Return

It looked just like I remembered it.

And yet not.

It loomed before me, in silent rebuke. Yet I knew the Temple would never judge, never scold. The rebuke --and the cowering-- were all in my heart

The rustle of dried leaves across stone as the breeze pushed deadfall along the paving stones ahead of me sounded like the rip of snagged fabric. Of dry skin scraping across pumice. Like a snake shedding old skin.

There was not a soul to be seen. Not a single red-footed priestess, nor a vulture in the sky.

I opened the doors to the Temple, fully expecting the hinges to creak and groan from years of disuse, but the doors swung open with the same perfect balance they always had, with not a squeak of protest as well-oiled hinges gleamed, as well-polished as the great door handles.

"Think you the only visitor to the Temple?"

I spun around, and the old priestess raised an eyebrow. Her skin was brown as a betel nut, as wrinkled as the driest raisin, lips pursed in that way that belied a mouthful of missing teeth. And yet she spoke without any trace of a lisp, though her voice creaked as much as I had expected the hinges to. Her red robes swept along the floor, hiding most of her small frame.

Tired now, weary in a way I had never been before when visiting these hallowed grounds, I simply raised my eyebrow back at her. "Considering this entire place is within my own mind, yes, I think myself the only visitor to the Temple."

She chuckled at that, shaking her head. "Such youth, to be so headstrong still." But then her eyes gleamed. "And yet finally showing a hint of wisdom, that your backbone is straight and tall now, speaking thus to a pomegranate priestess."

"To an equal?"

She inclined her head. "Perhaps."

"My feet are red," I said. "Perhaps I did not record it, as I have every visit in the past, but I do clearly remember a priestess telling me --laughing at me, as you all seem to do-- that my audacity in staining my feet was the only way to be a priestess. No one can tell me I am a pomegranate priestess except my own self. My feet are red."

She pointed. "And you still have the scar." Her finger traced a line in the air, straight down, and my hand flew to my breast. It was not visible on the flesh, but in spirit I could still feel the scar from the vulture goddess' crescent blade splitting my chest open with my beating heart open to the sky. I remembered that pain, and it was as nothing to more recent pains. Pains that split my being, with my soul open to the infinite void. Pains that chopped me off of my family tree, with no roots to take in the coolness of the earth or drink in the rains, no leaves to feel the warmth of the sun, a kiss of the breeze. A dead branch.

"Why did you come?"

"I don't know."

"It's been calling you."

"The Temple?" I paused. "Yes."

"You come when you are tired. Confused. Why do you never come here when there is joy? You could see it as others do, then."

"No one comes here but me."

The priestess laughed.

Now I was getting impatient. Why did they always laugh? When they weren't intimidating me, anyway.

"You said I was the only one who came here."

"You said that."

"This place is my invention, in my imagination."

"Yes, and no. Why are you here?"

"I don't know. I just know it's been too long."

"That's partly true."

I sighed. "The Dream Incubation Chamber."

She stared at me, silent.

"I misused it before, I think. I wasn't Dreaming to learn." Heat rose to my face suddenly, and burned in my chest. Burned along the invisible scar in my shame. "I was trying to Manifest, not Dream."

The priestess shrugged. "Partly true. Dreaming is manifesting. You were trying to force the Pattern instead of learn the Pattern."

Wasn't that the same thing?

"No!" Her rebuke cracked like a whip against the walls, the echo sharp in the ear. I hadn't spoken aloud, but she still heard. It never seemed strange here, in the Temple, the way thoughts and reality and the unseen and unheard were meaningless. It's only later, writing it down, that the lopsidedness ever really stands out. "Not the same thing! Now you're just being lazy."

"Fine, I was being lazy," I said, feeling my ire rise. "I wanted answers for once, not more questions."

She narrowed her eyes. For some reason, it was only then that I noticed the form and thoroughness of her own priestesshood.

Most priestesses had the red feet. Some had red palms as well, but those were extremely rare. I had only ever glimpsed one such. Some, the truly harsh, were bloody all the way up their calves, the hems of their robes perpetually dripping fresh blood that stained their calves and shins and feet. Some had the patterned dots and whorls whose meanings were still a mystery to me.

I had at first thought this ancient priestess' robes to be red. Looking more closely, the horror and revulsion swept over me as realization rose like gorge in the back of my throat.

The richly red priestess robes were not cut of draping cloth. It was a curtain of human flesh, flayed and draped into the appearance of robes. The spatter coated her face and neck, the splatter pattern looking as if it sprayed upward as she hacked her own clothing.

I blinked again, staggering back, and the old woman in beautiful, flowing red fabric stood before me once more.

"I hate when you guys do that."

She blinked up at me placidly. "You do it yourself. Who do you think I am, to enjoy wearing my robes?"

I frowned at her, not comprehending. "I came to walk the Dream Incubation Chamber," I said, heart beginning to beat faster.

"How can you take even a step, burdened as you are?" She shook her head. "You think you have lost so much, until your arms are empty but for a very few things. But your shoulders drag beneath the weight of so many skins. All of the dead things you clutch, the dead weight you carry, wearing the skins because in your mind you still are these."

Reeling now, for the first time I looked at this horrible priestess. Really looked. And I saw the same round head, the high cheekbones and flat face, the broad nose. I saw her bottom lip had the scar from when a dog had bit her lip and split it into two when she was only three. I saw the beauty mark on her right cheek, and the other on her neck, that only one girl every generation inherited on her mother's side. As recognition dawned on my face, she laughed again, and almost against my will I recognized the way her right eye scrunched up more than her left when she smiled, the way all on her father's side did.

Goddess! Was this what I was? What I would be in the Temple? This horrible, flesh-wearing priestess, drenched in blood from head to toe with the harsh laugh that carried no mercy?

"It is part of you, yes," she said. Then she waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, I know you wish to become like one of the warrior priestesses, one of the vultures with the bones in their hair and the curved blade, and the dripping hems. Even as the peace and healing priestesses fascinate you with their blood marked in pretty pictures upon their skin.

"Instead, you get me."

"Not if I have any say."

"Oho!" she laughed. "So we have a fighter, after all."

Damn it all. Some people get babbling brooks or dreams of some dead relative coming to give them words of peace and comfort. I get my toothless crone self, draped in flayed human skin, laughing at me.

"I thought the pomegranate priestesses were enlightened," I said. "I thought their blood was an expression of their wisdom."

Crone me raised an eyebrow. God. How could I have not noticed the snark in that gesture? "And was there not wisdom today, seeing me?"

"Nothing good," I muttered, but only because I'm stubborn.

"The Menstrual Temple of the Funky Grail is all-where and nowhere. All time and outside time. Sometimes, if you have very bad luck --or very good luck-- you meet yourself here." She paused, and her dark brown eyes squinted at me, the gleam in them malicious and dark and terrible. "When you go back, if you still condemn me to wear this infernal, dripping, stinking robe the rest of my life, I will never forgive you." She jabbed me in the chest hard with her wiry finger, and the scar along my chest burned straight back to my spine. "You know what you have to do."

"I don't think I can." It was on my lips before I knew that I was even going to respond.

"Well, now there's a bit of truth," she muttered. "No more difficult than lugging this around all my life, and maybe less!" Out of nowhere she pulled out the terrible curved blade I remembered all too well, and swiped at my neck as she cried, "Go!"

I jumped back with a cry--

--and found myself jumping back from the door to the Temple, yanking my hand off the handle as if burned. The clear, cloudless blue of the autumn sky dazzled overhead. The dry leaves scraped along the stone path.

I knew what I had to do.

Back on the Grounds

The snow bit at my bare feet, toes beginning to burn from the cold. Large, fat flakes caught on my eyelashes and dampened my hair. It was snowing at the Temple: plump, wet snowflakes sticking to everything and dampening sound to a muffled whisper.

 Ice floes like teenie glaciers floated by in the great river running through the temple grounds. The great fruiting trees lining the banks were bare and stark against the white sky, and not a bird could be seen.

So different, being upon the grounds and hearing not a single cry of an irritated raven. The statues on the grounds were oblong mounds of white mystery, like buttes in the desert. I tucked my head down until my chin touched my chest, wincing as my double chin squished like a water balloon.

I was not the same as when I left.

Why did I leave, anyway?

Oh yeah. The Vulture Goddess had split apart my chest and laid bare my heart to the sun, then left me to bleed downriver and learn to either embrace my role as One Who Bleeds But Does Not Die, or to believe the lie until I imagined my death by exsanguination so well that I died.

My feet didn't make a sound as I walked the path I remembered, my footprints the only thing to mar the pristine beauty of a perfect snowfall.

I was shivering by the time I entered the temple, dripping half-melted snow on the red tiles. I winced at the mess, but there was nothing at hand to mop it up.

"Just leave it."

I spun to my left. She was standing by a pillar, half-hidden by the shadows there. Her feet were also bare, and I saw the hint of red lining her toes. Yearning filled me, and embarrassment, that my feet were still not stained the red of the Pomegranate Priestesses. I wanted it so badly.

"Do you really?" she asked. "If so, why have you not done the requisite work? Something must be holding you back."

I shrugged. "I am still a fool to give this all up if just one person would love me."

"Why?" She stepped out of the shadows, and I saw her hair was buzzed close to her head. She had subdermal implants in her skin, just by her left eye. It was a scroll mark, the Sanskrit a, with an accent over it in red ink. This, I knew, was not the first sound. This was not the life breath of the formless god. This was instead the root word for maya, removes depression, brings hope, sharpens the intellect and talent.

Why would Maya meet me at the door, half frozen and pathetic?

Why, indeed?

"Fool, yes, but not pathetic," she said. The tiny bells on her anklet and trimming her skirt chimed in minor sevenths. An odd chord, but strangely appealing. It drew me in. "You find this supposed love appealing enough to forsake the Menstrual Temple because you do not love you."

"That's what I just said."

She laughed at me. Actually pointed and laughed. "I wasn't talking about you."

Goddammit, were all the priestesses given classes on being cryptic?

"Do you still have the small vial of blood you were given before?" she asked.

I shook my head. "The glass dissolved when I began hemorrhaging, and it all just mixed together."

She nodded. "That can happen. When one does not realize the sacredness of their own, bleeding is seen as an injury instead of a sacred duty."

I blushed. This was not what I'd wanted to hear. I should just go; I would never be worthy to dwell within these walls.

The priestess laughed. "You take these walls with you! Wherever you go, there is the Temple." She pointed. A door appeared across the foyer, small, with no visible door knobs or hinges. It was just a crack in the marble.

"Go now."

"To what?"

"It is the dream incubation chamber."

Well. That told me a whole lotta nothing, but I could tell by her face that was all I was going to get. The sickle tied at her belt gleamed in the gentle light in the temple. A chill raced through me; I remembered my last encounter with one of those sickles.

A line burned down my breastbone in memory.

"Dream incubation chamber. Got it."

"This time," she said after me, "don't run."

I bit my lip. My hand hovered just over the door, and my fingers balled into a fist. This time, she'd said, don't run. If that wasn't a warning, nothing was.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The ruins of a great and ancient city, dusty and tattered, met me. I looked over my shoulder.

The doors were gone.

Next

Ex animo, Delena

i looked at the priestess for what seemed an eternity. the small vial of water-turned-blood was as heavy as sin, and getting heavier.

"you feel it calling, don't you?" she said.

i sighed. "more like i can't deny its calling any longer," i said. "i've stuffed it down for so long; my whole life. but now...lately...it's shouting so loudly it's like some white noise in the background that has slowly gotten louder until it's all i can hear." i shook my head. "everywhere i turn, it's all i can see. every sound is drowned out by it. every lesson turns me back to it. there's just no escape."

"and why would you run from it, then, sister?" she said, smiling. "if it is tied to you, it does not matter how you run, for it will always follow you. do you not recall our sister, skeleton woman?"

"but reprieve!" i almost shouted. "not one second of peace! i need a break from all that noise so i can think! i know she's down there, and i know i need to deal with it. but i need time to get used to the idea and decide what i'm going to do about it."

the priestess shook her head. "and how much time have you had already? you knew everything was there, and you ignored it. that part of yourself you run from. how long have you ignored her, trapped her down, silenced her, kept her in the darkness and neglected her?"

the vial of blood weighed as much as a mountain now. the loose knot holding the ragged scarf around my head came apart, and my dreadlocks tumbled down my back. i remembered how my silhouette had looked so medusan, and in the back of my mind i could hear the faint sound of many snakes hissing in my ears. they sounded angry. ever growing, snakes continually shed their skins, and i could almost hear words in their hissing as they reprimanded me for refusing to shed my own skin.

"she needs to stay there," i whispered, horrified. "she gets in my way."

the pomegranate priestess stood, then, and brushed herself off. "then perhaps we were wrong, and this affinity for our path is only on the surface. stay here in the Valley, then, little sister. for apparently this is as far as you go."

she turned to walk away, but i reached out and snatched her blood-stained hand in my own. i was staring off into the distance, unable to look up and meet her eyes. "she's hated," i said. "perhaps not by me, but she is hated. when i embrace her, i am scorned. they mistreat me, and scold me, and cheapen me, and use me. i am not some cheap, simple thing to be cast aside!"

"they don't understand," she said gently. "they have lost their own innocence, so when they see yours they cannot bear it. some would subsume it, as ancient societies believed consuming the body would absorb the spirit as well. others would destroy it within you, for your obvious power reminds them of their starving lack. this part of you, this other, is someone you run from because of the pain you believe others inflict upon you because of her.

"i say to you that you have done yourself --and her-- a grave injustice. you have misunderstood her, and yourself. you have hidden her away so none could abuse her, yet you continue their work and abuse her far worse than anyone else could ever dream. and so i ask you, sister, why you curse those who have deeply wronged you, why you refuse to forgive most of them, when you do nothing but continue their work upon yourself? do you do this for some measure of control? to please them? to make sense of things you could not possibly have understood when you were young? some other reason entirely, or perhaps some combination of them all?

"whatever it is, my dear sister, it is something you will need to conquer before we can allow you your first crimson of our sisterhood." she pulled her hand free from mine. "if that is still your wish."

and she left me there in Valley-in-the-Glade, naked and trembling and clutching a vial of my own blood. few ever come this far, they had said. fewer survive.

...i was beginning to understand why.

#400

she looked at me, red tattooed face almost glistening as if the red ink were fresh...or as if she had been upon that battlefield with me. amazed, enthralled, i slowly turned my head to look at her. she smiled, and let go of my hand.

i hadn't even noticed she'd been holding it. had she somehow given me the vision...?

"that was from you," she said, her voice lilting and hypnotic. "it was none of my doing." and she looked at me as if she truly had heard my thoughts. but then she smiled and the fierce countenance of the vulture goddess disappeared, and the impish gleam of the revolutionary trickster goddess flashed in her eyes. "you truly are one of us now, sister." she adjusted her skirts --which still dripped slightly with a red that stained into her skin-- and tucked her legs beneath her. she folded her hands and leaned forward, toward me.

it had been so real...the smell of horses, the sound of my men beating their fists against their armored chests and rattling their swords and spears, the feel of my blood pulsing through my body charged with battle lust, the terror and exhilaration of fierce battle...the exhaustion and exhilaration of learning the secret to taming my Inner Flaming Narcissist...

"...have you given any thought to which sect of us you feel most at home, sister?"

her question jolted me out of my reverie. as i looked at her, i saw in my mind's eye every single sister of the pomegranate priestesshood i had met up to that point.

there was the gentle, soft-spoken sister that greeted me when i first stepped onto the grounds of the menstrual temple of the funky grail, smelling of amber and rose dust, pomegranates and peace; the pierced one with the blood-red pendant who spoke to me of anti-role models and rent open my breast with her sickle; she who met me in Valley-in-the-Glade, who first called me "sister"; and the one who sat beside me now, with tattoos of a very different nature, marking her as a very particular sect within the pomegranate priestesshood...those who go into the death.

those who understand the simple yet intimate dance of Life and Death and Rebirth; those who look Death in the eyes and smile at Her eons-old companionship; who are comfortable with their robes dripping with staining blood, taking on the drips and patterns of blood --of life and death-- upon their own bodies; those who understand the balance of All Things...

...those for whom i have a deep affinity, in their eyes.

i looked away, down at my toes deep in the cool damp grass by the blood river, still holding the vial of water-turned-blood. ...i'd never turned water into blood before.

"yes, sister, you have. this is what you don't see," she said.

"you're in my mind," i said. "how?"

she smiled again, tucking a narrow dreadlock behind her ear. the bones and beads decorating the ends of her dreadlocks clacked softly. "it is you who is in mine, sister," was her reply. "we are all within each other's minds, connected through la salvaje dea, 'the wild goddess.' all there is to do is open your mind, which you do by nature of your soul, sister, for you are already open. in fact, you have always been so. those years when you believed yourself so closed, so cold, that was only your outer trappings, for you could never hide what you were.

"how is it you could hear, for a decade and more, la salvaje de la dea call to you?"

i pondered her true question, how it is i had felt deep within me the true Wild nature of the goddess through all the shit and doubt, and all the lies that had been fed to me. i had believed myself to be dead to it all, yet She had called, quietly at first. it had taken me long to understand the true song i was hearing.

now, the pomegranate priestesses called me "sister."

it was a good question: which sect did i feel i most belonged to?

...i thought about it for a very, very long time.

the price of love pt v

to read the price of love from pt i, click here

"sullen and stubborn melancholy hath never become of any human," my friend said.

i looked up at him, hot words burning the tip of my tongue, but one look into his golden eye --the slit of his pupil narrowing to a line thinner than my smallest finger-- and my heated words cooled. so i did as he bade me and stopped pouting.

"do as you will, my friend," i told him, frowning. "i need to think."

i made my way across the plains, down where the land sloped a bit, and found a gently flowing river that sparkled in the sunlight like a dragon's hoard tumbling with gemstones and pearls and glittering, glittering gold. the blue of the water was sapphire blue, darkening like the night sky the deeper the water ran toward the middle. fish leapt like dancers, catching mosquitoes and water skates for their meals. reed birds rustled in the tall grasses, scolding and calling one another with their "chirrr, chikirk! chirrr, chikirk!"

i stripped out of my armor, the delicious breeze a cool caress on skin hot and dampened with sweat from wearing such heavy armor through an eternity of battles, of blood on the boil from such a close hunt of such a hated enemy. and with each item i loosened and let drop to the ground, the lighter i felt. the breeze cooled the back of my sweaty neck, dried my tunic, ruffled my hair which i had unwound from its battle braid. it truly felt as if i were letting go of more and more of my worries and setting them down along with my armor.

at last i was able to close my eyes and truly listen to the wind and hear what it was telling me. in one swift motion, my tunic and leggings came off and i was letting the current take me downstream. how long i was out there bathing, swimming, basking in the sunlight before i swam back to shore, i do not know. i should have come out miles from where i'd lain my armor, but there it was...waiting for me.

i sighed. i might be able to lay it down for a time, but it would still be waiting for me to take it up again.

instead, however, i sat by the reeds in the shallows listening to the wind sough through them, hearing their wisdom whispered to me. as the golden glitter on the river turned to orange and salmon and lavender, it finally made sense to me.

insanity is what it was, what the reeds whispered to me by the water, but as i had tried all else without a mote of success, perhaps insanity inspired by the wind and the water was what was called for. perhaps the essence of what they proposed was insanity itself. no one ever said This Thing i was attempting ever made sense...

i stood up and brushed my hair with the curled witches' fingers that grew among the reeds, but kept it loose. i put on my tunic and leggings, now dried and stiff from the sun.

my armor i left by the river and returned to the cave. my old friend and companion, the fire dragon, was gone.

the entrance to the cave both threatened and mocked me with its deep, enveloping darkness. she was in there, i knew. my Inner Flaming Narcissist lay in the deepest hollows, biding her time, raising my worst selves from the dead. but it didn't matter.

i took a deep breath and closed my eyes. the wind took my hair in its hands and stroked my face encouragingly. the earth pulsed beneath my bare feet. somewhere beneath them, i knew, She walked.

...and so i sang.

i'm sorry but i'm just thinking of the right words to say...
i know they don't sound the way i planned them to be...
but if you wait around a while i'll make you fall for me
i promise you, i promise you i will...

i sang every fitting song i could remember.

something in the way she knows
and all i have to do is think of her...
something in the things she shows me.
i don't wanna leave her now.
you know i believe and how...


and when you speak...angels sing from above--
everyday words seem...to turn into love songs...

bronze and salmon and lavender hues on the horizon gave way to the deeper blue-black shadows of night. stars came awake across the sky, and the milky silver ribbon of moon tears stretched from one end of the horizon and disappeared into eternity. the grass took upon itself the silver sheen as the moon rose three-quarters full. sweat beaded across my brow and tickled down the side of my face. i felt it streak down the middle of my back and between my breasts, and still i sang.

i saw a world enchanted
spirits and charms in the air,
i always took for granted
i was the only one there.
but your power shone...
brighter than any i've known!
i'm under your spell
nothing i can do...
you just took my soul with you.
you worked your charm so well
finally, i knew
everything i dreamed was true
you made me believe!

through the night i serenaded her, though my voice grew hoarse and i had to wrack my brain to find new things to sing. but still, however silly it seemed--

it's not unusual to be loved by anyone
it's not unusual to have fun with anyone...

--i sang it. at some point before the darkness gave way to the first hint of dawn, i had fallen to my knees in exhaustion. now i pleaded with her, romancing my Inner Flaming Narcissist with every love song i had ever heard, and as the first touch of gold crept over the horizon, i saw movement by the mouth of the cave. i gasped!

...and it disappeared.

i merely closed my eyes and began again.

hello, hello!
i'm at a place called 'vertigo'
lights go down and all i know
is that you give me something i can feel...
feeeel!
you're teaching me...
your love is teaching me
how to kneel.
kneel!!

and there she was. with outstretched arms she came to me and embraced me.

and as the sun burst over the horizon to bathe the sprawling hills in dazzling light, as the birds and insects began their morning songs, one more song arose within me, and she joined in. by the time we finished, there was...

give me strength to find the road that's lost in me.
give me time to heal and build myself a dream.
give me eyes to see the world surrounding me.
give me strength...to be...

...only me.

-------------------------
songs in order of appearance:
when in rome, "the promise"
the beatles, "something"
louie armstrong, "la vie en rose"
buffy the vampire slayer: once more with feeling, "under your spell"
tom jones, "it's not unusual"
U2, "vertigo"
over the rhine, "give me strength"

continued from pt iv

dark moon

and she looked at me, finger to her lips. her only visible red tattoo the stain on her palms, but i knew the pomegranate priestess. she said to me:

"most people celebrate the full moon.

they feel her strong pulse, are drawn to her bright light. she speaks to many, beautiful and pale and radiant.

my power has always lain in the dark moon.

not the "new" moon.

dark moon.

(and no, i'm not emo, thanks...)

she's beautiful in her own way.

silent, yet profound.

infinite, powerful depths to her, each bit of knowledge something one must work hard and unfailingly to receive.

promising riches...if you can withstand her.

powerful subsonic call, vibrates the marrow.

crone energy.

dark wisdom.

in the dark, your pupils dilate wiiiiiide open to see vague shapes in the chairoscuro shadows. you must be wide open and accepting --even unto pain and great risk-- in the dark moon.

...nothing is as it seems.

...you must learn your own dark power to interpret the dark shadows, to hear the dark music.

nothing is the same to any two people.

there are things only blossom in the dark of the moon. things only found to those who can find them...

...those who are wide open.

it's not for everyone. it's not even for most people.

only a small some.

there are those who honor Her in Her Darkness, who respect Her.

few are Denizens.

for those who hear it, the celebration is thunderously loud, powerful, and beautiful. how can silence be so loud?

it can.

Her language is of deeper knowing.

be deaf, mute, and blind for a time...and feel the dark moon awaken the sixth sense so you hear more clearly, see further, and speak more deeply than you ever had before.

the dark moon illuminates what lies beneath the deep ocean, while the full moon makes shine the foam on the shore.

one Moon Goddess, two aspects. both necessary for full understanding.

most of Her children awaken in Her full light.

some of us come alive now."

notes from my pussygata

my sheree and i have a nickname for each other: "pussygata." in addition, she's also my pookie pie, my precious, my sweetness, my lovely, and my sexy, mean strap-on queen.

oh, yeah.

of course, for all the (really convincing) joking, we both agree that we just love men too much to be rockin' hot lesbian lovers, otherwise we'd just ditch the whole confusing world that is men and marry each other.

she's the greatest thing since ice cream.

and earlier tonight, when i'd signed in to my MySpace account, there was this message from her on my comments section. she so rocks...

You is the speshulist....
Sometimes I feel like I should be paying you hourly. Cuz you is like my therapist...You're like, doing recon missions in my psyche, you go in,,,sneak around and leave little landmines of light and love, instead of blowing your legs off, they blast little sparkles that tickle your nose and make you laugh...

do you know how much that effing rocks?!

i am la matadora de luz y amor, light and love. my muleta is pink and black, and my montera (the mickey-mouse-ears-type hat) is instead one of those antennae headbands, with big pink plastic stars sitting atop long narrow springs so they bob back and forth, and are equipped with flashing lights, so big pink flashy stars wink and go boing! atop my head. and instead of shouting "olé!" when i dance with el toro de desesperación, the crowd shouts, "rock ON!"

i am a revolutionary freedom fighter now doing recon missions inside your psyche, rigging joy mines bursting with faery dust and fireworks when you trip them. and i'm dressed for the revolution: knee-high pink go-go boots, springy-flashy pink star montera, a bandolier filled with glitter and lip gloss, and red-stained palms with an intricate pattern of red ink in dots and whorls tattooed up my arms...

the price of love pt iv

last time, on iGoddess...

“She Who Never Lets Go is out there,” I said.

She Who Never Lets Go. She Who Never Forgets...nor Forgives. i had many names for her, primary among them My Inner Flaming Narcissist.

i leapt onto my warhorse and meant to simply gallop in search as i had with all the others. my warriors let out a resounding roar as i wheeled my mount and he reared up, beating the air with his mighty hooves and bellowing out a blood-boiling whinny of his own. my heart pounded in echo of his bloodthirst, but just as i tightened my grip on the reins, he began to morph right before my eyes.

sleek chestnut neck elongated, grew scales that deepened to the smouldering redblack of still-burning coals. swift, straight legs thickened like oak stumps and bent in upon themselves. stout hooves grew into five-toed, leathery feet with obsidian talons the length of my sword and as thick as my thigh. the swishing horsetail was shed and in its place grew a powerful tail with wickedly curved spikes at the end. my steed unfurled expansive wings that ruffled like canvas tarp in the wind, and --astride a great red dragon-- took to the air.

my companions grew smaller as we lifted higher into the air. i felt a pang at this, leaving them with nary a farewell, but somehow i knew they were still with me. all ninety-nine of them.

flying low, we could not find my Inner Flaming Narcissist, and so I pointed up and the dragon rose higher. there! running full tilt through the barley as if the hounds of hell itself were after her. perhaps hellhounds would have been preferable, compared to myself astride a red dragon?

i pointed at the small form running, and the dragon opened his mouth and a veritable fountain of liquid fire gushed forth and flooded the countryside in flames. just before it hit my enemy, she dove headfirst into a small opening in the side of the hill. not even the barley caught fire. not so much as a whiff of smoke on the air once the dragon ceased his onslaught. we circled around for another dive, and this time the dragon spat fireballs. circle and dive, this time raining brimstone.

again and again he barraged the hillside with sulfur and flame, but it was no use.

once more i pointed to the ground and he nodded, coming to land right beside the mouth of this tiny hole in the hillside. from the air it seemed tiny as a rabbit hole, but in truth it would have fit a child quite easily. however she had shrunk to fit, or the cave mouth had widened to accommodate her…it was an ability she alone possessed.

i had to doff my armor, even leave my sword behind before i could fit. i squeezed through the mouth of this cave and crawled, but it widened a few paces in and i could walk freely. it was blacker than hell and i could not see my hand in front of my face. the only light came from the mouth of the cave, where i could see –in great detail—the clear sky to the horizon, each stalk of barley, and the red dragon watching me carefully.

a few more paces and the tunnel forked three ways. immediately i knew She Who Never Forgives had taken the middle fork, but still i hesitated. somehow i knew that a few paces beyond the fork, the tunnel curved sharply down, became almost a chute that led deep, deep into the earth. and it was a maze down there, i knew. somehow, i just knew.

i had lost her but could not admit it. i struggled with myself, wanting more than anything to go after her and be done with it! but i also knew that i would very likely lose myself if i followed. get lost? no. i would lose myself...whatever that meant. i was a warrior, not a philosopher! but somehow i knew it was a dangerous maze down there, filled with the unknown that was all the more monstrous and dangerous because it was the unknown. if i went down there, i would never see sunlight again.

a deep, rumbling voice echoed from the cave mouth. “my friend and lady knight,” said the dragon, “how dost thou intend to proceed? thy quarry is lost in a warren of twists and folds even thou could not hope to unravel.”

draconic, the language of the draq, was a very high and formal speech, i knew. and this was as informal of speech as a dragon could manage; we were very old friends, he and i. but the old forms must be met. again, something a philosopher or perhaps a historian would understand, but i was a simple warrior. all i knew was that old friends through lifetime after lifetime, it was enough for me that i just knew. “i am conflicted, old friend,” i confessed.

before i could continue, the dragon spoke again. “thou art out of thine element, sister, and deep in thine enemy’s lands.” the warning was simple but elegant; his telling me the advantage was not mine would have been redundant.

and yet i lingered, torn between chasing after my Inner Flaming Narcissist and admitting defeat, but the dragon was right. i just could not admit it gracefully. i could not let go of the chase. not when i was so close to utter victory!

"pride blinds thee," he said. "thou wouldst follow Destruction to its end and salvage thine dignity, even as thou risks all."

i laughed, but it was a bitter sound. he was right, as usual. i wanted to save face, to save myself the trouble of hunting them all over again, to save myself from feeling stupid and like i had failed by not cutting off the head of the hydra. and yet i was willing to risk my life to save face. he'd said it: i was being stupid and egotistical. i couldn't see any alternative, however.

finally, gritting my teeth and fighting not to punch the walls and scream in frustration, i turned heel and climbed back out of the tunnel. my friend waited as i lost myself in thoughts. i was wallowing in my dark mood, defeated and frustrated beyond words. how could i get her?

...how could i destroy her?

to pt v.

the price of love pt iii

last time, on iGoddess...


the body lay still, face down, and i stared at her hair rippling in the wind. my army cheered for the victory, but i did not. it would only get more difficult. “to Doubt,” i said, staring down at the body. the call was taken up by the rest of my warriors until it was a thunderous roar like a whirlwind around me.

i blinked.

and suddenly i was back upon my warhorse, galloping across the countryside, my companions running as if fresh and rested. we chased down Doubt and surrounded her so she was forced to face me. every time she tried to run, she ran into a solid wall of bodies and shields and my fighters shoved her back into the circle they’d cleared for us.

one by one we chased my enemies down. blood enemies. foes against whom i had struggled for lifetimes. eons. somehow i knew this day was the day i would strike them down for once and all, and be their puppet no longer.

one by one we hunted them down like animals. there were so many i cannot recall every single one, but i know there was a certain order to defeat them or else all my fighting would be for naught. contempt needed to be slain before Arrogance could fall, and yet i had to face Self-Importance and False Pride first in order to weaken Contempt enough to face her and win. and yet, i could not defeat False Pride without first felling Self-Loathing. and so it went. there was only one proper order, and it was a delicate puzzle i had to work out on the fly, in the rush of battle and drunk on adrenaline.

somehow, i remained clear-headed. and every single enemy wore my face, my body, cried out with my voice. i died a thousand deaths that day; i watched as i handed myself violent and bloody death a thousand different ways.

every time we were on the hunt, i rode my steed at a gallop and my companions easily kept pace. and every battle, i would suddenly find myself on my feet and my warhorse gone. after the first few engagements i realized my companions only grew stronger and had more energy after every fight, not weak and tired and winded. but i grew tired enough for a hundred men. and in the heat of battle there was never the stink that covers a battlefield like a thick blanket.

every enemy had her own horde of minions, which my companions fought and kept clear of me, and which i never saw. my own comrades i never saw clearly, either, only caught glimpses from the corner of my eyes. the air remained as crisp and clear as ever, and the barley swayed and rustled as it brushed against my armor. the chill in the air grew sharp as the breeze dried the sweat from my skin, but i felt clean. for all the blood and sweat, dirt and death that covered me from head to toe, i was clean.

the moment i had run Despair through the belly with my sword, i turned and my companions parted for me to walk a clear path…and suddenly Rage was there. she loomed until she filled my entire vision, my likeness in every way except her colors were more vivid, as if the background had faded to a pale, washed-out version of reality and rendered Rage in stark clarity. down to the red plumes on her helmet, Rage was identical to me in every way, only larger than life.

she grinned at me and my stomach jumped into my throat, then plummeted to my feet. in one swift motion her greatsword was out of its scabbard and arced upwards toward my head. i parried, and the jolt reverberated down to my toes. Rage was strong! far stronger than i. and as we fought, she grew. only slightly at first, but if we were perfectly equal in the beginning –not even counting her superior strength—any growth was her advantage. and she never stopped smiling at me, a dark smile that seemed all pointed fangs, and her eyes glittered with malice. she was making me pay; exacting her revenge for everything that had ever angered her, and i was Rage’s blood sacrifice.

but i held onto my own righteous, berserker frenzy and it was barely enough to keep up my defense. Rage fought me back and back. and she grew. and she was powerfully strong. i was losing.

i lost my footing and fell, bracing myself up with one elbow as i blocked another jab. i deflected the sword’s point, but not enough, and i took a wound high in my right shoulder. Rage’s sword did not pierce me through, just grazed me with the edge, but it was enough. the pain flooded everywhere at once, however, and somehow i knew it would leave a scar i would carry forever no matter how anyone tried to heal it. i remember only hoping that i would still be pretty despite the scar.

thinking herself the victor, Rage threw herself at me. but she was overconfident and underestimated me. i repaid her for my wound, and as she staggered back in utter surprise, i pushed myself to my feet and swung my sword with all my might...

...and her head went flying from her body. before my sword had completed its arc, Vengeance and Malice sprang from the pool of Rage’s blood at my feet.

they were peculiar. if i injured one, an identical injury appeared on the other. fighting them was like dueling two foes with one mind. one fell after i tore a hole through her heart, the other with her skull split. at that point, however, i could no longer tell them apart.

and on it went until there were almost none left. i rode my horse, my companions ran alongside me. we came to the spot i knew my next foe, Deceit, would be, and she was not there. confused, all one hundred and one of us looked around, searching for her. i knew she could not have gotten so far as to escape, and yet Deceit was nowhere to be seen! just then i caught movement from the corner of my eye and noticed that one of my companions wore her armor that did not quite fit as properly as it should. she carried her sword awkwardly, and her helmet was just a little too big.

she caught me staring at her and gave a start, her eyes growing wide and nostrils quivering like a deer that had caught the hunter’s scent. and i knew. she knew i knew.

i had found Deceit hiding among my own ranks.

“Deceiver!” i shouted, barreling straight for her at a dead run. i bashed her with my shield and then stabbed her in the chest with my sword as she lay stunned in the dirt. it was over almost before it even began.

“there is only one,” i said to myself. only one left out of all of them...and she was the most dangerous, the most important, and the most elusive. with her still free, i knew that it was possible my slain enemies could be resurrected.

in fact, it was most certain.

“She Who Never Lets Go is out there,” i said. She Who Never Lets Go, She Who Never Forgets...nor Forgives...

to pt iv

the price of love pt. ii

...continued from pt. i...

i was standing in the middle of eternity, the countryside rolling in gentle swells as far as the eye could see. gone was the river of blood, where upon its blood-muddy banks i had sat with the pomegranate priestess. instead of the river, now i could see the rippling plains covered in barley swaying in the breeze which held a touch --a mere hint-- of ice.

it was the time of year when late summer was just changing hands with the darkening autumn, the chilled fingers of the turning seasons reaching into the heat of midday to raise goose chills on my skin even as I dripped sweat in the heat.

i stood alone on a hilltop, dressed for battle save for the general’s helmet tucked under one arm, its crest of red plumes fluttering ever so gently on the restless air. i looked around, expecting to see the pomegranate priestess with her blood tattoos, but she was gone. strands of hair had worked themselves loose from my braid and blew across my face; the breeze came from the north. death was in the wind this day, i knew. i ran my hands across the heads of barley and knew somehow this was the last moment of peace i would see for a long time, and i wished time would stand still.

silence fell.

even the breeze stopped and the barley froze in mid-sway. every tiny detail of the world stood out in cruel relief, simple as it was: the sky cerulean perfection, flawless; the hills so gentle it seemed the land was flatter than it truly was. it seemed i could run to the horizon and never get winded; the breeze sent the barley bowing and swaying in waves; the air crisp and fresh and smelled like…

i blinked my eyes and the peace shattered before me. suddenly i was sitting astride a warhorse just as garbed for battle as i was, a huge chestnut steed with black mane and tail. it had a red saddlecloth with gold trim; a red to match the plumes on my helmet. i alone in my army wore red, however, as was i the only one to have a horse.

this horse was no gelding and only half broken, fierce and rearing and whinnying and difficult to control. no one else could ride this horse, i knew, but even i had to give all my concentration to controlling my mount. i couldn't handle this horse casually at all but give it my full care and respect.

all this i knew in an instant as time resumed and i found myself suddenly astride this massive warhorse, my war party behind me shouting and roaring and beating their swords on their shields to get their blood racing.

i drew my greatsword from its sheath and pointed it forward, heralding the charge downhill. my enemies were here, concealed in the barley, occupying the beauty of the picturesque landscape in the heart of my queendom. “Onward!” it was a full-throated roar as i kicked my mount to full gallop.

the rest of my army, one hundred elite warriors of legendary skill and power, ran afoot alongside my mount. the horse, i knew, was a necessity born of the fact i could never have kept up with my companions running as easily as they kept up with my horse galloping.

i led the charge downslope, no enemy in sight and yet i knew that we were not alone in that vast field of barley.

And we fell on the enemy. the first of many: Fear.

i was screaming Fear’s name, waving my sword in the air and spurring my horse even faster. the bloodlust was a roar in my ears and a fire in my veins. there would be a reckoning this day!

and then i was upon her, and my horse was gone. i was on foot. my companions were fighting as well, but i could not see their adversaries. unseen foes accompanying Fear, nightmare conjurations of every form imaginable, but all i could see was Fear herself. my companions kept Fear’s minions away from me, defending me so i could face my enemy unhindered.

i raised my sword, screaming in the heat of battle. i looked into my enemy’s eyes.

my first mistake.

again time lurched, slowed to a crawl. i took in the sight of Fear from head to toe. her eyes held me. they were my eyes.

she had my round face, the scar on her bottom lip, her left cheekbone slightly puffier than her right from the day in high school when she cracked it. she was exactly my height; her hair exactly the length of mine; the mole on her neck; the scar on the knuckle of her right forefinger that i saw as she held up her hands…everything. she was me.

Fear was me.

i hesitated, my sword trembling in my hands. i wanted to weep. i was terrified. horrified! i would just as soon turn my sword upon myself!

Fear fell to her knees, hands in front of her face as if to deflect the blow she knew was coming. i knew exactly the expression i wore because Fear wore it as well, and i knew she would not weep no matter how terrified she was unless i wept first. it was then i noticed she wore no armor, no protection. all she wore was one of my favorite grungy, layered outfits i had loved back in middle school: forest-green shirt with a pocket at the left breast, faded and fraying denim shorts, black leggings underneath, black socks, black boots, black sweatshirt tied around her waist.

how could i kill an unarmed child? she certainly looked twelve years old again. i was trembling. an enemy as my equal, met face to face in armor and armed to the teeth i could slay, but i would not be a butcher of children! oh, how i trembled...!

...and then i realized this was her tactic; this was Fear’s great Weapon. she manipulated me as if i were the child!

anguish welled up within me. screaming anguish and defiance, i brought my sword down and sliced Fear clean across the chest, a diagonal gash that gaped horribly from her left shoulder down to the ribs on her right side. her breastbone made an ugly, wretched crunch as it was crushed. her blood sprayed across my face, splattered my armor, but i did not wipe it away.

upon the death of my first foe, my army rose up in a deafening cheer. “Onward!” I called, jabbing my bloodied sword straight up into the air.

to pt iii

the price of love, pt. i

the valley treated me well. after my resurrection and baptism, there came a renaissance of childhood where i was given every good thing, feasted upon the delectibles of Nature's bounty with no thought other than that it gave me joy. i had my chores, yes, but afterward there was only play.

i had stood tall in the face of the pomegranate priestess, confident in my new knowledge, had stolen her sickle and torn a strip of her robes to tie back my hair. it fluttered about and caressed my naked body in the breeze. there was nothing but me, the sun, Valley-in-the-Glade, the Sentinels guarding our peace there with their majesty and patience, and the laughing river sparkling like rhinestones over the rocks.

in the Valley, gravity worked differently. when i got up to run, i ran like a pegasus on the air, my toes barely touching the ground and my hair streaming behind me. when i swam, the water was so light and clear it was like song on my skin, and when i breathed it was like inhaling liquid laughter. i lay on the grass beneath the sun, watching clouds play into shapes for my amusement, and the grass reached around to cradle me.

there was nothing i needed, and i wanted for naught.

my hair had been left hanging free down my back, and it had begun to form thick tendrils on its own. catching my shadow on the ground, it seemed as if snakes sprouted from my crown and twined about me with minds of their own. sometimes, if i stared long enough at my shadow, i could almost hear the whispers as they hissed wisdom in my ears. i could almost feel the caress of their forked tongues against my shoulders, the back of my neck. in play, i became quite good at twining my red scarf about my head, coiling my dreadlocks into elaborate piles atop my head, leaving one or two to twine around my neck as my only adornment.

for i was a wild thing in the Valley. when i thirsted, the river gave me drink. when i hungered, the Valley offered up delicacies like spongy mushrooms, tender shoots and berries. squirrels shared their nuts with me, birds their seeds. i slept when i tired from my play, played with whom i would, climbed the trees to hear their thoughts, and never wanted for anything.

"have you enjoyed your stay here in the Valley?" she asked.

i looked over at her as if she had always been there. i had not seen her in what seemed an Age, and yet her appearance did not surprise me. she looked much like me this time, only her robe was a red so deep at the hem it seemed black. the color lightened as it went up, as if the black seeped upwards until at about knee-length her robes were the same vivid blood-red as all the others. the black hem glistened, hung heavy as if wet.

her feet were tattooed, as were her hands. except instead of the whorls and spirals, dots and serrated edges to which i had grown accustomed, her tattoos were in a very unique spatter, with large spots of red, some of which remained perfectly round while others had been fashioned as if the red dribbled down her feet. beneath her toenails had been tattooed a deep red, and around her cuticles. the same for her hands. there were splashes up past her elbows, and her hands were almost completely stained red. there was even a few splatter-tattoos up her face.

the entire effect was...

i looked down at her hem. it was dripping. droplets of a red so dark it could only be blood splashed onto her feet.

those weren't tattoos.

"oh, they're quite real," she said. then she grasped the hem of her robes, flicked them sharply, and more blood spattered onto her face. i watched in breathless amazement as the blood seeped into her skin, became a blood tattoo etched permanently into her cheek. "my caste is a small one within the priestesshood." she gave me a dry smile. "not all of us wield a sickle, flash blue skin and red hair, and lovingly burn heaven to the ground. they talk of Those Who Bleed but Do Not Die and yet know only what is common and necessary." she shook her head, and the bones decorating her dreadlocks rattled like hollow reeds. "they do not go into the death."

she looked at me then, and i could see the red in her eyes. the bone ring through her left nostril glinted dully in the sunlight. "you have enjoyed your stay, yes?"

"my stay?" i replied. "have i overstayed myself?"

she laughed, surprisingly rich and genuine for such a dark priestess. "you may stay until the end of days when the Jiggy Snake swallows his own tail once more, for all we care. it is completely up to you." she shrugged, looked off across the water. "you have paid your price."

"yes..." i narrowed my eyes at her, wondering. "i have paid, and worked, and endured. i have learned and grown..."

"and i understand one of my sisters has called you sister?"

"she did." my heart was beating hard beneath my breastbone. "she said few make it this far, and fewer survive. are you here to kill me?"

again she laughed. "my goddess, no! i am here to invite you. there is within you a deep affinity for this path of ours." she tapped the vial of river water still in my hands. "you hold on for the chance to bless someone else, but perhaps your blessing would be better used for your own power?" she tapped the vial again, and i saw there was blood inside instead of water. i gasped, and she only leaned in closer. "you hold the power of the darkness of the moon inside you," she whispered, "and the little death within you triggers the possibility of new life to burst from you in the form of a seed. it is there, this seed, hopeful and waiting in the nest of your blood, waiting for a male seed to join it and beget life. when it dies, you wash in the river of this dark power, and again the cycle is renewed."

she wrapped a blood-stained hand around my wrist. "your death triggers life. the dead before you have given you life." she raised a brow at me. "i wonder, my sister, how you will go about making your amends to the dead?"

to pt ii

rainbow dreams

this week's rainbow dreams is brought to you by the Inner Child Tarot, winkies, and divine madness.


being clothed only in one's own skin never mattered if you were on the grounds of the Menstrual Temple. if anything, there were some rites you could not experience unless you were wearing the full and gloriously free beauty of your own skin.

the magical thing about the Funky Grail was that there was no room in it for modesty, or self-consciousness, or even that hateful, wriggling little worm of self-loathing as it criticized every wrinkle and stretch mark, every saggy spot and jiggling lump and scar. something about the Temple would bear no ill thought against the Self. and admittedly, after eating candy calaveras and talking to clouds, drinking rainbows and holding the laughter of the earth in the crude matter of my body, it was impossible to even remember what those things were i hated about this glorious vehicle i'd chosen this time around.

the grass was soft and cool beneath my feet, which had been softened by an Age i spent in the mud learning to leave myself only to find the most magical destination was...mySelf.

instead of continuing to search for the path through the wood which had led me to the valley, i decided to walk the length of it and see where it took me. the sun was warm on my skin and turning it a beautiful golden brown. i could hear birds singing and talking in the trees. when they weren't chattering about the weather, their eggs, or scrubbing around for grubs and beetles, they were squawking variations of, "hey! hey! HEY!" and somewhere in the deadfall was an absent-minded squirrel muttering as it forgot where it had placed a well-stocked cache of nuts.

"do you like the Valley?"

there she was, the pomegranate priestess. the sight of the blood red robes and red tattoos made the scar on my breastbone itch, the one where a half-moon sickle had laid my breast open to the sky. this particular priestess wore her hair loose to her waist with only one narrow braid behind her ear and tied with golden thread. it was adorned with seashells and glass beads, small semi-precious stones carved into shapes like leaves, stars, spirals, and even the sillhouette of the venus of willendorf. a similar piece of jewelry adorned her ankle, complete with bells so her every other step was music. her tattoos sparkled in the sunlight, as if there were glitter, or ground mica, in the ink.

blood red, with a touch of gold.

her palms and the bottoms of her feet were completely inked, and it traced up her feet and hands in what were now familiar patterns of dots and whorls. only these traced up her legs to disappear beneath her robes, and up her arms to her shoulders, and beyond. i could see narrow tendrils of the gold-glittering red ink at the nape of her neck, at the hollow of her throat. one tattoo fell across her brow and beside her right eye, almost like delicate vinework...only those curves were serrated, and at the tip of each was a teardrop-shaped rhinestone.

like drops of blood glistening at the tips of the cruel sickle of the vulture goddess.

never had i seen such intricate tattooing on a pomegranate priestess before. never had i trembled so in the presence of one of them, though well aware of the mortal dance that was any interaction with them. the presence of a pomegranate priestess was blesséd danger. holy risk.

divine madness.

but for all that, where before i would have bowed with respect before speaking, instead i planted my feet firmly and stood tall. "the valley, Lady?" i asked.

she smiled, and i saw approval in those honey-brown eyes. "Valley-in-the-Glade," she replied. "few know to search for it. fewer still find it. none stumble across it unknowingly. the Valley calls whom it calls."

"then i am a denizen?" my palms were sweating the longer i stood in her presence, and it made my grip on the vial of springwater unsure. i kept twirling it in my hand, working it like a worry stone.

"all are denizens of the Valley," was the reply. "it's a simple matter of acceptance."

"and what is it i have acc--"

"your wounds are healed, then? you choose to use your gifts rather than be nourishment for those who would not waste their talents?" those brown eyes glittered like the rhinestones on her face. it was a challenge, i knew, and a threat if i gave the wrong answer.

She giveth, and She taketh away.

i let my own eyes glitter. "i am of Those Who Bleed But Do Not Die. i bleed to nourish others, i leave a river of blood as a path to guide others into wisdom. i bleed to remember what it is to be human, to always relate to All That Is. if others wish to devour me for their own ends..." i gave her my best feral smile, "let them come take me."

she raised a brow at me, but there was approval in how she held her head, in the set of her shoulders. "you once allowed all others before you. you sacrificed your Self, your Selflove, and even began to do their work for them. you said it was your place, that you did it out of love. what such Love is so twisted you would throw yourself away and deny yourself happiness? what sort of god allows such precious children to create such misery in their souls in the hope of a later joy? it seems to me a lifetime of sorrow does little to equip a soul to handle the undiluted Joyful Funk that is Oneness with Her."

i laughed at her challenge. "such a soul wouldn't begin to know how. such a soul would shy away from it. only a soul who knows she has a right to such happiness would even be willing to reach out and take hold of it. but such a one must first Know their importance and sacredness as a shining being."

she laughed at me. "and you think you are such a one?"

in one swift move, i snatched her sickle from the loop on her woven belt and cut a length of her robe. her eyes never so much as flickered as i did this, nor did her unreadable expression grow any clearer as i wound that length of blood red, billowing fabric around my head and let the rest of it trail down my back. i handed her back the sickle.

"i know i am," i said.

and then my breath caught in my throat as she bowed to me, palms pressed together, fingertips resting just beneath her chin. "welcome, sister," she purred. then she straightened, took my head in her hands and kissed my forehead, my eyelids, and my lips.

"the journey is now truly begun," she said. "most do not come this far...

...most do not survive it."

pomegranate prose

on the vast grounds that lie within the borders of the Menstrual Temple of the Funky Grail there winds a crystalline river of such vivid shades of lapis and teal, and the deepest royal blue ever conceived by Nature. the water tastes of happiness and hope, with a freshness that bubbles on your tongue, the water so aerated it invariably evaporates inside your mouth until you don't know if you're breathing water or drinking in sweet, pure, mineral air.

the sweetest mountain stream is bracken compared to the River Funk.

clear across the grounds from the zen gardens, there lies a grove of pomegranate trees that grows on either side of the river, with a wonderful bridge of braided pomegranate branches gilded in sparkling laughter joining the two banks. and these are the sweetest, plumpest and most ruddy red fruits of persephone ever to grow in the history of the multiverse.

many things had happened lately, and i found nothing was more healing or peaceful than lying beneath those pomegranate trees, the soft grass like a felt blanket beneath me. the leaves whispered holy stories and sacred puns in the breeze, and secret wishes of the Jiggy Snake grew inside each lovely pomegranate, clothed in the sacred, sweet red flesh of the tiny seeds.

a small pile of waxy red rinds lay scattered beside me, and i lounged in the dappled shade and dangled my fingers in the river. the ground was soft as a feather bed, and the sun caressed my face with a gentle mastery of tantric mystery. a small sigh escaped my lips.

there were footsteps then, a hushed rustling of bare feet on the green carpet of cool grass. i opened my eyes and saw the pomegranate priestess staring down at me, the red whorls and dots tracing like faery dust up her arms. this particular priestess wore a gold nose ring in her left nostril and bells in her braided hair, and the pendant dangling in the middle of her forehead flashed a brilliant, clear and all-knowing red.

she held out her hand, and only then did i notice she held a small piece of raw paper rolled up like a scroll and tied off with gold and red ribbons. her lips were full and glistened with the stain of pomegranate juice like the darkest lip gloss. she smiled at me, a gentle smile full of pity. the darkness in her eyes filled me with dread, but i knew i had to read the letter.

--dearest and most adventurous delena of the funkywild--

a misguided swan became infatuated with a pedal boat at a pond in hamburg, germany. apparently mistaking it for his soul mate, the devoted bird guarded the boat jealously and rarely left its side. the human owner of the boat found it amusing at first, but later regarded it as a nuisance, since the enamoured swan chased away all potential renters of the vehicle.

before i could even react in my confusion to the ambiguous and out-in-left-field nature to the letter which was entirely typical of things in the Menstrual Temple, the priestess pointed a finger at me. the motion was so quick, it caused the bells to chime softly in her hair.

"make this poignant creature your anti-role model," said the priestess. for only a moment, her hair came loose of its braids and exploded in a riotous, fiery red down to her feet. her tone reminded me of those days when i was young and was constantly running into the street without looking both ways, and my bio-mother would catch me and give me her no-nonsense voice.

but then she smiled. "may he inspire you to free yourself of all delusions you have entertained over the years about the kind of intimate ally you need in order to be happy."

the breeze picked up and ruffled her hair, and a vulture feather flew out of her tresses where it had apparently been caught. a chill raised gooseflesh on my arms, even in the heat like warm butter on my bare limbs.

"you're talking about my bio-dad," i said.

she raised an eyebrow, and just for a moment it seemed her face elongated to accomodate a great, wickedly curved vulture beak. sometimes knowing the sisterhood of the pomegranate priestesses never spoke except as the goddesses wasn't as comforting as it seemed.

"is that your delusion?" she murmured. "your biological father as intimate ally?"

i winced at the barely veiled allusion of incest. "ew, no." i took my hand out of the river and dried my fingers on my shirt, sat up and tucked my legs beneath me. "it's just..." i sighed. "the idea of peace with him, like a holy grail, only i watch it tear me apart and i can't stop crusading for it."

the grace and poise of the priestesses are legendary. in one smooth motion she sank back on her heels and stroked the grass with her fingertips. would that i had an ounce of such self-possession...

i could feel the heat rising to my face, sitting there beneath that gaze that was priestess and vulture goddess and bandit, revolutionary prankster goddess all at once. unable to look her in the eyes, i lowered my eyes to the fists my hands were making of themselves in my lap and i shrugged. "inside, deep inside, i wonder that one day people will look at me and see my Funk as a fraud, and they'll see i'm still that little girl on that porch. and maybe, just maybe, if i can make peace with him, if i can build a friendship where things are good, it will cancel out that part like it never happened and it won't matter.

"it's not that my Funk is fake," i said. my throat was clenching up so hard it felt bruised. "i guess we just want resolution, me and that little girl. and how better to get it than from the man who created the rift?" i shook my head as if dismissing the entire, idiotic thing. "it's my issue, and i know it. i'm once more looking outside myself for something i need inside, but you can't blame a girl for wanting to again be the precious little girl her daddy loved. i don't want to wonder, for the rest of my life, whether he loved or hated me."

the small sickle was once more in the priestess' hand. with practiced efficiency, she raised an arm suddenly entirely blue, and swiped the sickle across my chest. the blade bit deep into my breast bone, nicked my heart.

the impact flung me backwards, and i landed with a bracing splash in the River Funk. shocking cold blinded me and my limbs tingled with sudden numbness. whether it was the shock of physical or emotional trauma, i didn't know. my arms refused to obey my desperate attempts to break for the surface. my lungs burned, and i opened my mouth and breathed in great mouthfuls of water...which turned instantly into fresh, cool air.

slowly, so slowly, my head broke through to the surface, and i floated on my back. from the corner of my eye i could see the red stream of my blood widening in the current.

"you have studied," the priestess called to me from the bank of the river. "you know what happens to a body slowly dying of blood loss. you can bleed as you wish, or you can close the wound. you are of Those Who Bleed But Do Not Die. do not waste your power needlessly, or it will be devoured for those who would use it."

she leapt into the air then, and the sun flashed in the sky. suddenly, where before there had been a beautiful woman dark of hair and red of skin, there was a vulture with red talons and red-tipped wings flying over the pomegranate groves.

stunned, injured, i floated helplessly down the river.

rainbow dreams

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?"