I might be overthinking this boundary business, when I realize the noodles I’m eating are made from wheat and that means I have to avoid Night Vale citizens for a while.
(I might desperately need a nap. Now.)
~mentions Mother Mary in third party passing~
~post is followed on the dash by a photoset of rosaries and a pic of an engraving featuring her~
You know, I’m not even surprised anymore. ~shrugs~ (Those are some pretty rosaries.) Just… ~spreads hands in acceptance~ Whoop, there she is!
Mxtl is not in the mood for games. Her rattling shook the lies and fears I had used to prop up my ego off of me in large unmendable pieces. Deprived of that exoskeleton that I am not surprised to learn I depend on far too much than I should, I fell to the hard floor of her underworld unable to move. Shake by shake, rattle by rattle, she stripped me of my overworld agency.
"The cowrie shells. They are mine." My agreement was a mere formality. What Mxtl claims, Mxtl has. "You still associate them with [the ex]. You still see them as cheap-ass trinkets and the equivalent price of your life. Even after being told why, you still can’t let go that it took only two dollars worth of goods to buy your release from a very destructive relationship. The shells are screaming, but you still can’t hear them. They are bound to you, you can’t throw them away, sell them, or even give them away. But the shells belong to [Weaver], and [by right of being a part of Weaver], the shells belong to me.”
Keri woke up and said: “BITCH BITCH FUCKING BITCH!”
Then the coffee kicked in and she realized she is giving away the game too early. So she edited her words and mumbled an apology to anyone that read the original. And then invested in popcorn futures.
If it seems I’m always ready for a fight, it’s because I’m always ready for a fight. I have gotten so much fucking shit from people that think they know where I belong in my own damn world.
I make no apologies for tipping your worldview over. Whatever construct you use to build your identity is no problem of mine. Your construct, you carry it. I’m no one’s torchbearer.
Not much to talk about dream-wise. Just some fruitless argument/bitching with a person about why I don’t divine with runes despite using them for magic, and why I won’t touch anything “chakra” with any length of pole even though “real diviners can align chakras and see auras”.
Needless to say, the conversation devolved into a shouting match really quick.
When the person brought up one of my old posts where I made references to Kundalini and stuff, I pointed out I stopped that once I learned more about it, and how the information I had originally learned was corrupted and bastardized having come via colonial bullshit means. Like the word “karma”, a lot of that shit doesn’t mean what the Western world think it means.
There’s some shit I won’t talk about because it is very unverified personal gnosis, and then there’s some this I’ve stopped talking about because I was wrong as fuck and quite out of turn to speak of it. But to remove those errant posts from my main now would be whitewashing my history and progression.
The whole affair reminded me of why I nuked my Tumblr archive, but left my main blog intact. A combination of unsanctioned and selective necromancy was being used to justify bullshit in other corners of Tumblr and I had fucking enough of it. Them bitches want to say since ThreeDifferentWays said it, it must be okay, and skipping over the posts where I admitted I was in error. Not a single bastard would say anything in my inbox, but instead light that shit up out of my sight. Fucking cowards.
The fucktard in the dream kept throwing runestones at me, telling me I didn’t deserve to know the runes if I wasn’t going to use them properly. I picked up the Hagalaz rune, shattered the flimsy disc between finger and thumb, and handed the pieces back to her as I asked her to tell me what they spoke to her. She was angry that now she’ll have to buy another set to have matching stones.
I shook my head. I picked up all the other 23 Elder Futhark discs. (I left the spare on the ground because fuck Blum.) There was nothing magical or special about them. As she screeched at me about destroying her property (that she threw at me, one by one), I licked a disc. Flour, cornstarch, and Elmers glue. She paid for these?
She threw the two pieces of the Hagalaz disc at me as she yelled for me to keep it. The magic was broken, she said. Even if she glued the pieces back together, it was useless to her. How careless and stupid of me. Et cetera.
I held the broken pieces together properly and muttered some [sounds] under my breath. The Hagalaz symbol flared bright red then electric blue. When the light faded, the Hagalaz disc was intact without even a chip to show it had been damaged. I dumped the 24 runes in her hands. “That’s what I use the runes for. For weal, and for woe, as the circumstances call. Real diviners use the tools available to them if they want to and as they see fit. Auras are not available to me. Neither are chakras. I am forbidden to use the Elder Futhark to divine with. Tarot is my bitch and my public specialty. Whatever crisis of identity you are having about the tools you use and the justifications you have for using them is not my problem. Now, kindly step the fuck off before I take advantage of this dream state and hurt you.”
I turned away and started to make my way out of the semi-wooded area we were in. I heard the discs clattering against each other. I looked back only to see she was actually trying to divine a way to hurt me! I shook my head and left the dream.
I’ve been in a shitty mood all day, and while I keep telling myself it was just a dream, I realize this is a fight I am always having to defend myself in and I am tired of it like fuck.
This dream happened last night, but because it heavily involved/featured achangingaltar, I wanted his permission before sharing it publicly. He has granted that permission.
I wandered in the depths of a labyrinth so over grown by trees and vines I might as well been underground. Maenads and satyrs ran about everywhere, chasing animals, the unlucky that wandered into the grove, and each other. I wandered around (as a woman), naked but for a jaguar pelt draped over me. (Yes, jaguar. Not leopard.)
I was searching for Anthos and trying not to show my near panic about not finding him. Dionysus Zagreus came up to me.
”What’s wrong? You’re not having fun!”
”Forgive me, Zagreus, but I’m worried about [Anthos].”
”Whatever is placed in my care is cared for. You know that.”
”I do, Zagreus. But he is supposed to be at [the other grove still open to the sky]. And I’ve followed him here.”
Dionysus Zagreus took my hand and said he would lead me to Anthos. As we went deeper into the heart of the labyrinth, the ‘play’ around us became rougher. The skin of Dionysus Zagreus started falling off in chunks and slabs revealing worms underneath. But this did not frighten me as Dionysus Zagreus has always been an Underworld figure to me.
In the heart of the underworld labyrinth, where the dismembered pieces of men are brought by crazed maenads, was a large blood stained marble block. Lying on that block was Anthos, sleeping peacefully amid the still warm viscera. (Gawd, what a beautiful man is Anthos!) It took me a moment to realize the maenads were keeping the naked sleeper warm by the fading warmth of their gathered sacrifices.
”Here he is. Safe and sound. Now that you are here, you can lead him back to the surface.”
The blood slicked hand left my grip easy as I protested. ”Now wait a damn minute! I’m no Orpheus! And I know how that myth ends!”
”No. You’re not, [Weaver]. Which means you should have more sense, yes? You are correct, [Anthos] does not belong here. Not yet. Lead him back, but do not turn around or let go of his hand once you start. Have trust in me that your path back will not be occulted.” The voice of Dionysus Zagreus changed into the roaring of lions, the chittering of roaches, the crunching of hyenas, and the slick wet sound of pus covered flesh in movement. ”Oh. And don’t run. He can’t move as fast as you can.”
(I hate escort quests.)
I gently shook Anthos to partial wakefulness. He mumbled something asking me not to eat him right away. I wondered what he saw of me as I had partially transformed as Dionysus Zagreus led me. I gripped the barely aware man’s hand and started leading him out via the direction I came in.
I was prepared for all sorts of phantasms and hallucinations meant to separate me from my charge, but for me, the way back to the surface groves was dull as fuck. Nothing happened to me.
Anthos, however, was horrified by visions and pulled against me constantly. I wanted to stop and comfort him but I understood this was his part of the ordeal. I kept my grip as commanded and soon we were at the entrance.
A woman dressed in linen made from spider silk greeted us as we emerged into filtered daylight. I had transformed back into naked-woman-with-jaguar-pelt. Anthos was sobbing but starting to recover. The woman had wine mixed with water brought to us.
I started to drink but thought of a thing and stopped Anthos from drinking. ”What river has this water been drawn from?”
The woman said nothing as she smiled her answer but had our mixed wine taken and replaced with unmixed wine. Not wanting to be rude, I toasted her and Dionysus Zagreus and took a polite sip.
It knocked my ass out at once.
Don’t know how Anthos handled the divine vintage.
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"Three More Ways" is a tumblr where Keri writes more than 140 characters and less than 2,000 words. Sometimes. Like the contents of her head, it is not a safe place for others.
"Three Different Ways" is where Keri is supposed to be posting her personal shit and not polluting y'all dashes.
"Noxporium" is Keri's cartomancy blog and expanding store front. Free limited cartomancy readings are available here.
"Three More Cards" is where Keri used to post free tarot readings until moving to Noxporium. It serves as a Tumblr-friendly reposter of Noxporium.
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