December 19, yesterday watched the birth of dawn, observed the death/rebirth symbolism found in nature, wondered why and how our Ancestors embraced such simplicity as sacred. It cannot be that far off from my own sensitivity to such mundane events that most take for granted. It’s only a day away from Winter Solstice, or Jöl, as my Ancestors would call it. The time of in-betweens, tell tale signs of sleeping earth. The sun makes his way to his lowest point in the northern hemisphere, begging for clarity. Our minds cannot comprehend such cosmic rays, the vastness of our place in this vision of universe. But we try.
We try to measure and analyze and quantify all that surrounds us, even the stuff that so clearly cannot be quantified or analyzed or measured. It all gets us closer to technological evolution, physical growth and expenditure, but further away from the simplicity of Spirit. And that’s what this season is supposed to be for, to me. It’s a day for rememberance, inward reflection, speculation on our Soul’s journey in our human experiences. It’s for intuitive processing, connecting with the Source that creates all things, destroys all things. It is for prayer and spell, the closeness of family-as we’re all connected.
This is not about dogma or doctrine, it’s about tradition and timelessness. The progression of nature’s turn from Dark to Light, contraction and expansion. I celebrate to share with those I love. I celebrate my Love for the earth. Forget monetary value, as there can be no price for preciousness. Forget material goods, electronic devices, technological needs.
Strip it all away, lay yourselves bare, and revel in the glory and agony of it all…of all it means to be human and alive to witness the sun rise with the turning of the year. Contemplate the clouds and rejoice with the songbirds.
Remember who you are and those you hold dear. Remember the sunset. Remember your origins, and be fulfilled: for it’s the Winter Solstice, the ending point of previous dreams’ gestation, and the birth of a new year.
✨Happy Solstice, all💙
I wonder if I manifested you out of the chill mist that creeps in during winter. Leftover remnants of a feeling of longing, so familiar, yet so long away. I feel as if I’ll wake to a clear cool morning, this version of a dream god embracing me turning out to be nothing more than my own fancy. But the sensation of this electric schism doesn’t seem to obstruct my view. How can I love an apparition? A shade I feel is just a memory or future chasm of thought.
Is this what it says? Is this the way it was written? Meant to be this abstract and magnetic polarity that has grabbed onto the atoms in my being? Or is it merely a wisp of cotton cloud gliding over the sun’s face?
Do you have a face? Eyes that demand gazing, lips that demand poetry? Are there spiders of longing building webs in your hair? Do your dreams weave with me into a realm of ice and heat and floating orbs? Are the words really present? Is it someone I know breathing twilight against my skin?
I kept the secret of how I built my defenses, how I kept everyone out. And how someone gets in.
My walls were built of blood and bone and ink. Carbon elements as hard as diamond along the perimeter, as soft as graphite in the in-between spaces. Dry, parched paper desperate for a drink of liquid language, and bits of my own neural activity made the mortar. All it would take to break through is observation on the part of the Conqueror. One has but to look at the joints and fissures and cracks to know how to get through. I have but to exist, and the one who knows would know.
Of course, the life I grew inside my body, my womb, she morphed and evolved knowing this already. She helped me build this fortress. She reached up with budding fingers and hands and clasped my soul hiding in the dark, hiding in the swirling nebula of embryonic fluid. She gave me new life, and helped me build the fortifications to keep trespassers out.
And then the dreams became lucid. I saw the unseen, communed with the Mother God of placentas, birthing lava out of the mouths of infant mountains. The dreams became my sustenance, my life force. I became this disc of rotating plasma, entering the world at will.
Still my walls held. Still my armor deflected surges of control, fear, and hated storms. But my light was dim. Weakened by self neglect and self defeat.
And then your words appeared before me, in front of my eyes, demanding I take them all in, take them in and let them build to a crescendo of heat and lightning. I want to come because I can. I want to rend the air with my wilfull voice, I want to know what this feels like from inside my physical spaces, I want to let you in. I want to move against you, a dance that knows what Love is, a dance that does not hold expectation or judgment or betrayal.
I want to trust, and feel newborn stars committing themselves to friction release inside the both of us.
Take me, because I give myself freely. I am here, opened to your poetry, opened to the point of shattering. I will be destroyed. But I want to feel it.
I want you to tear down this wall.
Writing for me has always been a release for daydreaming. Daydreams take on concrete forms of being when I write them down as stories. I have tons of stories that swim round my head, and have finally accepted that they’re just going to have to come out. I really don’t care in what format, just that these ideas and visions have an outlet. I can’t stand more than one voice [aside from my own] dropping thoughts inside my brain for longer than a week or two. So out it comes.
On that note, I have had this story idea for quite a few years, and have been working and playing around with it for the past couple of years… “working” in so far as I am making progress in stitching scenes together to flow as a narrative, as my earliest workings for this story were always only little poetic blurbs here and there. The vision of the entire story is hard to cut into words that flow in a linear fashion.
So along with my experimentation with what will probably turn into my very first novel, I have been reading anything I can get my virtual hands on related to crafting fiction.
One of these resources [Chuck Wendig’s list of ways to plan and prep your story] suggests the writer “let the characters talk, and nothing else”. This is the exercise (profanity ahead, be forewarned):
Let the characters talk, and nothing else. Put those squirrely fuckers in a room, lock the door, and let the story unfold. It won’t stay that way, of course. You’ll need to add… well, all the meat to the bones. But it’s a good way to put the characters forward and find their voice and discover their stories. Remember: dialogue reads fast and so it tends to write fast, too. Dialogue is like Astroglide: it lubricates the tale.” ~Chuck Wendig
This exercise provokes thoughts like “what would the conversation be like” “would they argue, would they debate, would they scheme or plan together” etc. So I followed this format exercise for my 2 main characters, both of which had previously failed to pull my heartstrings in earlier writings. This dialogue exercise was perfect. It made me look at facets of these characters that I didn’t even know were there, and really tune into what they both want [their goals] and what they fear will happen if they don’t get it in this story… As well as the underlying desperation of it all.
The important aspect of this exercise is getting to know your characters [and getting them connected to each other] through their dialogue alone. There is no descriptor narration, no backstories, no outside plot narrations, just the characters’ dialogue to serve as the window view into their world. Through their words/dialogue, I can now hear their voices. I can hear dialect and inflection and tone, and I can hear the emotion in their voices now that I couldn’t hear before.
I found this so eye-opening that I really don’t know why I didn’t do this earlier. Just this little snippet of conversation has helped cement the main plot/conflict and story arc in my head that I feel a little more confident in its telling now.
I highly recommend doing this with your characters. It could even be applied to your main protagonist and antagonist having it out in conversation. Let them get to know each other. Afterward, they should be able to form clearer distinctions between their actions, goals, and how they view one another and their conflict.
There might come a late winter night, when the air is cold and biting, that you find yourself answering your door to the sound of a strange god’s pounding heart.
You cautiously crack the rough-hewn wood just a sliver,
just to see,
And there he is, lumbering there, on your stoop, all wild-eyed and feral grin. You notice the cosmos stirring within his fur, and you’re a little fearful of letting him in.
Before you have a chance to speak to him, though, He barges his way through the door, brushes your worries off his stone arch shoulders, like brushing the sand from your feet after a stroll along the beach.
He clambers toward your favorite chair, and invites himself into it, his hulking form making your only comfortable space screech in protest. But there is purpose in his posture, in his swaying scarred head, and you suppose what the hell, he’s welcome to sit–
for just a spell.
And then you think, it must be a spell, to be so disrupted this late in the night, by a wild god stitched up in moonlight.
He grins his savage song again, and you see him beckon you to feel comfortable in your own home beside the fire, so you accept his crooked finger like a fish to a lure, and sit at his feet as his eyes ponder over your biology.
You feel pulled to ask about the snakes in his belly, the raven claws in his arms, the budding stars exploding to life within his rib cage. But you don’t want to ruin the silence with the danger of pragmatic spoken language.
So you sit with him and listen, to the rhythms in his breathing. And you find a melody in it. It sounds like the haunted chords of your embryonic certitude. You find comfort in that, so you again try for a prayer, a whispered word,
a verse of starlight–
Anything! that you might hear this sparking creature speak.
You will find you want his voice so badly, that you address the solemnity in his dark charm and tell him of your day. You try to avoid your need to bleed and scream and dance in revelry of all that stands before the time when it was sorrow that you wore.
Because at some point, you became scared of your own speech so you began to hide it under the crunch of oak leaves. But this feral god, this dream before you, he sees, and he reaches out and takes your callused hands and examines. He reads the well worn lines and fretful designs, and again his eyes play flame over that wicked grin… Knowing you deeper than you know yourself.
He lets you go and for a moment you don’t know how you could possibly ever go on. The pain in his eyes and those spaces within you make you want to weep. But then he reaches over and pulls from the fire a single seed, a tiny thing–aglow amid the shadows that are beginning to take shape as soulful forms climbing up the living room walls.
He watches your face, probably trying to gauge how resolute your insides are, before he places it in the palm of your outstretched hand. Tears find their way to the corners of your eyes, and they stream down your face at the eternity of his small gesture, and you realize you don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there with him. So you look down to find the time but somehow you are rooted to the floor, moss and clover spreading up your lower limbs, tickling your skin.
And then the seed you hold begins to warm, so you eat it. You swallow it down with the glass of bourbon this wild being has passed to your hand. His laugh is a belly rumble like thunder in the distance, and your head swims under his influence as you praise that single sound.
He asks: why did you leave me behind?
And you don’t know how to answer because you know in your heart the illusions you were once fed had won. It seems so very long ago.
I had to conform, I had to survive.
That wild eyed shine returns to his face, a face you found revolting at his arrival, a face you’re probably growing accustomed to now. And you open your throat to speak, but moths flutter out in place of the voice that used to be yours.
You see that the strange god sitting in your chair weeps with you, and nods his great dark head. He touches your very blood with the clamoring of his own shaded thoughts.
And the shadows that were nothing much just moments before, are now dancing in harmony with the breath solidifying in the air. His breath that winds its way inside your mind and the tunnels within your heart. His eyes shine in tune to the strings of your own wanton music and you will most likely fall drunk on the gravity of that forgotten language.
Then roots form in your belly, pulling your bone and tendon along a web of fates. The blood in your veins turns to silt and soil and your mouth invites the stages of life to sing from your lungs. You look to find the time again but your house is no longer there.
Your wild god has brought a skin drum and is beginning to pound your birth.
Spirits of bird and bone swirl about your head, unaware that you probably don’t want them anywhere near. But your god keeps drumming, keeps the pulse waves of your dreams. He calls all the beasts and birds and worms
And you hear the earth’s shouts of defiance echo in the air. You watch in secret pleasure as your spirit joins the flight. Again you seek after the voice of the shadowed being that found his way to your door. He’s there, no longer a separate taste of freedom in your gut, but a wakened thing, a dancing step.
And you find yourself alive with the agony of it all.
And then in a moment’s flash, you’re blinking, tears fogging your liberated eyes. You wake upon a misty dawn, an empty glass at your fingertips, your changed spirit sprawled atop the hearth rug. You’ll most likely laugh in wonder of finding yourself in such disarray, as the sun heralds the dawning day.
There may come a late winter night, when the air is cold and biting, you will find yourself answering your door to a strange God’s pounding heart. So you cautiously crack the rough-hewn wood just a sliver,
just to see,
If he’d like to come in for a drink.