Friday, November 8, 2019

Trip Tick (content warning: body fluids, sexual content, 'coarse language', possible sarcasm...what the fuck, we're all adults, right? make your choices.)

full moon blood ritual by the river...

nighttime.  the house asleep.  heart thumping, the sealed jar taken down and out beneath the swollen spring moon.  to the river, swiftly, through the forest.  down the rocks and across the sand, to the water's edge.  so beautiful...but there's little time.  draw, with the big stick, a circle in the sand.  mark the directions, and say hello.  open the jar, hold it up, think about what's in it, how old it is, where it came from.  why.  place it on its side in the river.  let its blood run out.  set it free.  is this what it was meant for?  didn't it seem like it had more of a story to tell?  why?  what has been set loose?  where did it go?  too long, too long..!  rinse it out and seal it up; time to go.  thank those who watch over, in the opposite direction.  grateful for the big stick, up over the rocks, across the grassy strip, into the trees.  heart back to thumping because it's bear season, but the sounds of footsteps and a big stick meaning to be respectfully heard should be enough, and the scent they would be after is back in the river, now, anyway.  the house lights comfortably close, steps slow, breathing expands out.  now what?

equinox sap, rutting season.

the drums bring her back.

where the hell..?  where am I now?

she wonders.

oh yeah, the River.  awesome!  I love these people!

her head bobs deeply with the beat as she smiles, digs the rhythm.  duende.  she changes her direction and does a little spin, changes it up, and one of the drums comes with her.  she lets him go because she needs to steady herself after such a bold move, and find the swing again.

I was lost just a minute ago, need to balance!

so she catches the net the drum throws out, and hangs in.

right.  it's time.

moving gently in waves towards the altar, she takes a deep breath and begins to gather in the energy of the drummers and the dancers, pulling it into her.  she throws another spin in, but wilder, and more focused.  feet stamping.  arms stretching, reaching, encompassing...she throws her head back and bends her knees, then lifts the bowl, slowly, carefully, overhead.  gazing up at it, and out into the heavens.  she pours a smooth stream of blood over the rocks of the altar where it pools around the bases of dozens of candles, offering plates, flowers and herbs, crystals, fruits bones grains mixed with honey and wine seeping into the stones  dripping into the earth  where they danced
                                                                                                                                   where they danced

hear us.  amen.

the drums were signaling, so she came back again.  swaying with the bowl in her hands, dripping its last onto the flowers before her feet, she bowed to the altar and replaced the bowl.  dancing back, she turned to face the drummers, and they all met her eyes.  yes.  they beat the ritual out.  a collective whoop from all those dancing set a seal on the night's work, and some fell to the ground, some shook out last ya-yas, and a few were left spinning...spinning...and laughing.  there were sighs, and lots of breathing.  then came the hugs.  everyone embraced in what became an all-group mosh, with many sighs, deep with feeling and the closeness of days of journeying.  the drummers joined in and all hands reached to massage arms

of those who were hungry, they went to food.
of those who were thirsty, they went to drink.
of those who were tired, they went to sleep.
of those who were aroused, they made love.

many made love.  many made it with others.

many did it roughly, like animals - out in the open, biting clawing growling, with teeth blood and bruises.  like a good fight, fierce and tight.  a coupling.  a mating ritual.  death.

three did it hidden in a grove like fairies, all soft and fluttery, breath letting out in peals and tiny gasps, exquisite.  a wonder, a discovery.  life.

one did it alone.  and with everyone, everywhere.  rebirth.
(and they had pie)

his father's tools in his hands conquer the world.

this tragic hero, this...John of Arc.  John of Philly, California.  John of My Heart.

this motherfucker.

this work of art.

what can be said would be right?  shine on you crazy diamond?  I don't even know how that hurts.  I can't walk the walk, and I can't talk the talk, but I do my best, so fuck off.

sing for your supper.

in this world...

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