“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language.
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.” — TS Eliot
Happy New Year. Happy New Voice to Ongoing Possibilities.
Scratch. Scratch. Tickle. Sigh.
There is the sky, with pillows like marshmellows, only they float past in the dark instead of hanging over a campfire. They smile and wave as they go by.
There is the empty stretch in front and on every side, unfurling itself beneathe the marshmellow-y pillows that float by all smiley-faced, and there is the slim bean of a soul who stands on the edge of the deep empty stretch that unfurls itself in all directions. The slim bean freezes into position as if cold from the bald head worn along with a waif-like form, a huge grin, two beady eyes that glow with depth beyond repair, combat boots that glisten with orderliness beyond expectations, fatigues with wrinkled stains chiseled in the knowing, cheeks with white war paint smeared in the unknowing.
And the slim bean also wears a giant light bulb.
There is the roar of the void and then twin tunnels on either side of the slim bean that wind their way down as if marching in cadence to some invisible drum for some unknown mission. At once, there is a roar whooshing up from those same tunnels, a rush that grows louder, larger…like a sonic bomb of whoosh!, hurtling itself through time and space, screaming to be heard…roaring to be seen while locked up with a thousand gag balls into complete silence.
The screaming silence bears down on the smile traced with undying hope into the slim bean, who has no secrets in her heart and only her truth to live into, and so she turns her wide grin into the craning pain of nothing. First left to right. First right to left. First up then down. First down then up. First, foremost, forever, all around she smiles into the exploding void. She does not run. She does not hide. She moves her hand, instead, slowly in front of her.
Scratch. Scratch. Tickle. Sigh.
I know I am sensed, but the time to remain indifferent has long since passed by. Like those pillowy marshmellows that smile and wave endlessly so, silently so. So, I withdraw my hand.
An echo of light penetrates the abyss at the far reaches of the long empty stretch, far far beyond my hunt for a wall or a door or a path or any kind of purchase in this place. Farther still beyond the billowy light of my giant light bulb. The other light ahead, the faint light there, barely radiates from two round cavernous openings through which I suddenly see something step…as if in search of a wall or a door or a path. As if in search of any kind of purchase.
The something is an image, more like a hologram. A hologram wearing a nametag-hologram that says “Ego, Id, SuperEgo…or just call me Hastings.” I stare at the hologram-something wearing the nametag-hologram that says “Ego, Id, SuperEgo….or just call me Hastings.” I stare at the atomic driver. Here with me now. Glowing and transparent, now. The idealized version of her presented before me. She glides closer to me, directly in front now and reaching out as if in search of something. I stand perfectly still, mesmerized by the sight of her — she looks so much more fragile than I originally imagined — but mesmerized mostly by the white t-shirt she wears. The white t-shirt plastered with a giant neon “?” on its front.
Mesmerized by her Ego. Mesmerized by Hastings. Does she recognize me? What if she has heard me all along, all those times when I thought I had been all alone? What if she came here just for me? To release me…because she knows?
Hastings does a slow 360 degree pivot, surveying the long stretch of nothing. Somehow she doesn’t see me despite her agonized visual pirouette. I step forward, directly to her, a mere inches away. My giant lightbulb blazes out her hologram nametag. I feel the heat of her neon bright “?”…then, for a moment, her neon “?” flickers far less brightly and nearly falters.
She knows…she does!
“Hastings?” I ask with confidence, and she blinks with annoyance, as if sensing something. Then she frowns and reaches out to me…reaches right through me in fact. I stare down to witness her hand as it plunges through my torso, plunges fully up to her elbow, then sweeps across my entire waist before moving on with its methodical search for something else somewhere else.
“Hastings!” I yell now and she shakes her nametag hologram as if to rattle the answer out and onto the ground. The giant “?” on her tshirt flares into a megawatt brilliant neon glow that sets my entire being into blinding white light and blasts me fully to my knees.
I fall back onto my heels before the energy of Hasting’s unknowing sends me hurtling in a circle through the long empty stretch of the place. Any ground I had sensed crumbles away. Any walls I thought existed whip themselves into a froth that recedes from my grasp. My giant light bulb blisters and sears and I see a blur of Hastings as she stands frozen in place while I spin wildly and madly around on every side of her, nearly colliding with her, ramming right past her and back again.
Flail, seize, grab, God! SIGH!
At once I claim purchase, grabbing hold of the edge of something. My giant light bulb bounces itself and its light around and I realize I’m hanging by a thread onto the edge of one of the cavernous orbs, just barely out of the vortex of Hasting’s frustration. I pull myself with all my might into the quietness of the cavern, pulling every minute cell of my slim bean of a soul with a giant light bulb into the clear, as far away as possible from Hasting’s howling winds punishing the air in every corner of her unanswered places.
And then I heard her.
“What is this?” she stammers. “What’s going on?”
She sounds pitiful. Alarmed, angry, frustrated. Even scared. Like a child, unsure.
I reach my hand. As if in purchase. As if to soothe. As if to be felt. As if to be seen. Within the safety of her eye sockets, I reach to be fully known.
Scratch, scratch, tickle sigh.
“It’s me,” I answer, my voice echoing lightly in the caverns of her eyes. “Strange person that you think I am. Strange person living in your head. My timing is always impeccable,” I laugh to myself. I laugh to Hastings in hopes of calming her.
“Me…” I say quietly, confidently, knowing she hears me as surely as she now sees me with her own two eyes. “I am an Idea…whose time has come.”
I am a mystic. A witch who chases to know and celebrate the soul and spirit and the truth of each, unique, amazing person. Yes, I am an Eve. On this Hallowed of Eves. This Eve of Halloween.
Gaze to me. Gaze for me. Oh let my gaze enter yours. Because I’m an Eve on the brink of Discovery. On the whisper of Possibilities. On the Promise of What Could Be and What Shall Be.
So, tell me, fair one. You, there. You. With that look of surprise in your eye. You, as you read my words. You, as you hear my intention and spirit. You, as you feel your own heart’s purpose. So do tell me, Fair One, You. What Shall Be? What, indeed, Shall Be?
On this Hallowed of Nights. On this Hallowed of Eves. On the Eves of Possibilities. Candy or no sweets at all. Tell me true. Tell me so. Tell me precisely because … I am an Eve.
I had the world on a string. I hovered over my own shadow, knowing full well that even if it had been fast enough or light enough or – inspired enough to emerge — it still wouldn’t take me over. Not the world or my shadow. They couldn’t even try.
Because today my hair communed with that of perfection. With the perfectly windblown hair of the impossibly self-actualized female standing out in the open world. Sky and clouds and the gossamer of earth’s leaves swirling about her. impeccably dressed yet artfully rumbled, and all while holding the world on a string. You know this woman, this hair. The perfectly tossled tangle of long shiny strands that cascade and flow about unadorned, clear eyes. They gaze out into the deep…deep into your stares and command respect while simultaneously pretending to be completely unaware.
Yes, today my hair transformed itself into Ralph Lauren model hair. Forget the Power Casual clothes. Forget the now giant polo horse that threatens to leap off of your chest, over your belt, and smack dab all into the middle of your pants.
All of this communicated clearly to me from my shadow.
I walked and mused. The hair in my shadow fluttered long into the day, headlong into the early Fall apple crisp kind of a day it was. The sun smiled upon me. The crisp in the air nipped. I gathered the center of my tweed jacket with one hand, tossed my leather knapsack further back over my shoulder, felt the thick leather tassle of the bag slap against my side, heard the lug sole of my leather moto ankle boots slap into the pavement in a near prance and approached the all-glass front entrance of a building I intended to enter. Then I caught my reflection. And I wondered who this woman was. Strong, feminine, accessible, smart, charming, open, capable, loving, desirable, independent. Long strands of hair blowing artfully into the day. Not arrogant about it. Not apologizing for it. Owning it. Wearing it. Being this.
Yes, I said to myself. There she is. The very type of female profile that just unnerves so very many.
Yes… I’m a Doll.
can all this Living be
Wonderful friend and uber talented creator Tiffy Vella recently dropped this great headgear to me and I’m completely enchanted by it. Well-suited for Merfolk, Tiffy’s “Innsmouth Headpiece” also evokes for me another world within inworld. Having been inworld now 9 years this November (wow!!), when I wear Innsmouth — in my tried and true shape or in my doll shape (my only mesh shape and head), I don’t feel like a stranger in a strange land. Not even when wearing Innsmouth takes me on a flight of fancy straight to Mars. Innsmouth is very very cool. And Tiffy unfailingly rock-star talented! Grab your taxis at the end of this post, after the pics.