Beginnings...

I feel stuck. I feel my "No" to making anything, I feel my "No" and "Fuck You" to life. I've drawn two tarot cards to see if they take me anywhere. I got "Consciousness" and "Father of Swords." I don't know that I'm terribly inspired. The space of consciousness makes sense to me right now because I feel such an emptiness. I trace that back to waiting. Waiting for the other to return and how that outward focus takes me out of feeling myself. It leaves me peering out the window, my small and tender child-body tense and on guard. It takes me out of any kind of flow. Because, in that tension, I am disconnected from myself. The fear in that place is huge, because I am untethered from truth and I am living for someone else's reality. I know better how to come back now, but it is still work. Breath. Softening. A turning toward. A return to imagination and a remembrance that just a little bit counts and can open up a whole world...

As the white tiger ran through fields of jasmine, she didn't notice the shard of glass stuck in her bloody paw.

He had forgotten his subway token on the dresser yet again, and Daphne behind the window, with her yellow hair, waved him through, sighing.

The ivy covered everything, just like her mother's love.

Her job was to place a grain of sand into the oysters, so that the pearls would form. She knew the seals gathering into a circle around her would be of help.

Charles stood still, watching the newly closed door to his parents bedroom, unsure how to proceed – the way he had frozen when encountering the mother fox feeding her cubs out back.

He was the father of swords, the bringer of death and life and truth. His blade pierced the heart, cut the cord, and demanded words of honor out of hot breath.