The Scilla

I was talking with J.B. about why there were daffodils everywhere, but no tulips or other bulbs at the homesites. Then I got to thinking of the scilla in Wisco and how they are the flower that most reminds me of Neira and then I was thinking about the strange Lincoln Creek neighborhood I was canvassing in last spring and how it was all ghetto now, but there was this energy there. That energy, and I felt it a little at the farm last weekend and at the magical homesite near old Model last Wednesday. It is latent here, and although the grid is not as fluid and as in flux as it was when we moved into the art house, and I certainly don’t have amazing creatures here like Teagan and Miss Emily and Jesse to work with, I think I can awaken these ancient nodes, or even just ghost traces of the energy left by previous occupants. It’s strong around many of the ponds because the ponds were intentionally created and are in harmony with the natural surroundings. In the absence of many natural springs, they serve as mini portals.

So what I had envisioned, even as far back as the Texas border was that I would go camping with my rainbow warrior before he heads out west to ground these energies in me and work with the elemental grid to node, and that we could draw off of the transmission towers from Fenton that my angel and I set up before I met him. I know he gets it, but sometimes I find us diverging frequencies and then I begin to worry that I have strayed from my high heart, fallen off the edge of the blade,  and what have you. Or that he has gotten lost in the forest. Or sometimes only that he becomes irrelevant to the story at hand because he is working with higher energies that I have not yet mastered the conceptualization of. This last thought begins the lovely meldfuck. Must be on track here.

So I believe I made up the meldfuck term to describe that thing that Ken did to me, how I knew he loved me, that spiritual magnetism.

Girl, you’ll be the death of me.

Now I know exactly how he felt when he said that, with the unspoken, I love you so. All the while I know that you know that I know you know, but why we conspired against ourselves or refused to sacrifice or compromise. You did not have to go that far, to show you were holy. That will never happen, until it did. And could it ever again be like that, be better than that, so inexplicable? Oh sweet meldfuck!

And then the be-bop sax player, how where I am, trying to breathe the Shasta into my surroundings and stay true to my creed as a naiad, a keeper, a guardian and my playful deep core spirit. He will play with me! He will play! And he doesn’t seem to think it’s weird or out there, not too much. He’ll humor me for the sake of curiosity. It’s like an infusion to him. Let’s wander around downtown Jackson, the deadest downtown around, the tumbleweed phantoms swirling in the ether, and we find this fabulous Mexican restaurant just like it was meant to be. And let’s get wine and let’s go out to the cabin and let’s listen to frogs and let’s weave cosmic voodoo star shit let’s listen to “Little Wing” on L.P. let’s fall asleep in the blush of wine and the draining rush of play and the rain started as the I stared at the trim and peace washed over me maybe it’s not so bad I’m not in California so let’s do cut ups since it’s raining and the music stuff isn’t going to work without my Sony. So we did cut ups and put the important words in Mason jars and it was perfect, almost, half-regretting that he kissed me (didn’t he know? how it is how it was? how I wish that it could be between our friend and me?) and fully regretting the apple wine and my soul was satisfied. The aural expressions and half formed translations, soul singing because I got to play, but not meldfuck.

And have I screwed it all up again? Or can we dream outside the box? Because if both of them can understand where I came from to be here, then why not? Go on as three? Maybe 4, this is the forth lesson or someday even more. One love, one heart, interchanging and exchanging soul songs.


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