You're always welcome in my dreams. You've become a Strange but comforting Familiar there ...
I loved fantastic tales as a small child. I still do. But if you could have sat down my eight year old self and told her that one day when she grew up she'd have her own familiar spirit, one that camps at the base of her soul .... Well, she probably would have believed you and would have wished away her youth waiting on such an adventure.
Back then books were alive and she ran down rabbit holes and rode the back of the north wind like any cognizant Victorian child. She'd not yet learned limitations of wonder. Not yet.
And So ~ here You are. You are like a familiar. The Sorceresses familiar. You come and go inside of me on velvet cat paws. You move so dreamy through my dreams, that we very often don't realise it's happening, until we wake and compare notes.
It's like being very high and comparing trips when the drugs have settled down into the corners of your mind and bleed out into the daylight until they are gone. These trips leave little mementoes, to remind you where your spirit went, hookah in hand. And the stories are funny, sometimes seem completely senseless, but we listen a little more closely to the symbolism when once we find that these 'trips' were never actually alone.
There's something significant here. Something I never want to lose to ingratitude. Something I sketch fast in my memory, for the day I'll shake my head that such of a thing could ever have happened. It is ridiculous to even imagine it would ever be possible to forget these moments with you. Yet still I strive to etch as many of our encounters into my fabric, so the life will come again and again I will know you as I do now.
Was meditatively preparing a meal tonight. Can barely recall what or how. My hands were on my counters, appearing vacant, but my minds eye was full of you.
I shook my head and smiled. How did you become such a fixture in my life so quickly? The little girl became rather a hermit. A solitary soul. How then
did you enter this world of mine so easily when my life has been arch to maintain my solace? How so could you walk further into my life than anyone I've ever let past that garden gate? Like this was not the most unheard of thing in this 2013 world.
I guess it is rather simple. Isn't it?
The first time I realised you close inside, was the dream I'd had of two children in a garden. Remember you were huffy that I was in your garden, a visitor? But then we began to watch and observe the growing things. We began to share the strange wonders of this place we both had come to.
And like Gerda in the garden of the Old Sorceress,
she became drowsy and it soon became so very natural that flowers have small warm faces and talk and talk and talk to her.
It was maybe like that.
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| At the Back of the North Wind ~ George MacDonald 1868 |
And now, I pull out the photographs of You taken these last many months. How similar they are to the imagination of a few good Victorian dreamers we know of. Authors. These photos now developed within the frames of today, they depict what happened when you were inside of me. Talking about god knows what at god knows when it's become those hours between hours.
In between daylight resistance and night calm you've touched me. A sexual touch, but not in the places anyone's ever pressed palm to me before. Your finger-snap and I am lit in an instant, as never before, from the outside in.
And maybe that's the whole purpose of this incredible geographical distance. To learn, by experience, that the parameters we took on as we left our childhoods, were more the rote of our science, but not the scope of our dreaming being.
One of us begins and dreams one day, and the other joins the dream sometimes days hence. If you're in them, I hold on gently to my pieces whether they make sense or not because I've come to know I've parts of the same puzzle. And sometimes they cannot make sense until I see you have followed. Backed into the same party. One of comes with music, the other having carried it's lyrics. Sometimes we just don't even know what we've got, until we compare notes.
The thing I care most about is what you feel like there. Inside of me. The thing I care most about is how you feel when I step inside of you.
"There" wherever "there" is, the span of sun to moon to sun again begins to become an unquestioned part of these conversations and loving between layers of skin, spirit. Latitudes and longitudes. Talking in and out of hours through rivulets of time that quiet creep and quiet conspire to throw us together.
Bone in or bone out of body we travel. But as we do begin to lose that sense of "well, you joined my dream" or, "ah, this time I've joined yours." These structures that hold up our connections don't seem to matter much any-more to me. I just find peace in your oft-present company. A familiar spirit who rides within.
Others in their right mind would do well to wonder what dark art conjured such a realm. Might fear.
And though at first it was terrifying to me to find myself inside of you by the same token I walk my way through your blue walls, my fear's replaced with the quiet peace I remembered in the attic where Gerda and her Kay loved (before he got the glass splinter in his eye and lodged in his heart, and forgot her).
The Snow Queen is the most erotic children's story I have ever read.
If you read it some day you'll recognise our quiet moments in love and lust in the stamp and ink print of the fictional Gerda and Kay into an attic that existed at first solely in the mind of their author.
Like them,
there is a purity and hush at some point there between us.
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| The Snow Queen ~ 1844 Hans Anderson |
Even if it's just the way your blue eyes look after you've spent your blue traces in wild races along the all inside of me and mine. And the rest after me and mine have run through all of you and yours.
A witch's familiar is a secret servant, who moves in step with it's master. Though he may be made of mostly conjured spirit matter, the witch does not fear his form close by her.
It's because he's a part of her from whence his life came. The trick and the secret is that they are one in the same. Separation is an illusion. Where the face and foot steps forth from the mirror, to turn and see Self. Gerda's journey to restore her missing half. She wrests him from the Snow Queen who made him forget who he was.
These are some of the mysteries of my Sweet Familiar who is always welcome in my dreams. For in my minding him and who he is, he gives back as much of himself as he receives. And then the roses talk in perfect circles. Nodding their dreaming heads as mine nods before you and yours.
