Dreamings from the Portland Asklepian

I pulled the Moon card this morning…splashed some Florida water on my tail and back fin, to protect me from the heat of the day…Here is my night~

The heat of the earth was shimmying up and off of Her dirty cream desert floor as aboriginals made their journey across it. I watched them before I stood up in my full height and looked down at the northwestern United States. I stepped carefully around the volvanos: Sister Hood, Sister Helens, Sister Adams. They sit still, waiting for their turn to show off the caldera they could make, "cause Yellowstone ain't the only massive valley in these parts, hon' " and "we aren't even gonna talk about Crater Lake and her story…" They are still so young, these mountain-girls.

I turned my sight south to the temple and sat down with one of the ancestor-pooka-looking-priests that teach me in my night dreams. She was flipping through a codex of translucent pages; some had broken bits of early english, and other languages, musical notations…but most of the pages looked like a faint cuneiform remained. I stepped into her, to look at the pages closer and when she handed me the pages, they rearranged themselves into a translucent box with geometric forms playing inside of it. It twisted itself, flashing geometries that I realized were for use internally and externally. They were ancient aged magical blueprints to the space that I inhabited, from my earthly being into outer space…it was DNA playing with me, like a butterfly that could turn back into a catepillar, bird, dinosaur, factory smoke-stacks, city, bedrock, mountainside, geothermal pools, dancing off the earth's body into the ether…and then it would be still, laughter & foolishness waiting in my hands.

And then, there is this: another dream, but opened up a bit, for exploration:

The ancestor looked like it was holding onto the fabric with what was left of its left hand. The ancestor was the color of bone, as if some desert wind had blown over this being until every layer of skin pigmentation was sanded down and away. And in fact, this was true. A face? Features had dissolved under these perpetual winds, so although its eyes remained, the mouth, nose and cheekbones had been worn down and out of existence. Its hands also seemed to lack the definition of fingers, and dragged the embroidered fabric along the floor holding on it by a corner.

It was night and silent and browns and greys were lounging in the dining room. The wood floors were still young in their reincarnated life as floorboards, and they felt no need to reach out and grab the threads of the fabric that tickled them. She felt so good sliding over these floorboards, and the wood relaxed like it was part of a growing being again.

The embroidery was relieved, not to lose another stitch to time or carelessness. It was not the ancestor’s responsibility to keep it in good repair, it was just a keeper, to reveal the weaving and needlework to the next who was searching, and could absorb the vibrations that still sparked when you came close to it. She was still longing for someone to listen to the years of stories spoken to Her, someone to admire the Beauty She was holding together.

She could still tell you how she was made, the names and smells of Her mother worm, the winding and building of thread as strong as bone and then the breakage. The tearing of flesh of being broken open, revealed, naked, had faded as she fondly remembered the feelings of being spun again into creation. She wanted to tell the story of how the humans stretched and stroked her into thread and how She met the other parts of herself, twisted up and back against Herself.

Then She learned how to dance with the flying of the weaver’s hands and the rhythm of back and forth—so different from the spiral life of Her mother’s being. But She learned rhythm and as she was weaved learnt all the words and melodies of the weaver’s songs. It gave her an indescribable feeling of being put in a particular place, of being put to use. Maybe it was the song sung by the weaver as She was laid up, against and over Herself, tapped, tapped, tapped, becoming so strong that the motion of being walked about by the ancestor made Her remember the songs.

There were places on Her that had relaxed over the years. She had some of herself break off and be left behind in some strange places. Much of her had been adopted by the flying ones and made part of their spiral nests. Some of her had just spread out, relaxing over the years. But the embroidery, the deep tight winding of earthy pigments, once so new and odd, were part of Her now and she was thankful. The stitching kept her together. She had not lost herself completely, been turned out as a rag, torn and ripped up and left to lie with all the other Forgottens.

What the stitching had been is almost unknowable. Tiers remained. They may have been the bricks of a temple or pyramid, or maybe they were the falling waters of a mountainside crying. Were there branches reaching out to catch the tears? Or had She stretched so far as to deform the image?

When the ancestor hung her on an old nail on the wall, She slumped and showed her age. Some of Her was so missing, so very stretched out, a person looking, could see right through Her.

But if you looked at Her, if you looked in what the ancestor had left on the wall, you could see Her threads stretched were like beams of water, glistening over a running stream. And between Her threaded strands, light moved like oil in water, leaving abalone colored windows into other Times and Places.

Seal mother popped her head out of the ocean for a quick hello.
A damsel-fly hovered although her wings might have been the sails of an ancient ship.
Rain fell on tiny metal bells and sweat dripped off my lover’s brow as he chopped wood outside my window.
Flying eyes glared. Clouds moved so fast they must have had a destination.
And I am to follow.
My finger melted as I reached in.