this week's rainbow dreams is brought to you by the Triple Goddess Tarot, Angelic Wisdom, and the number 3...
the surrounding grounds and gardens of the Menstrual Temple of the Funky Grail are breathtaking and expansive, like the wings of the smiling sphinx who hands me candy calaveras coated in the dust of the bones of my antepasados, my ancestors, as i walk beneath the diamond arch onto the temple grounds. the dust on those little candy skulls always shimmers, like gold and garnet dust, and the taste of it on my tongue explodes in a fury of fireworks and wild swans. hot wonder explodes down my arms, my legs, in my womb, up my spine with all the thermonuclear passion in the heart of the sun.
this, upon first setting foot upon the hallowed dirt over which floats the Menstrual Temple, as if to say, "remember you are the universe, and the universe wants to throw you a fiesta." not that there's anything wrong with the notion that to dust i shall return, because in actuality each grain of dust is a tiny, microscopic rock in which is contained the very secrets and stories of the universe. and, if you listen, they will regale you with tales of Baligab the Singing Three-Tailed Serpent, Horgadad the Beautiful Queen of the Orcs, Skochbop the Magnificent Fool and his twin, Borlifad the Tiny Giant, who can change his shape at will.
all these tales and more, if you but listen to dust. and then maybe, just maybe, they will teach you to ask clouds questions, converse with trees, and allow water to be the solid ground upon which you may walk.
i was in the sand garden, east of the Menstrual Temple, dancing to the gentle hum of the millions of conversations being had between the grains of sand amongst themselves. shimmering, pearly shells and holy rocks and driftwood, twisting and stretching and winding like young gypsy girls dancing the virgin's bridal dance before the fires...they were lined along the edge of the garden for my pleasure, to array in the sand as i wished. there were wooden rakes and fresh brooms of all sorts, as well, to draw waves of designs. a gigantic zen garden where my every footstep was a sacred mark of the universe upon itself.
surrounded by so much holiness and contemplation, meditation and solemnity, bizarre and orgiastic profundity i'd come to associate with being in the presence of the Funky Grail, suddenly there rose within me an overwhelming desire to find a sacred cow to tip.
she came, then.
until this moment, i'd only encountered myselves, and the goddesses: the vulture goddess and the blue-skinned, eight-armed avenger healer with no mercy and infinite compassion: She Who Would Teach Us to Laugh and then Make Us Cry in the Same Breath, She of the Cosmic Puns, the Patroness of Revolutionary Dreamers and Freedom Fighters Everywhere.
but there she was, the pomegranate priestess. i'd heard of them but until this moment had never seen one of them. i'd heard them in the darkened corners, behind the pillars at the altar of the Temple. she was in a red robe, shoulders bare, glossy hair braided tightly at the scalp in tiny, perfect, beautiful little braids and then left loose to tumble down her back in foamy, graceful curls. her feet were bare, the soles of her feet stained a dark red, like blood. the same color stained her palms, and came up in mezmerizing whorls and dots on her hands and up her forearms, on the tops of her feet and partway up her calves, and on her face. she smelled of amber and bone dust, pomegranates and peace. touching those red tattoos with my tongue, i imagined, would taste like my ancestors.
the pomegranate priestess looked at me, her face serene, but i could see behind it to the sternness of the vulture goddess and the blue revolutionary bandit peacemaker goddess. somehow i knew she never opened her mouth save when the goddesses wished to speak.
"review every detail of your life, honoring every moment as if you were holding a benevolent Judgement Day," she said.
"huh?" i said.
"eat money. fuck gravity. drink the sun. dream like a stone. sing in the acid rain." her dark eyes pierced into me, and there was an urgency in her voice as if it were the most important thing i learn how to--
"what the--? how'm i supposed to fuck grav--"
the vulture goddess smiled, and even in the warm sand my feet were cold. "The world is crazily in love with you, wildly and innocently in love. Even now, thousands of secret helpers are conspiring to turn you into the beautiful curiosity you were born to be."
by now the sand grains' conversations were tickling my feet something intense. but i couldn't move. "i don't see what this has to do with fucking gravity."
the pomegranate priestess frowned, and for a moment it looked as if there were a small sickle in her hand, the skin of her red-stained hand suddenly blue. "Are you finally ready to start loving life back with an equal intensity? The ardor it has shown you has not exactly been unrequited, but there is room for you to be more demonstrative."
the sands were quiet, but the wind was laughing. i could hear the rustle of the smiling sphinx's wings on the breeze. "i only just woke up." it was a weak excuse, i knew, especially looking at that sickle.
"don't worry," she said, suddenly sounding very, comfortingly, human. the sickle was gone. "find what you fill your cup with each day. that is a start, child." she turned and walked away.
i looked down at my feet, looked at the grains of sand. they were quiet, waiting to hear my reply. when all i did was shrug, they gave a collective sigh. "fine, fine, okay. i get it. do any of you know where i might find a sacred cow who needs tipping?"