Out Atlas

2006-06-01T05:07:00.000-07:00

The Roc and I sat on a rock contemplating the myths that have been perpetuated by mankind and we agreed, she and I, that Atlas was a right wimp.

Eat your heart out Atlas.

Women carry the burden of the world every day without complaint.

Each day good women hold up the world and carry their burden with grace.

For Sara

2006-05-31T19:46:00.000-07:00

::Transforms into doggie persona and leaps onto the stage, barks into the mic testing the sound system::
"Greetings, Sara and friends. ::wags tail profusely:: First, a personal note: Beetlebug, Charlotte, and I extend every wish for many years of happiness to you, your husband, and Sox :)
(I hope he is not offended that I took over his persona for this recitation.)
This poem conveys the nuances of the doggie/master relationship much better than I could ever express.
Signed,
FlashBug

~TO SOX YOUR DOG ~
(WITH APOLOGIES TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING)

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning.
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares, and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow.
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing.
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping
Which he pushed his nose within,
After—platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

[To Flush, My Dog
by
Elizabeth Barrett Browning]

Immortality Speaks

2006-05-31T17:17:00.000-07:00

I wake to the rustle of leaves brushing lightly against the late evening breeze, the stars shining gallantly in the sky. I sit up, jostling a moment in my bed trying to clear the sleep from my eyes. Moving to the rhythm of this surreptitious night, my intuitive side tells me I’m in for something unusual as a small voice nestled in the back of my psyche tells me I best be prepared.

Like other evening tides at the House of Serpents, I expect calm and quiet but not so this night. I contemplate for a moment with earnest of what’s to come, though the feeling lends itself to an array of events I know I’ve not planned for. It’s just a feeling deep in my gut, an innate indication that something unique is about to surface. But almost instantly the feeling’s gone, though in retrospect I know now that was all according to plan.

Something’s afoot, I can feel it as I slip on my robe while a force unbeknown calls me to wander out in the garden and sit on the ornate wrought iron settee bedecked with a silk lavender cushion. For some reason the evening, dark as midnight, and quiet as a baby’s sigh, allows me to admire the beautiful festoon of gala colored flowers and foliage. Fireflies brightly lit, prance around ornate butterflies, as Praying Mantis kneel in allegiance to the night. Quickly my attention changes and I cannot help but notice something going on at the foot of the old Oak tree sitting majestically to my left.

Drawn to it I make my way in its direction where something tells me to sit down. I crouch down to brush away some moss with my hand, smooth the back of my robe and sit down on the cool earth. Almost immediately the aroma of myrrh fills the air and before I realize it a magnificent bird is sitting at my side. She is the illusive Phoenix, ready to rise again anew. She mimics a peacock with red and gold plumage so bright that it almost takes my breath away and she begins to sing whilst the most beautiful sounds exudes from her soul. I am captivated. We sit for what seems forever, but perhaps passing by as in a glance, as the world around give birth to new colors and sounds never seen nor heard before. It’s as though a paint brush magically made everything Technicolor new.

Then out of nowhere in a burst of light, she catches fire and burns, the flames consuming nothing but her. When the flames die down, all that is left is a pile of gray ashes, from which another phoenix will grow up to shine with the brilliance of its predecessor.

A strange, but pleasant feeling comes over me, though I cannot explain. I awaken to a new me, a new world and a new perspective. Something nudges me to look to the side where I find a purple velvet bag sitting lazily close by. Too tempting to ignore, I pick it up, undo the silk drawstrings and see that it is heavy with all of my dreams, hopes, expectations, and longings. Looking further I found it also filled with humility, gratitude and love. Yes, I know what all of this is, a gift of seeds from the ripe fruit of my muse bestowed to me by the magnificent rising Phoenix, the symbol of life and rebirth. My soul has been touched and I know I will never be the same.

Gretchen L. ©

Wedding Blessings for Sara

2006-05-31T16:33:00.000-07:00

A book mark for Sara

Take this day by the morning
And hold it close to you.
One more link in the chain of days
That you are passing through.
All these days are miracles,
Each more precious than gold,
So hold tight to this special day
Until all the tales are told,
Until all the flowers unfold,
Until even the stars grow cold.

A Night To Remember

2006-05-31T05:15:00.000-07:00

When the glorious Phoenix belonging to the Rainbow Serpent Priestess comes to earth it come to do good deeds for people, and her appearance symbolizes the beginning of a new era. In one story involving Sinbad, the roc unknowingly carries Sinbad to safety after a shipwreck and in another the roc carries him to the Valley of Diamonds. Going farther back into Persian antiquity, there is an immortal bird, amrzs, or (in the Minoi-khiradh) slnamurv, which shakes the ripe fruit from the mythical tree that bears the seed of all useful things

In Japanese mythology, after doing its good deed the bird ascends back to heaven to await a new era.

The Phoenix is here and offering to do good deeds for travellers. She will take you for a fantastical night ride and show you the wonders of the world if that is your desire. Or she will sit with you, shake the ripe fruit that bears the seeds of all that is useful and be your muse for the night.

Make sure to take advantage of this most providential arrival.

Gift for the Gorgon.....

2006-05-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

Lest I forget, here is my gift to the Gorgon, mistress of the House of Serpents: "Woman Dancing in a Red Mandala"

Digital Montage: Lori Gloyd (c) May 30, 2006

2006-05-30T19:08:00.000-07:00

This is my handprint is has Heart, Vision, Perseverance, Spark, and Inner Harmony

Mirror, Mirror

2006-05-30T18:42:00.000-07:00

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

The person who came to gaze in the mirror is tired and gray
The reflection is young and gay
The person gazing is old and sometimes beaten
The reflection is hopeful, happy, and full of promise
The person who came to gaze found a new outlook on life
The reflection smiled...job well done.

To Sara...............

2006-05-30T18:05:00.000-07:00

I've come in full party regalia including my headress. I am ready to celebrate!

Dear Sara--
May many blessings from above shower
upon you and your beloved on this day!

Lorijayne
(tossing birdseed instead of rice)

Image: Lori Gloyd (c) May 30, 2006

Happy Wedding Day!

2006-05-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

Wishing You A Very Happy Day, Sara!

(I raided Pandora's Box and chose a costume of

a young Victorian girl, because this is how I

feel after being at the House of Serpents, and

letting go of old stuff!)

And The BIrds Came Circling and Singing

2006-05-30T06:13:00.000-07:00

....and the birds of Rhiannon came
circling and singing over the sea
....and the birds of le Enchanter came
cirlcling and singing

Rhiannon (Great Queen) was the lunar Welsh Goddess of fertility and rebirth, transformation, wisdom, and magic. Goddess of ethereal beauty, she was born with the first moonrise, Muse of poets, source of artistic inspiration, she was worshipped outside amidst the trees at woodland alters and underneath the Moonlight.

With love on your wedding day Sarah

Wedding Banquet Bell

2006-05-30T01:23:00.000-07:00

The dinner bell has been rung and the banquet to mark Sara's wedding today is ready to begin. So house guests should make their way down to the Great Hall, ready to join the festivities.

Shaping Hands

2006-05-29T03:46:00.000-07:00

I envie those who can sculpt,
or draw from nature a few simple lines
that speak of art beyond my reach.

faucon
..............................................................

SHAPING HANDS

I cannot show you a painting of my palm,
nor imprint pressed on a parchment page,
because my natural hand position
is outward – linked
as if placed on the head of a child.

The heart so formed by fingers and thumb
is called the Kalbadam,
though I know of this
only through mystic experience,
and a calling perhaps.

I care not what others might see
or interpret from lines or whorls,
for it’s not about me or what I think,
but of who I am today,
and that I can occasionally heal
or even save a life …

which is perhaps,
what my hands are for –
as I do not paint or sketch,
nor finger holes on a flute …

but can, through patient care
play a melody on another’s soul –

and that will have to do.

mirror selves

2006-05-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

My left hand

2006-05-28T15:07:00.000-07:00

It started so subtly, I hardly new it was happening. Sitting in a warm spring breeze watching my young son playing football, I became aware that my left hand was tingling and remember casually mentioning the fact to my husband. The symptoms grew worse over the following months, as my hand developed increasing bouts of pins and needles, became very sensitive to things that other people hardly noticed, a movement of air, the brush of fabric across skin. The pain was made extreme by tapping my fingers against any surface and I was a pianist and piano teacher at that time. Persuing my career was almost impossible. Somedays were worse than others, especially cold days when the wind was blowing and my hand felt as if it was being crushed under a boot.

Eventually I sought medical advice and was told that I had carpal tunnel syndrome and would need an operation on both wrists to relieve the pressure. Bt this time the pain was so extreme in my left hand I did not think to ask why it was assumed that the diagnosis for both hands was actually the same. The surgeon assured me he had performed the operations many times, very successfully, and as he had been my first boyfriend I trusted him.

Eventually, I had the operations on both hands done on the same day, under local anaesthetic, during the week that my beloved mother in law passed away. I was assured that this operation would not compromise my ability to play the piano, that the recovery would be easy, and that I would not be inconvenienced by having both hands done at once.

I regretted having the operation done under local anaesthetic because putting injections into my wrists was excruciating. Once the operation was over I knew that something had gone wrong because instead of the pain diminishing immediately as my doctor had assured me it would do, my left hand grew colder and colder and more and more painful. Both hands had compression bandages on, from finger to elbow and I was incapable of looking after myself for a few days - even a trip to the loo needed my husband's help. I had to go to Mum's funeral in this state.

My hand never recovered.

It took me almost three years to find out that I had not had carpal tunnel syndrome but a totally different condition called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD as we sufferers call it) and that there is no known cure. Cutting into an affected limb is to make the pain even more severe. Basically, the brain has switched on a pain mechanism for some reason and it never switches off. If you think of phantom limb pain you have an idea of the pain mechanism involved. Even the action of typing into my computer causes pain.

My left hand is like an alien being attached to me. It feels twice as large as it actually is, experiences sensations which are impossible to describe accurately. Sometimes it feels as if a knife is peeling back all the skin from my hand, sometimes if feels as if it is being crushed, it has cramp and pins and needles all day every day, and is always several degrees colder than the rest of my body. Before I was diagnosed I had suffered a major depression,and I went through a bout of therapy ("what is your gain from having pain?"). I finally met a specialist who understood what had happened, and put me in touch with other sufferers via a support organisation, thus giving me back a degree of control over my life.

After the diagnosis I had to decide how to live and I made the decision to live as a person who happened to have RSD rather than as a sufferer. I have been very strict with myself, keeping away from medication and further medical intervention, and using my hand as much as possible in spite of the pain. Sometimes at night, in the dark, I allow myself the luxury of a good cry, the luxury of self pity, but it won;t do me any good in the long run. I can choose to live or to retreat from life and I will not retreat.

I look at my hand.
It looks pretty ordinary to everyone else, but it is an instrument of torture to me.
My thumb is where the pain started.
MY ring finger is where the pain is concentrated.
My whole arm has pins and needles up to my neck.

I cannot play the piano any more. I have had to look for new creative outlets and writing has become one of them, the others being altered arts and scrapbooking my family's life and my late husband's life. I also love anything to do with textile arts. These sustain my spirit.

Living with pain teaches me:
compassion, patience, endurance, that money doesn't buy everything, that it is possible for the human spirit to prevail even when dealing with something as life altering as RSD.

RSD is my constant companion. It is cruel, it is relentless it is pitiless. I have had to learn to stay positive and not let it win the battle for my mind. So far, so good.

Hands on the Wall

2006-05-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

They needed to make a mark,
to be remembered, gained
eternal life making hand prints.

Who will remember
that I too passed this way?
Where should I place my hand print?

My ancestors burned to dust
Under grey skies in the east
Who even knows their names now?

And does it, in the end,
truly signify if I
am remembered through eternity?

A Cabin of One's Own

2006-05-28T05:28:00.000-07:00

A traveller enjoys some solitude, in a cabin, on board the ship moored down in Pirate Cove. She takes the time to paint a hand to leave in the Cave of Hands at the House of Serpents

Silent, quiet time, in a space of one's own enhances creativity.

The print of my hand

2006-05-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

On these Lemurian roads I have learned to place my hand with confidence in the power of creativity.

Red Hand Cave

2006-05-27T19:31:00.000-07:00

If you go to the Blue Mountains in New South Wales, be sure to call into the National Park at Glenbrook, where you can see the Red Hand Cave. It was closed to the public until 1987, when a perspex shield was put over it to stop people vndalising it with their own sugnatures - isn't that sad? It is a rare piece of Aboriginal cave art from the time of the Dharug people, who were all but wiped out in the Blue Mountains.

the burden weighs heavily

2006-05-27T19:16:00.000-07:00

I have been asleep. My journey started well, but has slowed considerably and I feel that I must catch up. I understand that I have time, my own time is plenty but I do not want others to suffer for my idleness.

Whilst asleep I dreamt:-

A room, perhaps an outhouse. Inside it, an oven, if present time, I would guess a pizza oven or similar. On the ground, large slate like tiles. Under one tile, a cavern and inside it I am gently placing dead bodies. Strangely, they look comfortable and I wonder if one is actually dead as it appears to snuggle up to the body next to it.

Now awake, from day to day and with time to ponder my dreams. I sit, daily, religiously, dogeddly on my couch at home, methodically emptying the boxes which store my mothers belongings. 62 years worth of belongings. Not enough, but way too many. As each box is emptied, I place it in the underground cavern. Not to be forgotten, ever, but to rest in peace at last.

Last week, my husband and I emptied the last of the boxes from a storage unit. Struggling with the extra financial burden, we have sacrificed our spare room for now, and so I sit, emptying, sorting, throwing, filing, thinking, remembering. All in the hope of shrugging the burden. For now though, the burden feels way to heavy. Each day goes by and I can feel it ever so slightly lifting. I know why my journey has slowed and ask my fellow travellers to go on without me... but I will follow in my own time.

Sarah, I won't be able to make it to the performance in time for your wedding on the 31st but know that my heart will be with you on that day as I drink a toast to us both, to you for the most wonderful day of your life and to me for my 34th birthday! Best wishes.

smb

Hand Prints-- Some Thoughts on Creativity

2006-05-27T08:42:00.000-07:00

Some Thoughts On Creativity:

The Little Finger: Small, vulnerable to bangs and sprains; that within ouselves that must be protected in order for creativity to flourish.

The Ring Finger: Typically encircled by that which is valuable and precious; those people and places that are valuable to us and that nurture our creativity.

The Middle Finger: The use of such reserved strictly for Inner and Outer Critics of our creative works.

The Forefinger: Number One, ourselves; that singular inner being from which the creativity process flows.

The Thumb: The opposable thumb, that which separates us from the lower species, that which allows us to pick up a pen or a brush, that which makes creativity possible and elevates us to the role of creator; that which defines our destiny.

All fingers must be present to make a fully functional hand. All components must be present to make an authentic creative person.

Image and text: Lori Gloyd (c) May 26, 2006

Celebration By Torchlight

2006-05-27T06:51:00.000-07:00

Lessons in Creativity

Serpent Leaves A Snake Print

2006-05-27T05:29:00.000-07:00

The Serpent has left a five fingered creative message in the heavens above the House of the Serpents.

preserve
knowledge
procreate
resurrect
animated spirit

Creative Handprints

2006-05-27T05:21:00.000-07:00

Cueva de las Manos (Spanish for Cave of the Hands) is a cave located in the province of Santa Cruz, Argentina, 163 km south from the town of Perito Moreno, within the borders of the Francisco P. Moreno National Park, which includes many sites of archaeological and paleontogical importance.

The Cave lies in the valley of the Pinturas River, in an isolated spot in the Patagonian landscape, some 100km from the main road, Route 40. It is famous (and gets its name) for the paintings of hands, made by the indigenous inhabitants (possibly forefathers of the Tehuelches) between 13,000 and 9,300 years ago. The composition of the inks is mineral, so the age of the paintings was calculated from the rests of bone-made pipes used for spraying the paint on the wall blocked by the hand.

The main cave measures 24 m in depth, with an entrance 15 m wide, and it is initially 10 m high. The ground inside the cave has an upward slope; inside the cave the height is reduced to no more than 2 m.

The images of hands are often negative (stencilled). Besides these there are also depictions of human beings, guanacos, rheas, felines and other animals, as well as geometric shapes, zigzag patterns, representations of the sun, and hunting scenes. Similar paintings, though in smaller numbers, can be found in nearby caves. There are also red dots on the ceilings, probably made by submerging their hunting boleadoras in ink, and then throwing them up. The colours of the paintings vary from red (made from hematite) to white, black or yellow.

Most of the hands are left hands, which suggests that painters held the spraying pipe with their dexterous hand. The size of the hands resembles that of a 13 year old boy, but considering they were probably smaller in size, it is speculated that they could be a few years older, and marked their advancement into manhood by stamping their hands on the walls of this sacred cave.

Here at the House of the Serpents there is a cave of hands where guests, who want to mark their creative advancement, stamp their hand into the walls, leaving an imprint, a handprint that will guide subsequent travellers and act as a beacon of encouragement to those who follow.

Make an imprint of your hand. On each finger write something that you have learned about creativity during this journey. Hang it on the wall here in the House of the Serpents. These handprints will be transferred to the Cave of the Creative Hands at Soul Food.

A Befuddled Mirror

2006-05-27T03:05:00.000-07:00

I would ask you to join me for an event,
following the two commands:
to confront the Gorgon Mirror,
and give an entertaining performance.

One by one you have gone to the Mirror,
with various results and trepidations.
I propose we go ‘en-mass’ and allow
no single person to ever be reflected.
When any would gaze into the Mirror
they will only see another,
or two as one in sisterhood –
and so will the Gorgon befuddle.

More – then more,
I will close the drapes that allow
the light from windows of despair,
and hold high the Trebusca Lantern.
In order for the Mirror to reflect at all
it must then draw light from 24 facets,
each modified in hue and clarity
by the combined will of all –

and the Mirror’s own confounding light
must enter and carom about
to blend with the essential spirit
and emerge in different form –

the Mirror may finally see itself,
not reflected in the tearful eyes
of a single yearning traveler,
but in reflected soul
of all humanity –

and I will laugh!

Smoke and Mirrors

2006-05-26T18:38:00.000-07:00

To see myself as others see me – ah, that would be a trick,
Worthy of a great magician. All I see is the greying hair,
The jaw losing definition, the eyes that look like my mother’s.
But when I look in the mirror of my sons’ eyes,
When they hug me and say, ``silly old woman,’
Voices rich and warm with laughter and love,
I see a reflection I can love too.
Silly old woman, to think I will ever get so crusty,
They won’t want to hug me.

Inner Critic Will Slink Away Now

2006-05-26T04:40:00.000-07:00

The Inner Critic, who has been terrorizing some guests, is looking less confident now that le Enchanteur has defeated him at arm wrestling and he has been eyeballed by the birds and snakes here at the House of the Serpents. Indeed the look of terror in this inner critic's eye should be a warning for any other nasty spirited intruders.

Snake Charmer

2006-05-25T23:57:00.000-07:00

I thought the gorgons would like to meet my husband Laurie, when he was young and bulletproof. He worked for many years as a snake handler and is still called out to relocate the odd brown snake in the suburbs. he's the only person I know who is totally at ease with snakes and calls them `beautiful'. He is also the only person who has ever persuaded me to touch one. Therefore whenever I enter the House of Serpents I ask his advice and he suggests calmness and confidence are the best qualities to have when communing with snakes.

The Ending

2006-05-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

Today is Friday 26th May 2006
My mirror is on the wall
It is to the right of my computer
So I pass it as I come through the door
I have it hanging, at just the right height
So I can see myself as I pass by
Some might say...."But it's too low"
"Hang it higher"
No I will say "I like it just there"
Where I can see my face as I pass by
I hung it just for me,no one taller or shorter
Just me.

The gold filligree against the cream wall
matches well
And on the small chain
between the picture rail and the top
of my mirror
I have placed a craft made butterfly
Its wings pointing to the sky
Just an added touch !
It's colours don't match ,navy blue and white
Hardly go with gold filligree
I have a can of gold paint
Tomorrow I will take the butterfly
outside and spray him/her

I feel better now my mirror is in my computer room
It is as Heather has said so many times
*A room of my own,a space that is just mine*
A room of my creativity
A room where I gather around me
all I have created,written,collected of others,
Over the past 10 years

My room says to me
Where I have been
Where I have come to,
How far I have travelled,
And
Where I am going on my journey
A journey without end.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 26.5.06

If a Mirror 3

2006-05-25T18:33:00.000-07:00

If a Mirror, Three

If I but believed
that you cherished me
and cleaved for eternity –
instead of knowing
as I do and am;

then I might seek a wall hung glass
not too cracked or smudged;
with missing gilt and filigree,
to find a reflection of love
in distorted hope and need;

but instead I see the dimpled glow
birthed by clouded eyes
that see spirit in everything,
and blindly accept song and calling,
and I need not reflect
but humbly share
always
misting
tears.

Lori's Brilliant Mapping

2006-05-25T16:53:00.000-07:00

Lori has been doggedly mapping our journey and by George she has it now. We all know that more will detail will need to be shown on the map, and we are still to locate the Cave of the Ancients, but this will be a boon to any confused traveller.

Weight of Words

2006-05-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

L'enchanteur's extensive library has some articles to inspire, and I found one on the weight of words that was interesting to think about, while I was in my serpent room. I still wasn't scared, because no snakes were actually doing anything to me. It was mainly the snakes in my head...hmmm...funny about that.

"EXCUSE ME, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"

"NO, NEVER HEARD OF IT"

"DIDN'T YOU KNOW THAT?"

"NO, WE ONLY ACCEPT..."

"WHAT WILL PEOPLE THINK?"

"YOU CAN'T DO THAT!"

"OH...REALLY?"

Single Heavy Words...

DOUBT

FEAR

ANXIETY

REMORSE

CARNAGE

SADLY

REGRETTABLY

UNAVOIDABLY

DUTIFUL

MUST

HAVE TO

UNREST

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Dropping my burden at the door...

2006-05-25T07:02:00.000-07:00

I’ve seen better days.
Some days are better than others.
Some days the worn out joints don’t hurt so much,
Some days the inflexibility of fingers and knees
Aren’t as obvious. Some days I can even stand for a long while
Without some bloody part of me giving way.

Those are good days. On bad days everything hurts,
Whether it is arthritic or not. I think the other bits
Just come out in sympathy.

I’ve known better days.
Some days I would just run,
Not to get anywhere in a hurry, not to get away,
But just because I could. Walking along aimlessly,
My mind lost in daydreams, suddenly I would run,
As if I thought that way I could start to fly.

Yes, I ran, and jumped, and climbed,
Fell off horses and bounced off anything rigid and uptight
That got in my reckless way. And the old folks would smile
And say, ``you think you’re bulletproof now,
But you’ll pay for it when you’re old like us.”

I don’t run any more. My knees would give out and down I’d go,
Just like I’ve pitched down the stairs a few times.
I can’t even trust my own knees damn it.

So I know what burden I’ll gladly drop at the gatehouse.
It’s a big bundle of creaky old bones called My Osteo.
Good riddance. On the Serpent Road I want to run
Just because I can.

Jan, Not Happy.

2006-05-25T05:07:00.000-07:00

The mirror hangs in the hallway where the light is too dim to really show any truth. Makes it easy to avoid even a glance at reality as I routinely dash between bath and bed.

But tonight is the night and I pound up the stairs. Responsibility may have been left at the gate, but all the other tenuous and to me now hateful aspirations are too. Who cares about serenity and contentment. As for wisdom...what a farce! What self righteousness!

I don't just pound, I storm up the stairs and even before I get to the mirror I can see that my aura is radiating flashes of red....a crescendo of anger:I look at those flashes, brilliant, jagged and crashing in a disharmony that is almost a delight to watch, some comfort in peversity. They drown out all other hues and I don't care that they bring an ugliness with their energy.

Slowly, ever so slowly,the chaos which has fuelled these shockwaves will subside. But there is no taking back the big bang that started it all. Not just the ripple of a stone skimming over a millpond, more the impact of a meteorite ripping through my universe and no bubbles in a hot bath or flickering candles will have the power to change the image the mirror is projecting now.

Time will be the only healer. It will see the jagged lightning gradually tamed and retreat, leaving a softer glow in the mirror. Not the green and mauve tints of the past but a stronger flush of fuschia. For the mirror is wise and sees all things, notices that we prefer to look away. Sees perhaps too that we slowly gain strength from adversity and even when we resist, are forced by the awful grace of the gods, towards wisdom.

Captain! My Captain - for Lori

2006-05-25T04:07:00.000-07:00

Captain! My Captain!

If a Mirror 2

2006-05-25T03:32:00.000-07:00

If a Mirror, Two

If I but believed,
in Source and Light,
and the speck of GodShine in all –
instead of knowing,
as I do and am;

then I might stare into a child’s eyes
moist with teary delight,
and framed with careless hair
to find my own aged reflection
in innocence and joy;

but, instead I see the silent fears
taught like soul scars,
and scream a quick challenge
that defies the death of yearning,
and I must now reflect
in a blank stare
always
lonely
terror.

The Gorgon's Mirror Room

2006-05-25T02:21:00.000-07:00

A key is left in my room, enclosed in a letter.

Dear Luna,

Enter the Gorgon’s Mirror Room after midnight to see how others often see you.

Eternally,
The Enchantress

To prepare myself I bathe with neroli and jasmine oils. The warming scents relax and open my minds eye.

At midnight, the corridor is quiet. I can hear water dripping and soft echoes of night creatures. My smoky blue cloak drags on the floor making a hissing sound as I move. I feel like I am being watched. I distrust the dark; you never know what is there. The Gorgon’s heavy key has a patina of rust, softly worn down but unmistakably shaped like the head of a snake.

The door looms massive and ancient; the lock makes a satisfying clunk as I turn the key. In the darkness, I grope forward hoping not to crash into anything or anyone. My hands reach out and touch a cold, flat surface. As my eyes adjust, I see a large standing mirror, looking through it the room is filled with candles. A hooded figure stands before me. I push back my hood to see myself as a much older person with long grey hair. My face is wide with good eating and wrinkled with worry and laugh lines.

The room behind me is filled with paintings. The light shifts and it looks like a gallery opening, I see myself chatting with very well dressed people. That’s a good sign. The mirror dims and all is dark.

Light comes from the corner of my left eye. Turning , A little girl screams at me in the mirror. I am not sure if it is me, but probably how most folks see me: a spoiled brat. The mirror goes dim like the other one.

Far away another light catches my eye, I slowly move toward the back of the enormous room. Now I notice the room is truly full of mirrors, but the lit one calls to me with its brilliance.

A standing mirror sits on a table. I sit in a hard chair and look straight into this old, rough mirror. The light fades and swirls of mist churning, I wait. After many minutes of silence, I whisper, am I suppose to ask a question? A little swirl creates letters that oddly form the word, yes.

I cannot imagine what to ask this mirror. So I sit and meditate. My brain wanders around my foot begins to itch and I get a flash of a house with a funny shaped roof. I open my eyes and this funny roof is in the mirror, a house appears with a garden.

A house, roses are in full bloom, it is a slice of heaven when I see it. I smile and the image fades. I sense that the room is all quiet and done with me. The room is pitch black. Light comes from under the door and I make my way back to the corridor.

Two towering mirrors face each other. I get a funny feeling this is not over. As I approach, two giant samurais in full warrior battle gear appear in the mirrors, one red the other steel grey. Yes, I see you great warriors. I have not forgotten you. They incline their heads towards me and whisper: Shinjo, be brave, do not fear darkness, and vanish. Ah yes, my intense ancestors reminding me of honor and what it means to live well and without regret, which is a challenge.

The door opens on its own, the Enchantress looks up and smiles. Well done. Your ancestors wanted me to give you this… So you don’t forget. She slips me a blood red pouch, inside is a garnet and gold bracelet. It is so beautiful; I will think of them often as I wear it. I put it on and smile to myself walking back to my room in the dark, thinking about honor.

Not Happy Jan

2006-05-24T05:26:00.000-07:00

I think I will make the Gorgon and her wretched mirror walk the plank. Is this some kind of joke? An aging, buxom Buccaneer with an eye patch and a bird of ill repute. I thought the mirror only spoke the truth! Really! Someone will pay for this!

If a Mirror 1

2006-05-24T05:23:00.000-07:00

If a Mirror, One

If I but believed,
in Givens and Gifts,
and nurturing of Mother Earth –
instead of knowing,
as I do and am;

then I might seek out a quiet pool,
sheltered some by fern
and praying cedar boughs
to find a reflection or life’s passion
in birthing clouds or starry mirth;

but, instead I see the silent pebbles,
dropped like wishful coins,
and breathe a sigh of ripples
that distorts the calling – singing,
and I must now reflect
in the dew drops
always
waiting
near.

Talking Mirrors - Images On Water

2006-05-24T02:13:00.000-07:00

Black and White Mirror

Mirror of Clouds

Mirror of Emotions

There is a strange land near the House of Serpents,

that Belenus told me to visit. He said he would

watch from a distance, so as not to interfere with

my thoughts there. The land is one where the upside

the world is mirrored in the water, as if it were

mimicking what was real, but yet as I touched the

water in each case, the image wobbled and dispersed,

and then all I could see was my own true

reflection. Belenus said there was no point

worrying about the mirrors, because I was, but just

to see what I thought of them. He is a big

advocate of fact finding, possibly why he is

so well read. He thinks it is up to us to

figure out what is real, like Persephone, he

said, who sorted poppy seeds and dust. "After

all," he said to me, "How can you believe

something just because a person says it? Not

all things are true. Humans are very fond of

false labels and scapegoats." He smiled in a

strange, wise way, that made me feel stupid, so

I went on the mirror walk. Oddly these mirrors

spoke to me as I passed by them. The first one,

the black and white mirror, always said what I

didn't need to hear, which was always the

opposite. The second one, the mirror of clouds,

almost yelled at me repeatedly, "Don't Dream!". The

third one, the mirror of emotions, was populated

by a seagull, up to its knees in water. "You

are far too sensitive," it said. Irritated, I

sat down to think about these

things, that were all false, and of course the images

and the voices then disappeared, but I also felt

foolish. Belenus had made me realise something

I had been doing wrong. I had believed only in

bad publicity being good and true...

Encounter at the Mirror

2006-05-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

The Encounter at the Mirror

After my conversation with Sssylviaaa, I found the bath house and soaked for a good long while. Cleaned, but not feeling refreshed, I searched out the kitchen and begged a plate of mac 'n cheese from the cook. For some reason, I felt the need for comfort food.

I returned to my quarters in the back garden. Night had fallen and I settled in at my writing table under the warm glow of lantern light. I spread out a blank scroll and began writing, then scribbled, and then wadded up the paper and pitched it aside. I did this several times until I couldn't stand it anymore. I jumped up and shouted to no one:

"Who are you trying to fool?! What are you doing here? You'll never be a writer, you'll never be an artist, you're just wasting your time and everyone else you inflict your crap on. Why don't I just go back to the Real World.... doesn't matter where I'm at-- I'll amount to nothing in either place. "

I bolted out of the house and across the garden. I bounded up the stairs and into the House. I wasn't sure where I was going-- my vision was blurred from tears, but I could see the carvings of snakes in the woodwork painted wild colors. Finally, I had to stop because I could run no more. Panting heavily, I bent over to catch my breath. After a few minutes, I stood up straight and saw that I was in an immense hall and before me stood an enormous mirror.

The mirror was polished silver and the light from the chandeliers and wall sconces made it seem to glow from within its concave face. It must be The Gorgon's Mirror. I paused for a moment, not breathing. I needed to look; I wanted to look, but I was afraid of what I would see. A painter or a writer, lounging in my studio, flushed with success and wealth? Before I could talk myself out of it, I approached the mirror. Taking a deep breath, I stepped before its face. For a moment I couldn't believe what I saw. I blinked several times. Then I cried aloud:

"Nothing! I'm not there at all!" There was no reflection of myself in the mirror, only the furnishings of the Great Hall that were behind me.

I crumpled to the floor and began to sob. My worst fear had played out. I was Nothing! The Gorgon's Mirror doesn't lie.

I heard faint laughter, growing louder with each peal. Slowly I looked up to see a pair of sharp-toed shoes in front of me. I felt my humiliation give way to fury:

"ARVILLA!"

Then I remember our last encounter. I had sent this personification of my inner critic flying off into the mountains. She must have landed near the House of the Serpents and wheedled her way in. Worse, she no doubt had been spreading lies. The Gorgon will no doubt believe her.

"Honey, seems like the proverbial cat is out of the bag. You know the Mirror doesn't lie and when everyone around here sees--oh, what am I saying---when everyone around here DOESN'T see your reflection, then they'll know---you hear me?--they'll ALL know what an imposter you are!"

I hung my head.

"Oh, no, no, no, none of that, sweetie..." Arvilla grabbed me by the arm. "Get up and take a good long look in the Gorgon's Mirror. See what we all see....." She dragged me forward and pushed my face towards the mirror.

"ENOUGH!!!!!!"

Arvilla released my arm and I fell to the floor. I glanced up to see Arvilla backing away from something. Her eyes glowed a sickly yellow and her lips peeled back to reveal her fangs.

A long raspy hiss echoed through the Hall and one of the carvings near the ceiling started to move. A long sinewy form fell to the floor between me and Arvilla. It was Sssylviaaa.

"You have been warned onccccccee before Arvilla.....you are not allowed here."

"I have every right to be here. Without me, there would be no Art, no Literature. You ALL need me. "

"Get out. You know the Rule-- creativity must be fosssstered. You are no part of that!"

"I will not. She's MINE!" I saw Arvilla reach behind her back. Sssylviaaa coiled and raised her head.

Arvilla shreeked and lunged towards Sssylvia with a long, serrated knife.

"SYLVIA-- watch out!!" I cried.

In a moment too quick to be anything but magic, Sssylviaaa stretched out the skin on the side of her head and she transformed into a giant Hooded Cobra. The color on her hood luminesced and from her open mouth she spat a stream of quicksilver which hit Arvilla directly in the eyes.

Arvilla dropped the knife and clutching her eyes she fled towards the door.

The next few minutes were a blur of confused voices and people, other guests shaken from their sleep by the encounter. For a moment I thought I heard a horse bellowing in the distance and the sound of breaking wood.

Sssylvia slid next to me. Her hood was gone and her silver tongue flicked at me. "Sssylvia.... the Mirror doesn't lie." I said softly.

"No, it doesssssn't. But that was not the Gorgon's Mirror. "

"What?"

Sssylvia turned her head facing away from me. Once more she flared her hood and on the back of it was a small mirror. "This is the Mirror of the Gorgon. Look."

I looked into the mirror on Sssylvia hood and saw only myself reflected there. It was the same image that I've seen everyday my entire life.

"You are very real, my dear, and very much a writer and artist."

This time I shed tears of joy.

Image and Text: Lori Gloyd (c) May 23, 2006 Image: Korean Friendship Bell Pavilion, San Pedro, California

The Law of Reflection

2006-05-23T20:07:00.000-07:00

Light is true, Light is predictable,
The Angle of Incidence always equals the Angle of Reflection...
it is immutable.
Without light, there is absence of sight,
A blackened world withholds visibility, although the eye strains to decipher...
light's required.

My presence is known in reflection,
I'm illuminated as the moon, when reflecting your luminous presence...
generate for me.
I wing to creative expression,
While you hold me locked within your line of sight, countless rays of incidence converge...
mirror me true.

photocredit:Becky Henderson

Landing at the House of Serpents Cove

2006-05-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

le Enchanteur has been delayed as she plays at being a bold bucanneer but she is now preparing to land at the cove that is quite close to the House of the Serpents. She and her crew will be arriving at the house soon.

Mirrormania

2006-05-23T16:39:00.000-07:00

One must be concerned a bit
with how one is perceived by others,
if only to seek balance between
such perception and sense of being.

And you might look into the eyes of a friend,
or more truthful soul of an adversary,
or bounce ideas off a mentor’s wit,
or even toss some stones around –
all mirrors of a sort.

But why one reflected image
in a piece of silvered glass or idle pool
should be of grave concern is lost on me.
Not only is it corrupted by the source of light,
but is backwards from reality,
and often distorted by filth and grime.

In fact, the worth of the image
has been twice denied –
for the energy you absorb (especially love)
must be greater than what bounces off
to come back once more from a mirror
to fail again to touch your soul.

So what are you afraid of??

Stand proudly in from of that spiteful glass,
and just don’t turn on the light.

Mirror

2006-05-23T15:04:00.000-07:00

I look in the mirror.

Today has been an exceptionally hard day for me - and I feel I am somehow to blame, have somehow let someone I love down, although logic tells me that it is not so. My head and my heart don't always see the world in the same way.

I look at my reflection.

Every time I think I can fly, my wings are clipped.
Every time I want to sing, someone takes my voice away.
Every time I imagine I have found the personal space in which to write, my mind fills with external noise.

Looking in the mirror I see myself, screaming soundlessly.

When will I find the peace and space I crave so much?

Down to Business.....

2006-05-23T13:37:00.000-07:00

Down to Business...

Ssslyviaaa stretched her head out and her piercing green eyes leveled with mine. "We do hope you feeeeeel at home here. "

"Yes, I do," I stammered. Ssslyviaaa's skin shimmered with with shades of blue, lavender, and scarlet, and her flickering tongue was like polished silver. I have never seen a snake quite like her before. Her voice was deep and soothing. I thought she sounded a bit like a young Lauren Becall.

"Good. SHE is pleased that you have unburdened yourself along the Road and no more is required at the moment."

"She?"

"The Veiled One. You know her as the Gorgon. You will be required to entertain her in a few days."

"I will?" Oh, dear. I have heard of the fearsome Gorgon. I had hoped that I would escape her notice and be free to relax. I was tired of the seemingly endless self-examination. Sssylviaaa seemed to read my mind.

"To entertain her properly, you will need to dig deep within yourself to make a song, or a poem, or a painting that will please her. May I suggest you consult her Mirror. She is very generous and will allow you to peer into it."

"Um, thanks." I had heard about this mirror. It reveals the truth about the user.

"If there is nothing else, I will tend the other guestssssss." Sssilvia slid off the wooden beam and slithered across the floor towards the entrance. She turned and said: "The Mirror is in the Great Hall and is waiting for you." Then she was gone.

I pulled out my writing and drawing materials. I'd better get down to business.

Lori Gloyd (c) May 23, 2006

Leaving at the Door

2006-05-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

What to toss? What to toss? So many things I could get rid of to make my load lighter, but I am so used to this weight now that it would be unnerving to shift it.

I will toss out my negativity. My pessimism. It has become a comfortable sweatshirt, but the sleeves are fraying and others are beginning to point out how unbecoming it is a garment.It is a dull color of grey, matching everything but enhancing nothing. Now, I don't generally dress based on other people's words, but I can see the snarking now when I do it. I can feel it, like pins and needles when your foot has been asleep.

So, the comfort of pessimism, of negativity, is tossed at the door, and I am down to my skivvies. What shall I put on now? Something shiny and bright? Something that tinkles when I walk, that shimmers in the light? Something more juicy than the grey sweatshirt, definitely.

Performance- Blueridgegirl

2006-05-23T10:16:00.000-07:00

For my performance, I will sing a song Roselea and I listened to on the way down the Serpentine Road. (clearing throat)

Where in hell can you go

Far from the things that you know

Far from the sprawl of concrete

That keeps crawling its way

About 1,000 miles a day?

Take one last look behind

Commit this to memory and mind

Don't miss this wasteland, this terrible place

When you leave

Keep your heart off your sleeve

Motherland cradle me

Close my eyes

Lullaby me to sleep

Keep me safe

Lie with me

Stay beside me

Don't go, don't you go

O, my five & dime queen

Tell me what have you seen?

The lust and the avarice

The bottomless, the cavernous greed

Is that what you see?

Motherland cradle me

Close my eyes

Lullaby me to sleep

Keep me safe

Lie with me

Stay beside me

Don't go

It's your happiness I want most of al

lAnd for that I'd do anything at all, o mercy me!

If you want the best of it or the most of all

If there's anything I can do at all

Now come on shot gun bride

What makes me envy your life?

Faceless, nameless, innocent, blameless and free,

What's that like to be?

Motherland cradle me

Close my eyes

Lullaby me to sleep

Keep me safe

Lie with me

Stay beside me

Don't go, don't you go

(Natalie Merchant, "Motherland")

Burden At The Gate

2006-05-23T10:08:00.000-07:00

This is hard for me, too. I know what I need to lay down but it has been a difficult journey getting to this point. I have battled myself. I have screamed, cried, and made myself sick. I think I'm ready. I lay down the burden of my anger and resentment towards my mother.

Dear Mom,

I forgive you. It has taken years for me to finally understand that you must have had your own hell. I don't know what it was since you kept me from you and a mother's love. It must have been awful. Because I love my own children the only thing I can believe is that you must have been tormented. For too long now I was left with the belief that I was to blame. I was somehow flawed and unlovable. I know now that I'm not unlovable though my human frailties indeed make me flawed. I love me! I LOVE ME!! I'm a great person. I'm smart. I'm fun to be around. I'm interesting. I love.

I forgive you. I will no longer carry this burden. I'm sorry you missed the chance to love me. My children's love has shown me what you missed. I no longer hate you...I pity you. You missed out on so much.

Reflecting on Mirrors

2006-05-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

In preparation for this coming event,
I have reviewed some things written in the past,
that I might focus ...

perhasp they might help others as well.
......................................................................

“I am a mirror of passion
To reflect light in shadow's way,
If you boldly seek truth without,
Then 'tis evertime to look within.
For I am surely you
In humanity's hold.
What we share together
Even angels cannot share. “

“A friendship is a light that fills the heart,Painting with its gold each darkened hue,Providing warmth to each sequestered part.You are the mirror of my better self,Verifier of the best in me,A bridge across the unsuspected gulfLodged between what can and ought to be.”

”Life’s shuffling faces have often looked at me;
mostly with respect, some with fear,
confused messages, hope within despair.
Mirrors of the soul have wanted something
reflected in a glance or passionate stare
that asked for judgment and freedom.”

“As my gift covenant ties me to human form,
my mind's eyes are part masked in darkness.
I cannot gaze directly on the everlight,
and must reflect in another's mirror,
providing in kind a softer glow called love.”

“each man seeks to find his reflection in another.
what you must do is hold yourself steady
so that they find themselves in you.”

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Settling In

2006-05-23T07:09:00.000-07:00

"Good Grief! They've assigned me to the trophy room! This is no proper quarters...even for a shadow morph."
::taking a closer look around::
"Ohhhhh, amazing! How am I ever going to describe this...and do it justice?"

::if only I could draw ::

"I'm going to have to paint with words, and may be someone will translate the image....
Ok, here goes, as methodically as I can describe.":

The door, the walls are dark oak with a thick Persian rug that carpets the entire room. Stylized images of snakes intertwined with leafy vines, set on a deep maroon background.

This is all in after thought, what strikes you right between the eyes are the hundreds of stuffed snakes...those on the walls are mounted so as to protrude into the room. Each one different, each with a small brass plate engraved with species and date of capture. Enormous pedestals ring a central fountain, upon which giant species are mounted vertically, their heads almost touching the vaulted ceiling high above. The lighting is indirect with an eerie cast and the fountain's multiple sprays fan from the Gordian Knot of brass snakes cast in remarkable detail.

Each pedestal, as I came to discover opens by a hidden latch. Once triggered its contents are revealed. I have only partially completed this task, but the first opened to reveal a postered bed replete with satin coverlet and deep downy comforter. The second a pantry filled with delicacies from 'round the world and the third a sunken tub of the finest marble adorned with scented candles, surrounded by the sounds of the night. Forgive me for ending this narrative so abruptly. I am suddenly weary and and gently transformed....finger by finger, toe by toe...and must now slither on to bask in the delights before me.
Signed,
Flash Bug

Last Night

2006-05-23T03:37:00.000-07:00

We are spending a last night together –
I owe Cher-lynn that,
and more – both seen and hidden
by firelight,
and eyes glowing from the woods,
and the lantern of my soul.

We have walked the thousand steps,
guided by flower scent
and flutter-byes –
when we could have been transported
by her gifted shift of where;
but chose – and will again
to be transported
by the silence of another’s
presence.

What value a quickened journey
if you do not carry all within you,
but are burdened by a rucksack
of rocks and twigs
haplessly gathered?

She has mapped her heart,
for me alone and blessed –
and will proceed on to the Abbey,
in solitary contemplation –
no longer afraid –
stunted wings no longer
tethered by silken bonds,
but by will –
and peace.

I will amble to the Serpent House,
and face the Gorgon’s Mirror –
unafraid of what
I might see.

" MY MIRROR"

2006-05-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

I found a mirror some weeks ago
It was thrown out in a dump-master
A house near where I live is being re-built-renovated
It is a lovely mirror, gold filligree, oval in shape, and very old
belonged to someone who lived in that house in the 30's
( Just a guess of mine)

It sits against a wall in my computer room
I read of what there is to see in looking at one's self
So I propped it up just now and looked
I don't like what I see
I see circles under my eyes
My face looks worn and not bright
I have been overdoing it of late

I knew this from my restless sleep patterns
My eratic food likes and dislikes
out of character for me
Needing some caring I figure
So who best to give it to me
but....me.
Who else can nurture me as well as me
Who can call the tune when all is not well
Who can find the time to do this but me

My found mirror needs to be hung on the wall
Where I can look into it when I sit at my computer
It needs to remind me that each day I will look
better ,calmer, more rosy cheeked and without circles under my eyes
I just need to be reminded of this
Or perhaps given a good clip over the ears from time to time.
For this is my own fault no one elses
If I don't heed the face I see in the found mirror
A mirror that came along at the right time
Perhaps a Magic Mirror or a way of seeing magic happen in a found object....
Then I have no pity for myself ...I will call myself a fool.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 23.5.06

Gorgon's Mirror

2006-05-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

The legend of how the Greek hero Perseus defeated Medusa by using a mirror to reflect her image, thus casting herself into stone, is legendary. The story provides the possible figurative moral that the cure to vanity or power is to see ones own faults.

When you look within the Gorgon's Mirror you will see aspects of yourself that others are more aware of than you. These will not necessarily be faults and you will not be turned into stone. Quite the contrary. The insight will free you in some way for you are likely to glean an insight and see yourself in the not too distant future.

Reveal a little of what you see within the mirror when you go to the Gorgon's Boudoir.

Remember that the view you get will be of yourself as a creator, writer, artist. We are here to warm the stone artist.

Ssssssyllllllviaaaaa...........

2006-05-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

This is Ssssssyllllviaaaaa........

L.Gloyd (c) May 22, 2006

Sox

2006-05-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

This is my most beloved little Sox. Just to cheer you all up.

Can I be in two places at once

2006-05-22T15:40:00.000-07:00

My alter ego travels oceans wide,
learns to listen,
prepares to understand silence.

I arrive at the House of Serpents,
Discover I have learnt some of my lessons.
I am fully awake now so,

Speak and I will hear you,
Smile and I will rejoice with you,
Cry and my tears will mingle with yours. Meanwhile,

The serpents in my mind writhe,
twist, turn, contort themselves,
Here they may find their mistress....

Enough of that!!!! Where's my beloved Patience and my little Sox??? Off with Albert...heh - that'll broaden their education some!

Settling In

2006-05-22T10:32:00.000-07:00

Settling in at the House of the Serpent

I left Albert in the stables with Patience and Sox, his new donkey friends, whom I'm sure by now have been thoroughly dazzled by his horsely charm.

I was given directions to my guest cottage, and to my delight I discovered that I had been assigned to a small Japanese house near the back of a well-groomed garden. A bamboo grove separated the house from the rest of the grounds and I felt like I had the place to myself. This would be perfect space to review my cartographical notes and start writing and drawing some new material.

I stepped onto the wooden platform that served as a porch and slid open a paper door. The room was bare except of a simple calligraphy scroll hanging in an alcove alongside a striking flower arrangement of yellow and gold chrysthanthemums. Tatami mats covered the floor and the varnished wooden beams and framing of the house made the room seem warm and inviting.

In the center of the room was a low table surrounded by cushions made of red and blue silk. There was even a bolster to support my lower back-- they think of everything here. I set down my gear and started to unpack.

"Helllllllooooooo there, my deaaaarrrrrr......."

I turned around to see who had greeted me.

"My name is Sylllllllllviaaaaa and I'm here to assssssssissssst you......"

Hanging from one of the beams was the most brilliantly colored snake I've ever seen.

Lori Gloyd (c) May 22, 2006

A Gorgon Has Been Watching

2006-05-22T04:50:00.000-07:00

The Gorgon has been watching our progress with interest and knows our every move. Many eyes have been watching us as we make our way along the twisting Serpentine Road.
Leave a burden at the Gatehouse as you enter the House of the Serpents. Then leave the donkeys with the stable hands and find your room.

Serpents Everywhere - Great Place

2006-05-22T00:54:00.000-07:00

This place is amazing. Everything in the room is styled on snakes,

serpents, of all kinds. I pull the doorhandle, and find it is a small

snake, made out of wrought iron. Grabbing it before I realised, I was

amazed to find it didn't reel back in fright as I would have done years

ago. Mention snakes and women go scattering, and fast. Part way this

is a safety mechanism, which is handy, and works when we need it. But

for now, there are no live snakes, and no danger because of the Protectress,

so I don't worry. The time in the walled garden had made me think a

little differently. Belenus had wasted no time in checking in to a place

that had a stack of clean, fragrant straw -- a small stable outside the

door. He said he had some reading to do, so I said fine, and later when

the darkness fell, I could see his little candle alight at his window.

As for me, I started counting the snakes around the room - serpent on

the carpet, snake on the lampshade, snake patterns on the tiles, even

a snake shaped toothbrush. The Rainbow Serpent Priestess sure does

good decor, and knows how to make folks feel at home. I lie back on

the bed, reading a biography of "Sting" I have just come across...

burning the midnight oil...

Luna's arrival

2006-05-21T21:56:00.000-07:00

The House of Serpents

The mahogany reception desk is as massive as I remember. The Griffin looks up elegantly without blinking and says, “Yes, The Shinjo. Your room is ready.”

I bow my head, “Thank you.”

She remembers me, the Griffin who asked me to prove who I am. Did I make an impression? Or does she just have a really good memory?

A young girl leads me down the hall. The wide corridors are open like the Greek style with a courtyard full of plants and fountains. Birds sing and flit around happily.

My room is really a suite with a balcony overlooking the wide world. A private suite is the ultimate luxury and I draw a bubble bath and light some candles.

Before going to bed I pull out some parchment to send a letter. Her ravens appear without even asking. They will find her.

Dear Lady Enchantress,

I have arrived safely at The House of Serpents. My room is lovely and the view of the sunset is inspiring. I hope all is well with you. I look forward to chatting with you at the banquet.

Your dear ravens showed up just as I pulled out the parchment. What magic they possess.

Blessings,
Luna

Protectress of the House of the Serpents

2006-05-21T01:41:00.000-07:00

The Rainbow Priestess is the protector of the House of the Serpents. She holds the key to the gates and will only provide entry to those who have mapped their heart and lightened their load at the Gatehouse. Some travellers have already passed by the Rainbow Priestess and are settling in to the House of Serpents. There will be a banquet to celebrate our arrival and travelling trevere will be asked to amuse the Gorgons with a light hearted, comic presentation.

Performance

2005-08-28T07:18:00.000-07:00

I entered the Great Hall of the House of Serpents with Jake riding high on my walking stick. I sensed no fear, though I had to walk carefully as to not step on any of the snakes. Once they were aware of my presence, they started moving to either side to form a literal pathway that led straight to the Great Hall.

After passing through the arched doorway, I noticed that the snakes' pathway directed me straight to the throne of the Gorgon. I must say a wave of fear passed through me at this site. Her stern look was enough to spark fear, but those snakes writhing from her head! It caused chills down my spine to think of snakes crawling on my own head. I took a deep breath and looked to Jake -- cute, little Jake smiling from atop my walking stick. I smiled again and continued to make my way to the Gorgon. As a way of keeping my fear at bay and to show respect, I made a deep bow when I reached the Gorgon. I thanked her for hosting me in this amazing house and allowing me to attend this celebration. I humbly offered her my gift -- a collage I made about a lesson learned.

She graciously accepted my gift and directed me to the table where the others were feasting. I made eye-contact with her once to thank her again, then swiftly turned and took my seat at the table, pleased that I had made it this far in this stop.

The Wand in the Wall

2005-08-24T08:55:00.000-07:00

I'm not much of a dancer and certainly not a singer so I decided that for my performance, I would tell a story.

The rocks I saw that day in a faraway, wild, and lonely land were ancient, molded by heat and pressure in the bowels of a primitive planet, then shot to the surface in cataclysmic eruption.

The old stone wall was strong, sturdy enough to have withstood the onslaught of centuries. Each stone had been set in place by skilled, if not loving hands. The wall had been built to last, but for what; defense, protection against marauding tribes, or perhaps to set a boundary -- a line across which a neighbor could not or should not step, without invitation?

What of the builder? There was no sign of habitation, no crops, no home or hearth--not even a trace of foundation, no ruin for archaeologists to ponder. The wall in its aloneness kept its secrets and would continue to do so, or so it seemed.

Few of us are here long enough to notice centuries passing into history. Most, except artists and poets, barely notice the passing of seasons, the ice and snows of winter, except when they inconvenience us, the rains of summer, except when they flood our fields,
and the destruction wrought by each drop, each crystal, each flake, each breath of wind.
The widening of cracks and erosion of surface happens silently and gradually. Ancient stones, once snuggly fitted together, loosen and start to crumble slowly into ruin. What is ruin anyway, but an art form in itself?

I saw, that day, during spring thaw, changes ever more apparent. I lovingly caressed the old stones and wondered what they would tell me if only we had a common language.
I stopped though … took time to listen for voices in the wall. The surface crumbling beneath my touch spoke of time, of ages past, of wisdom found, and wisdom lost.

The wall had been breached. An unknown someone had installed a primitive, wooden gate. The when and the why of it was shrouded in the passage of time. When I touched the weathered wood, a piece fell off, crumbling to dust in my hand. The moss that had held it together clung to my fingers like slime on brackish water. Afraid of becoming too aware of the strange and unknown, I wiped my hands on my jeans and left.

No matter what I did after that or what other studies I pursued, the wall would not release its hold of me.

I returned again and again, my mind fraught with curiosity. Someone in ages past had taken great pains to build this sturdy barrier. But why, what for, and to protect whom remained a mystery? There were no ruins of hearth or homestead so why the breach, why the gate, which was much younger than the wall?

#

One spring morning, I set out light of step and followed a shaft of sunlight, a God beam in the morning mist.

As I approached the wall that day I felt uneasy and fought the urge to turn around,
return to the safety of my home. But, foolishly perhaps, I continued on. The wall was not the same as it had been yesterday or the day before, or last week or last month. That day, it radiated, displayed an aura.

And there, at a place I’d stood so many times before, I saw a speck of something in a crack. With a finger, I brushed away the dirt and grit. The stone crumbled away and in its place lay a treasure too bright to be believed. I carefully retrieved the artifact and, in my hand, lay a golden wand--exquisitely engraved with spirals, dragons breathing fire, water falls, moons, Goddess figures, and symbols the like of which I had never seen before, or since.

I lay the wand upon the wall and, from my knapsack, I retrieved a worn and somewhat ragged sweater. The wand glowed ever brighter as I wrapped it in the faded, woolen garment and carefully stowed it in my pack. Later, as I walked home, I felt its glowing warmth upon my back.

Once home and warmed with tea and a fire burning brightly in the grate, I unwrapped my precious bundle. Inside the sweater lay a length of gray and weathered stone. The golden wand with all its glorious symbols had disappeared. But there, clinging to my ragged sweater, was a speck of gold so tiny I could easily have missed it, and almost did.

I cannot explain what happened that day at the wall, or the meaning behind it. Was I allowed to glimpse a gift that I was not yet ready to receive?

Many times, I returned to search that ancient, crumbling wall, and for all those years, the wand remained illusive. Perhaps it was too much caffeine or an overly active imagination triggered by a shaft of sunlight, that revealed a treasure on that otherwise gray and overcast day.

The length of stone that I brought home that day resides upon my bookcase, and tucked into a crack, a speck of gold, just to remind me that all things aren’t always what they seem.

Will I ever know, or is it mystery that sustains me? I know there are worlds within worlds, that we are not alone in the Universe. I know the birds and beasts and finned ones are our brothers and sisters, and that little people; elves and fairies, really do exist. And though we rarely see them, when we do, it’s just a fleeting glimpse that leaves us unsure that that what we're seeing is real. As humans, we presume to know all things and tend to disbelieve what we cannot prove, and yet -- I know I saw a magical wand that day, and for a moment held it in my hand.

But wait, that is not the end of my story.

#

Later, so very much later and half a world away from the wall and the magic it weaved around me, I studied the speck of gold under the cold harsh light of science. A powerful, electron microscope would reveal its secrets once and for all, or so I thought. Only, instead of revealing its secrets, it presented me with even more questions. There, engraved upon its surface and so clearly defined, was a labyrinth. Now, if I can find a way into the labyrinth and follow it to its source--

There are worlds within worlds within worlds, and so it goes.

Vi
©August 23, 2005

Snake Woman

2005-08-23T00:58:00.000-07:00

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/steel/punjab/punjab-22.html

The Hall

2005-08-22T10:02:00.000-07:00

I walk into the room where I assumed I would later perform for the Gorgon. It's a large space, more hall than room. The walls are covered with tapestries of unknown age. They give off a faint, musty smell.

The dark oak tables where we would later feast with the serpents are long, old, and well polished. The matching benches are worn and, in places, slightly rounded out, evidence of the countless, covered bums that have sat there. I smile to myself as I think about those ancestral posteriors.

White candles are arranged at equal distances along the table. They are not the new fangled, non-drip types, but rather older ones that build their spilled wax as castles around the ancient, green tinted bottles that served as holders.

I walk out of there feeling awed by the magnificence and character of the room. If this is the place, and I'm not sure that it is, where we are to feast with the serpents, and perform, then I have to quiet the nervous butterflies that are disturbing my gut.

Vi
August 22, 2005

Interview with the Gorgons by Heather Blakey

2005-08-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

H.B. I must confess I felt nervous when I learned that you were prepared to be interviewed by me. I have heard all the stories about your snake like hair, your petrifying powers, your capacity to turn people into stone and I believe that the expression 'A Goddess scorned has fury indeed' comes from people who have suffered from your wrath. (The Gorgons smile like naughty young girls as I openly talk about their reputation.) So! I have bought a small box of photographs to share with you as a token of trust.

Gorgons: You have nothing to fear Heather. After that audacious dance we are delighted to have you do an interview with us. Clearly we need a better marketing machine after all these years of bad press but you know what they say, 'all press is good press'. At least our names are still on people's lips.
These stone figures you see surrounding us were not turned into stone by us but by the values of a patriarchal society which has placed so much emphasis on power and acquisition. The moment that you honoured ecstacy and joy and came with the Enchantress and those engaging travellers, you broke the spell and freed not only yourself but us. We can talk now after all these years of silence, after having been immobilized by the Hellenic Perseus who was no hero but a Gorgon slayer of the most unpleasant kind.

H.B. Here is a photograph of me as a beautiful young child.

Here is me as a young maiden

It seems so long ago. I'd hardly turn an eye now.
All these budlges along with the wrinkles of time have worked to make me invisible.

Gorgons: Did you know that our childhood name was Gorgo? It was an affectionate name that our parents, Phorkys and Keto used. We were lithe, brown eyed and beautiful just like you. We knew the capricious thrill of joy as we danced, clicking our heels, and our father loved us. We fed on honey, gamboled freely over mountainsides, basked in the glories of nature, learned the sensual pleasures of the earth. The silenic, spirit of the springs and river taught us wisdom and we grew lithe and voluptuous.

H.B. My childhood was filled with joyous play. I remember lying under the gigantic pussy willow trees behind our house, remember playing safely at the abandoned Sugar Beet Factory. My innocence was broken when a relative offered to 'teach me' about sexuality. I ran and hid within the safety of the Cypress Trees but the sense of terror immobilized me for a very long time.

Gorgons.
This is too familiar a tale Heather. We were sea goddesses, known to all as the Gorgides and Gorgades. The name Gorgo never meant anything terrible, did not signify something ugly. Our parents never could have anticipated that we would be turned into terrifying creatures.

Some say that our mortal sister loved Poseidon, the dark haired God of the sea and laid with him in the soft grass. Others say that they desecrated the temple of Athene by making love there. In truth many men fear women's sexuality and seek power over them. Poseidon ravaged Medousa, removed her goat skin charity tunic without her consent. Medusa, who was Athene in another shape, made the Gorgon head wrapped in serpents and wore it on her aegis to warn would be invaders of their fate should they seek to emulate Poseidon. The gigantic shape of fear has been passed down, carried by women as a warning. On that day when you fled, Athene knew and gifted you with her aegis that has ever since protected you from such uninvited invaders. It is only man, with evil in his heart who need fear the Medusa aegis.

H.B. But what about Perseus? Didn't he slay the Medusa?

Gorgons. Obviously the Medusa's head was highly sought after, a grail for men who feared being turned into stone, who feared its power, lusted for its power. Perseus was not supported by Athene as legend would have you believe. He was no hero. He was a Hellenic invader, a destroyer, who came to take the Moon-Goddess powers and to steal the prophylactic Gorgon head. Perseus fought the Libyan Queen (Medusa) and decapitated her. It was this battle that ultimately led to the suppression of the matriarchal system and the violation of Neith's mysteries. (see The Greek Myths Graves 8.1)

Since that time women's powers have been usurped and immobilized. But now, as you come with the wily enchantress, into long closed places, you and other initiates will return with renewed creative powers. For you and your companions the Medusa curse is broken.

Performing for the Gorgon -- Simone

2005-08-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

As the Enchantress knows, Medusa, the Gorgon is my own personal Goddess whom as her unsung priestess, I have often extolled her virtues.

As one demonised female understands another, I have a natural bond of sympathy for the Gorgon. Medusa is one of the most slandered females of Hellenic propaganda. As my gift to the Gorgon, I speak the words of Marianne Williamson as clarion call to the feminine spirit and its spiritual gifts of magic.

"As women, we are born with a mystical purpose. We knew it years ago when we were little, but we have forgotten it.

There are women who are enchanted, living here now, as there have always been and always will be. They are bearers of the Goddess's torch, however dim its light may shine. On the inner plane, they are priestesses and queens. They are absolutely powerful; they have made it past the gates.

At every moment, a woman makes a choice: between the state of a queen and the state of a slave girl. In our natural state, we are glorious beings. In the world of illusion, we are lost and imprisoned.

Most women I know are priestesses and healers. We are all sisters of a mysterious order.

Several years ago, I found myself waking up at 4.15 every morning, my eyes popping open as if on cue. Later, I learned that in days of old, 4.15 am was considered the Witching Hour. How perfect, that seemed to me. We would all awaken at the same time and join with one another and worship and know.

It's a woman's prerogative to know of magic and to practise magic and to use her knowledge to help the world.

We are used to thinking of Friday the 13th as bad luck. In fact, Friday the 13th was teh day the witches gathered. When the patriarchal system, headed by the early church began to squelch the power of women, witches were deemed as evil. Their meeting time, then, was seen as bad luck rather than what it truly was: a time for women to gather and share energy and pray together and heal.

The collective force of the reborn feminine is rising up on the earth today. This is a time of a monumental shift from the male dominance of human consciousness back to a balanced relationhsip between masculine and feminine. The Goddess archetype doesn't replace God; She expresses the feminine face of the Divine - the Mother.

The path of recovery and personal growth is a detoxification process in which negative beliefs from the past, poison the present. We then learn to invoke the flame within us, which did not go out during our dark and difficult years. There is an ever renewable natural strength within us that still exists and is accessible now. I call that innocent place within every woman, the lost girl.

The lost girl is still within us - the girl who wasn't allowed to blossom, the girl whose natural childhood instincts were unnaturally capped at puberty, the girl who was squelched in fear of the woman she would become.

Women are not powerless. We just pretend we are. We do this in large part because we are afraid of the punishment inflicted on us when we dare to be who we really are. Women have allowed themselves to be partially de clawed. But an animal in the wild is not de clawed and an animal in the wild is a beautiful thing."
- Marianne Williamson

"Be not ashamed, woman...
You are the gate of the body,
And you are the gates of the soul."
- Walt Whitman

Stone Hearts -- Anita

2005-08-21T16:39:00.000-07:00

We sat side by side at the abandoned railway station looking out onto the dead tracks.

"I don't sing, I don't dance and I don't do poetry " I told my companion " but I do know stories. Lots of them. "

The woman next to me settled back against the rotting wooden bench and stretched her arms in front of herself and I could see her fingernails were long and polished and curled slightly at the tips.
" I like stories, so go ahead. Tell me one. "

It was a challenge.

Fine, I like challenges.

" There once was a woman, who lived on the Bluffs above Deadwood Hall, her name was Cecelia Marrow. "

I heard my companion draw a long deep breath and I could feel her staring at the side of my head and I knew she wasn't smiling. " Marrow, as in..." she began.

" Marrow of your bones " I said " which is how she affected people. To the Marrow of their bones. She wasn't a pleasant woman. She was the Pharmacists wife and everyone thought she married him just so she could be near all those...potions. "

" They flirted with her, those pretty things in the jars " I heard my companion say.

" Yes they did, " I said " It was an infatuation at first. She'd hold those little bottles up to the sunlight and admire them the same way other women would admire jewelry or fine fabrics or even flowers. She'd hold them up and nothing else was more real to her then what was inside of those bottles."

" She looked very pretty, soft, and sweet when she was behind the counter standing among those jars and bottles with their hand written labels. Then someone would walk into the shop and her face would harden into a mask, a grimace and she would stand between you and those medicines and dare you to reach out and touch them. She was jealous, even then. "

" She was obsessed " was whispered right into my ear and I had to clench my hands together so that I wouldn't reach out and slap my companion away.

" Oh she was, she would walk into the shop in the morning after dreaming of her lovers all night and she would stand there with flushed cheeks and a racing heart. Then those powders and liquids and roots and herbs would whisper to her, whisper things that they could do for her, gladly, blindly and with pleasure...for her just for her. "

" What did they give her? "

" Lives, they gave her lives the same way a young man gives flowers or chocolates to his sweetheart. They would escape the shop at night and find their way into the food stored in kitchens and the water in the wells. They found their way onto fruits and vegetables still growing on vines and in the trees and fields, they would hide themselves in clothing, blankets toothpaste and perfumes. There was wasn't a place her love wouldn't go to find tokens of it's affection "

" When it was done, most of Marrow Falls was dead. All that was left was Cecelia, her husband Ben and a handful of families. But they were not well people, Cecelia's Lovers hadn't been able to kill them but they ruined them all the same. Sickened them for the rest of their short tortured lives. "

" She was caught, " my companion said.

" Do you know the people of Marrow Falls were once simply called the River People and they knew this; the River was alive. Its full of ghosts. They buried their dead there you see. That River” I said pointing beyond the fence where we could hear rushing water “ is a cemetery.”

I continued, “ she tried to escape on a Barge down the River to Duwamish and it was more then the Sprits could bear, her walking on those graves like that, so they reached up out of the water and pulled her over the side and held her down and then they took her face. "

" Didn’t they? " I asked my companion.

" She wears a mask now " my companion told me but no matter what she puts on her ruined face it turns to stone and each stone face is a cursed face"

" You're from the River, you’re from the Falls, aren't you? " my Companion asked.

" Yes. "

" Will you let me go? Will you ask the River People to let me leave? "

I looked straight into that stone face, the face that froze hearts in terror...not for it's ugliness but because the true curse of the River People was this; my Companions face would always mirror the Sins of the person looking into it. That was the terror, to look into this creatures face and see your own monster carved in marble staring back at you.

She would never know love of any kind ever again.

I put my face close to hers and said, " Never. "

Then I got up and walked up over the little hill and into the waters and all the time I could hear my Companion...weeping.

Or maybe she was laughing.

It all sounds the same from down here.

A Dance For The Gorgons -- Heather

2005-08-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

On her website,Loreena McKennit.has a door and when you enter she says that "Every journey brings its own surprises: a challenge, a sudden detour, a new set of friends along the way, perhaps even a destination different from the one you intended.

These days, as I make my way along the path to researching, writing and recording a new album, I find myself thinking with amazement of all of the individual journeys that have brought all of you to this website. I am honoured to count you among our community of friends, and I remember how many people I have met in my travels through music that have made my life so much richer."

To appreciate my dance for the Gorgons you need to listen to Loreena McKennitt's Book of Secrets, listen, in particular to The Mummeries Dance and Marco Polo.

My Performance for the Gorgon -- Gail

2005-08-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

NATALIE
A Ghost Story
Like a flame, the woman blazed from room to room,
Her small white hands move hither, thither, in the gloom;
Fair wraith, what do you seek like a flickering flame?
Outside the wind sighs in the trees and calls your name.

``Natalie, Natalie, so fair in youth,
Natalie, have you come to find the truth?
Like a flame you blazed among us for a time,
And then were quenched, a candle snuffed while in its prime.’’

``I seek the one who ruined my life while I was young,
I seek my betrayor to still his lying tongue,
I seek my vengeance from beyond the grave,
To taste his blood and eat his heart is what I crave.”

``Natalie, Natalie, so cold in death,
Natalie, I feel the ice upon your breath.
Now an avenging hellion you appear,
Trailing clouds of sulphur, risen from your bier.”

Like a flame, the woman blazed into the night –
Of her erstwhile lover, they say he died of fright,
Before his heart was torn out and thrown upon the ground,
Near the river in which a ruined woman drowned.