The crush of work has eased up some, but still quite heavy. Most of my personal projects are completed. Can sleep easy now, but I’m still too tired to remember most of the dreams. Lemme close my eyes for a bit while the sun is shaded by this tree. Wait. I’m outside? I open my …

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“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” “The older a person gets, the more set they are in their ways.” “A leopard can’t change its spots.” “You can’t change the fundamental parts of yourself, the harder you try, the more you stay the same.” “It’s just a phase you’re going through, just ride it out …

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I’m confused something fierce. You see, my magic (life?) path had changed recently. I won’t be going ceremonial for some time. There are other things that have to be attended to first. The ecstatic path pulls me more and more away from plays at, and bastardizations of, western grimoric magic into the liminal states of …

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Evening chores seem to multiply around here. Since the roommates are off doing whatever they are doing away from the house, I’m watering their plants that they were so keen on getting. That they insisted on plants not suited for this climate is a different rant. One of the flowering plants was originally in a …

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So I have some imagery rattling around this skull of mine, and I’ve got to write it down and capture it before I start mumbling as I do my day job. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve been so tired lately, I’ve stopped dreaming. I know most folk don’t care if they dream or not, …

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I’ve skirted around the issue on Twitter and here on my blog many times. Have placed so much between the lines, there are acres between the furrows. On a few occasions, I’ve actually come right out and said things plainly, but apparently, not plainly enough. For my regular readers, I apologize for stating the blatantly …

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So, you folks have been reading my blatherings long enough to see that my norm is at least 2,500 words. Anything less is some pithy snark or a blatant plea for interaction. (Like this one.)

Now that I’ve been picked up by an anthology (Practical Pagans, check them out), I’m harassing even more people than I thought I would. (Also. Hello!)

I know I fussed before about full feeds versus summaries, and at the time, I was in favor of full feeds because my offline RSS reader only saved the summaries. Since, then, I spent a precious $2.99 and picked up the full version of Byline for my iTouch. I parted with my money because the full version will load the entire post on sync if it detects the RSS feed only has summaries (if it doesn’t autodetect, you can manually set it).

Then I really started looking at the RSS clients you folks use when accessing my blog, and saw most of those will do the same. So, there went my one gripe about full feeds versus post excerpts.

My question to you brave and bored folks that are still reading this far: Do I continue posting the entire 2,500 word entries entirely in the feed, or just the 50-100 word excerpts?

You don’t have to comment on this post. (If you’re reading the anthology, you might not be able to. Click on the post title in the anthology to come to my blog.) I’m also harassable by Twitter:@BandedNagini, Facebook (Kerian.Nox), and Google+ (Kerian Nox).

I’ll be participating in NaNoWriMo this year. ~rubs hands in malicious glee~ Just to warn you.

So hard, falling asleep. Perhaps it is from the past several weeks of too damn early mornings, and too damn late evenings. Even my nonsense dream count has faded. So trying to fall asleep, maybe I’m trying too hard. Because of the tensions in my house, I don’t feel safe. So I’m always on guard. Always keeping an ear out for sounds of trouble. As such, the normally very comfortable bed feels more to me like a pallet of concrete. The soft sheets feeling more like steel wool.

If only I had someone that would be alert for me. Someone at hand that I could give my trust to. Someone to watch over me.

Bah. It’s useless. I might as well get up and do something else for a while. I stretch and shift position, only for my bed to shift position under me. I open my eyes in surprise and look at the canopy above me. Seven graceful arcs bend at my movement, curving downward in swoops and arcs. At the end of each arc is a hooded snake head. Each snake head is identical to the head of my snake companion. As seven sets of eyes watch me, and seven tongues flick about me, I trace the heads and bodies back. Just above my head, I see the seven separate bodies merge into one large snake. I realize then, I’m laying on the snake’s body.

The impossibility of what I’m seeing confuses me. As I furrow my brow, one of the snake heads move close enough to touch. It flicks its tongue at me, teasing my nose.

“Eh, so now you have another trick up your sleeve, eh? Seven hooded heads, really? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you can be any snake, physical or mythological. Hello, my friend. Thank you for watching over me.” The snake again flicks at my nose, then brings all seven heads upright. I note the spread hoods of each individual head combine with its neighbor, creating a scaled scallop that is beautiful to look at.

I know I am dreaming, that I am sleeping, but I do not feel rested. The snake shifts under me slightly, shifting my body’s pose into one more comfortable. Six heads look in six different directions. The seventh looks at me briefly, as if chiding me to relax, then move to watch in a seventh direction. A deep desire for rest overtakes me. Smiling slightly, I relax fully into the coils of the watchful snake, and fall into a deeper sleep.

Just before the dream deepened, I heard a disembodied voice ask the snake, “Has the dreamer awoken?”. But I was too far gone to answer.

I felt a shift in awareness. I tried to open my eyes, but I had no eyes to open. I tried to lift my hand, but I had no hand to move. I just was. I willed then, to see, and I saw. My vantage point was in the depths of space, but still within the heliosphere. I was so far from the sun, it appeared more like a large star, than the gravitational dominator of the planetary system. Despite the distance, I saw the sun and the planets with sharp clarity. I identified each planet with ease. As if in recognition, each planet glowed brightly in response.

In the most furthest of reaches, I felt the echoes of someone laying asleep in the coils of a seven-headed snake. A man’s voice, asked, “Has the dreamer awoken?”. But there was no response. And the dreamer smiled faintly in her sleep.

Within the heliosphere, the sun and the planets were now glowing with unbelievable light. Without the heliosphere, the stars, nebulae, and galaxies echoed, mirrored, and added to the gleam by glowing with the light of their own innate existence. As the light combined to overwhelm my vantage point, I heard a woman’s voice say, “Your initiation, it has already begun.”

As she spoke those words, the dreamer held in the snake’s embrace smiled strangely in her sleep. She shifted position so that she was laying on her left side, propped up somewhat on her left elbow. She laid her left hand over her heart, and raised her right hand as if in a gesture of blessing (or invocation). When the words faded, she allowed her right hand to rest on her hip, and moved her left hand so that her head was propped on it.

When the dreamer settled back down into deepest sleep, again the man asked, “Has the dreamer awoken?”. Again, there was no response from the dreamer or the snake that watched over her.

In the depths of space, darkness was banished by the light. But I knew, even as I watched, the light was actually the darkness. The two were the same. The acceptance of all things as they are was what changed the darkness into light. What appeared dark, only did so, because mortal man did not have the eyes to see what was there. I accepted this, and a mystery spoke in the depths of me. But it is a mystery I am unable to place into words. Again the woman spoke, “Your initiation, it has already begun.” I yielded to the unviewable light, and was removed from that place.

I woke up, in the seven headed snake’s embrace. All seven heads looked down on me with patience. As we observed each other, I knew I had been changed. My right eye and my right hand were marked. Or rather, the mark that had always been there, was now visible. I wanted to remain here a little longer, but in the distance, I heard the sounds of alarm. An invasion had begun. A call to all able to hear the klaxon. A call to arms.

I leap from the snake, fully awake. Before my feet have touched the marble tile floor, I have called to myself my “magic clothes”. Another step forward, I reach out with my right hand and call the cane to hand. Yet another step forward, I reach out with my left hand and call the longbow into my grip.

But I hear a disembodied voice say, “Has the dreamer awoken?”. I turn to look back at the snake, and see I am still sleeping in the snake’s embrace. I am still on my left side, still propped up on the left hand. And still the strangest of smiles on my face. I note the “dreamer” has not woken yet, but the klaxons are still sounding. I turn away from the snake and run into the enveloping light.

I continue running. Marble floor gives way to hard dirt. The light lifts off me and I find myself in a great plain. It is morning, and the sun shines brightly in the cloudless sky. I know behind me is a sacred place, a holy place, and is where the call to arms originated from. Far in the distance, far to the south, I see advancing hordes of people and beasts. This is why the call was given. Marauders cry intimidations and promises of plunder.

There is nothing between them and the sacred place behind me. Nothing, except me. I call on the runes, chanting and invoking them. A thick field of grass like plants erupt in the space between me and the marauders. They appear to be blades of stiff grass, but they will slice at any foolish to charge through it like blades of surgical scalpels.

I plant the cane into the ground beside me, and raise my bow. By my will, something like an arrow appears docked in the bow, ready for me to pull and aim. I aim, and wait. Gauging the enemy’s advancement, I release the first arrow to time with the enemy arriving too many paces into my field of fire.

As the first foe falls, I hear a cheer off to my side. Another has answered the call to arms, and is slinging projectiles of his own. We smile at each other and resume our assault on the common enemy. Soon, the field is filled with other protectors. None of us spoke the same language, or even used the same type of weapons. Some were long range assault, and some had waded into the elkgrass to take up infantry positions. A few, I noted, were not attacking at all, but were providing support to those that were. We all were united in the defense of the sacred space, and were working united from a deep, unspeakable instinct. There were no gloryhounds, no great heroes to lead and inspire us. Individually, we didn’t matter much to the field of war. But collectively, we were destroying the enemy.

The enemy changed tactics as the land assault was failing under our collective defense. Many of the land attackers began to retreat as airborne weaponry was engaged. I watched as something like a cannon was pointed in my general direction. I knew I was being targeted, but I did not run. My place was to attack, and as long as I was able to use my longbow, I intended to continue firing arrows. To reach me, meant being in range of my longbow. I was able to cripple the cannon, but not before it launched a volley against me.

I knew running would be useless at this point. There was magic at play here. The volley would come to me. So I sought to take out as many of the enemy as I could. Just before the volley reached me, a large man carrying a shield wider than he was tall ran up to me. I pulled down my bow as he stood over me and shielded us both. The volley bounced against his shield, rattling noisily as it broke into pieces and crumbled onto the ground around us.

My ears are ringing from the sound, but I am unharmed. He lowers the shield as I stand to face him. He looks me over, seeing I am unhurt, and smiles broadly. I return the smile and nod in thanks. He bows slightly in return. He looks about, sees another volley launched against another defender, and rushes off to shield him. No words were spoken between us, but no words were needed. We each have our part.

After some times had passed, we defenders were victorious. The marauders suffered critical losses in their attempt to sack the sacred place. For every 1000 men that had entered the field of battle, maybe 2 or 3 struggled to flee. As they retreated into the distance, I and my fellow defenders cheered in a multitude of languages. One by one, the defenders left the field. Many of them that had set up defensive positions or magic left the defenses in place. I pluck my cane from the ground, allowing it and the bow to return to my innermost parts. I turn to leave, but leave the elkgrass and the runic magics I had used behind. As long as the sacred place was whole, the elkgrass would remain green and the runic magics would remain strong.

As I begin to step away from the sunny plain, I hear a man’s voice say again, “Has the dreamer awoken?”. But this time, instead of a disembodied voice, floating on the barest of breezes, the voice comes from a distinct direction. From within the sacred place. That the speaker is present causes me to pause. “Come, Kerian. Come here, girl.” I feel the words more than I hear them, and I follow them. To the interior of the sacred place, I go, where I am surrounded by shifting mists that close behind me.

Here, in the middle of the sacred place, is a priest of a different pantheon. Those that he serve are those I have been warned away from. I am to be wary of Them, because of my personal makeup, I would easily be lost in Their embrace. I am warned not to approach Them on my own, but to wait for Them to call me forward instead. The priest holds his hands out to me, and bids me to take them. But I hesitate. “Come girl, They have things for you.”

I do not move to take his hands. “I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t. I am beholden to Loki, I can not take what you offer. I can only watch from afar.” I do regret not being able to step forward, but I do not want to risk being in the position of having to choose who to serve, and who to anger. Suddenly, I feel hot hands resting on my shoulders. I look behind me, to see who is holding me. Loki himself stands there, his grip on my shoulders unrelenting.

“Did you think I would hold you captive, like a prize bird in a lovely cage? You travel more than I do, why begrudge you this as well?” He looks at me with the greenest eyes I ever did see, and smiles a sly and toothy grin. “Go wander about, girl. Go where you need to go, learn what you need to learn, and do what you need to do.” He touches my cheek, gently. “That you remember my mastery of you is touching.” He grips my jaw with a unnaturally hot grip. I do not flinch from the action, nor pull away. “But remember, girl, in your travels, you belong to me.”

Loki laughs, spins me around to face the priest, and pushes me roughly forward. I do not have to turn around to know he has left me alone with the priest. “So, girl, do you see me?” I look at the man, there is a cloud of smoke surrounding him.

“No, I don’t see you.” I try to peer through the cloud.

“Ah, no mind. You will soon enough.” The priest has a handdrum in his left hand. With his right, he begins drumming a strange and complex beat. The sound catches me and the rhythm ensnares me. My will is made subservient to the drum and I start dancing in place. Just as I thought I could handle no more, the priest places a djembe and a pair of congas in front of me. Unbidden, I switch from dancing to drumming, and am caught up even further into the maddening rhythm.

As I play, I hear music and sounds from many different cultures from all over the world, and from many different times. I hear didgeridoos and kotos playing the same melody. Field made panpipes and electric guitars playing call and answer. I am overwhelmed in the scent of flowers and fruits, of volcanic dirt and swampy marshes. I stop trying to fight against the rhythms I am playing and surrender to the ecstatic drumming. I do not know when I stop. Or when the drums are removed from me.

I know I am suddenly on my knees, head bowed slightly as the woman’s voice intones for the last time, “Your initiation, it has already begun.”. My left hand is over my heart. My right hand is raised, palm forward, beside my head as if in blessing (or invocation). And I am smiling such a strange, petite smile.

The woman’s voice fades, and I open my eyes to see the priest standing in front of me. I realize my knowledge of the pantheon he represents is sorely lacking. As I see him in a stereotypical, and most likely offensive, portrayal of his office. It pains me to see it. “So, girl, do you see me?” The paint on his face moves with his skin, giving the appearance he is tattooed.

“Yes, Priest. I see you.”

“Are you still fearful of me?” He tilts his head teasingly.

“No, I’m not afraid of you. But I respect you, and Those on you.” He laughs and bows. I smile at the gesture. He steps close to me, and suddenly blows a bitter and acrid powder in my face. My senses are overwhelmed and I feel myself spiraling upward with great speed.

~~~

I wake up in my bed, feeling like I’ve just stepped off a roller-coaster. I feel the marks as if they were newly imprinted on my flesh even though nothing new shows in my reflection. For some time after I woke up, my left eye felt clouded and twitched annoyingly. My right eye was clear. My left hand tingled and itched. My right hand was strong.

Make of that, what you may.

For the past twenty odd years, since I left the security of high school and ventured out into the maddening world, I have dreamed the same dream at least once a month. But I never recognized the dream. Because each time I dreamt it, the setting and roles I played would change, making it appear as something new with every iteration.

Even once I started keeping a dream diary, first in paper form, and now in digital, I still did not see I was dreaming the same thing over and over again. I was caught up in the settings and the drama of the roles. The soap operas were so cheesy, they should have been government rationed in large blocks.

There was the dream where I was part of the first true Homo Sapiens tribe, and we were having to defend ourselves from our non-evolved cousins as they sought to destroy the “Cursed Tribe”. Then there were the Conquistadors making their way inland, and the gods had tapped me to find a way to preserve the knowledge from the devouring missionaries. The fantasy medieval version had me either the long-lost daughter of the king, living out her life as a mere peasant, or as the offering a rash and quick-spoken king had to make to a dragon in exchange for the dragon’s assistance in war. Not even the empty space between stars were safe from my meanderings, as an alien species somehow managed to have to deal with a pernicious human in their midst.

And still, they were all the same dream, as they all had the same key events happen.

• Because of events before my “birth” in the dream, I am considered an outsider, even by blood-kin. The king’s concubine gave birth before the queen did. I was conceived as a result of rape.
• I am given a “low-born” life. The king’s daughter is forced into hiding. The tribute to the alien conquerors is made a slave.
• I rise through the social ranks of the adoptive peoples, and are soon considered “one of them”. The Emperor adopts me as his daughter. The warrior (and/or priest) caste takes me in as Little Sister.
• Among the adoptive people’s general population, I am just another of their kind, despite any racial or species differences. Where I lag behind, measures are taken to place me on equal footing. The aliens construct an exoskeleton to increase my strength. The gargoyles give me a talisman that enables me to fly.
• Among the adoptive people’s elite, I am taken in and given special education in some esoteric knowledge. This is not revealed to the adoptive people’s general population until some point of no return is passed. The priest caste teaches me the mysteries. The aliens teach me psionic abilities.
• Something attacks the adoptive people, usually internal betrayal. But they didn’t count on the rotten human kid always underfoot. The one that learned the hidden knowledge far better than was expected. The one that stands in the gap, ready to defend her adoptive people, even to the death. “I’m sorry, today is the day I get to kick your ass. I take that back, I’m not sorry. I will enjoy watching you fail.”
• I die. The attack is successfully repelled, but I pay a very high price. Sometimes, I’m joined by other defenders as the charge begins. But usually, I’m alone. I have the choice of fleeing, trying to warn others, but leaving the newly discovered weak point undefended. Or standing firm, knowing I’m about to die, but giving my benefactor time to escape or to call more arms to his side. In every iteration of this dream, I choose death. After all, when I lived among “my people”, I was always thrown to the side or underfoot. I have lived a good life with my adoptive people, and the best way I can show this, is to fight for them, even to the death. The death could be as simple as a gunshot to the head, or as traumatic as burning to death in a rain of napalm, or as gory as being ripped to pieces while alive by the war wolves.
• I’m revived. By sorcery, technology, or plain ole CPR, I’m revived. Usually by the first defenders to reach me. The betrayers, aren’t always so lucky. Sometimes they survive, sometimes not. But somehow, I am brought back from death. I gasp (or gurgle) for air, I make some furtive movement, then pass out again. But, hey, I’m alive! Which leads to the next problem.
• I’m hideously wounded. In every iteration, no matter what the setting, nor the technology (or magic) used. I suffer the same minimum wounds. I lose at least the fingers of my right hand, including thumb. And what remains of the metacarpals is fractured and useless. Usually, the entire right hand is lost. And I lose my right eyeball in its entirety. Those two parts of my body, my right eye and my right hand no longer exist. Depending on the Great Battle, I may have other wounds and scars from fire, plasma discharge, various magical beasts nibbling on my flesh, and plain bacterial infection. But no amount of sorcery, technology, or fairy dust is able to restore my right hand or my right eye.
• Except for the right eye and right hand, I make a full recovery. Usually, because I’m beyond pissed at the loss, and I decide to will (Will?) my way to full health. This often surprises my adoptive people. Except for a choice few that knew “she would recover, she’s too stubborn to remain bed-ridden. That, or the physician will kill her because she’s that annoying.”.
• I’m physically marked by the experience. Usually, it is a series of full body tattoos that, when combined with the scars, give me an other-worldly look. I’m marked as different, as set apart, as chosen by fate (Fate?). Instead of hiding the marks, I let them be viewable by all. At the very least, it is a set of tattoos from right wrist, up arm, over shoulder, up neck, and encompassing the right side of my head. One shoulder tops are back in fashion again!
• I receive a new eye and a new hand. The adoptive people are so impressed with my will to live, they decide to restore the function of the missing pieces with prostheses. A new eye and a new hand is created with sorcery, technology, or a combination of the two. Often, I don’t get a choice in accepting them. Or if I do have a choice, they are presented as a “mere replacement in function” of what I lost. But, of course, it’s never that simple, because…
• The new eye and the new hand bestows on me abilities a normal human should not have. Infrared vision. Crushing hand strength. Soul-sight. Fire-manipulation. Often times, the new abilities are also beyond the ken of the adoptive peoples as well. By this point in the dream, I’m no longer “just one of the guys”, I’m considered an agent of the gods, of Fate, of Chaos, or just a human BAMF. Somehow I manage to get my reputation back down to a manageable level. But then…
• I have to return to my “native people” and live among them for a while. So, when I left, it was under “leave or die” circumstances, and they probably held a party for chasing the “cursed one” away. And now, I’m back. With an eye that appears to be solid white, but can see in pitch black, and a hand that can crush a person’s face like a paper bag. For some reason, no one wants to believe me when I say I have no grudge against anyone “back home”, but it’s not enough because I’m soon forced to make a choice.
• Either I handicap myself to fit in and remain with my “home world”, or I accept that I no longer belong with my native peoples and leave never to return. If I handicap myself, (removing the eye, or allowing the hand to be crippled), at first I am an equal, but the old patterns emerge and again I am the cursed one. The misbegotten one. The borne of evil one. Except I can’t defend myself because I’m crippled. My new body parts are mocked and traded by my abusers as a trophy. Eventually, I die, often in trying to defend my old world, and even that is not marked. If I leave, my old world makes it clear I am never to return. I mourn a bit, then continue on with my adoptive peoples. Over time, it is forgotten that I’m not of the same species as them, and am considered equal to them forever.

This pattern has continued for about twenty years. And I never noticed, until a friend asked me about my dreams, and I said “Nothing new. Only that I lost an eye, again.” As he teased the dream out of me, I realized the dream truly was “nothing new”. I had ignored it because the settings and drama kept changing. But the same plot remained.

I have been inspecting myself, my dreams, and my esoterica. And I find, that yes, I have changed. Since sitting down and inspecting this recurring dream, I have not dreamt it anymore. Instead, I find my dream-self is exhibiting the marked eye and marked hand. It is now as much my “magical self” as is the coat, cane, and bow.

Yes, there is more. No, I’m not telling.

Make of that, what you may.

So. Boo. I’m still here, much to the chagrin of my enemies. Excuse me while I haughtily laugh at them. Ha. Ha.

I had been trying to keep a posting schedule of once a week, dream or not. Obviously that went by the way side. A client project took priority and the week was spent hiding away from the sun, overseeing data transfer. The project is not complete, but enough has been done in the initial drive that we now have more time to look over the details. Because you know, there is always something broken in the details.

But I must give credit (and link juice, however scant I can give) to Hostasaurus. Miva Merchant clients, take note. Them is good peoples. And now part of Miva Merchant, so that’s like home made vanilla ice cream with Grandma’s apple pie. Yum.

Very few dreams. Snatches here and there. None of them make sense, even the pieces that I feel are important.

My formal magic practice has also come to a screeching halt. I’ve found myself at a crucial point. I could barrel forward with the little stuff I have now, determined to make it work by hell or high water. Or I could stop and take a damn good look at what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it that way. There are a lot of little rabbit holes I could get lost in, trying to do this or that. I haven’t the monetary or physical resources to master all of them. Time to figure out what I’m good at, and specialize in it.

Over the past three weeks, I’ve realized that what I thought was a nice little tale, was actually prognostic. I didn’t see it as such then, because I was hung up on the ethnic makeup of the key characters. It is amusing to see who in my life is reflected in the dream of Beer and Bikers. But it is also telling to see who in my life is not.

A nice little tale to pass on. Eight years ago, I was in a bad way. I thought my life was of no worth and it would be better for the world at large (and for my daughter especially) if I jumped off the nearest freeway overpass. People intervened, some well, some not so well, and I lost almost everything. Including the few friends I had then. Two days ago, one of them found me again. And was able to tell me what I couldn’t hear then. That I was a person of worth, not for anything I had done or could do, but because I was his friend. We have eight years to catch up on. I hope he finds the person I have become to also be a person of worth. I might still be crying about this. Happy tears, though. Happy tears.

Why the weekly update? Because I’ve noted if I don’t post at least every seven days, spammers think the blog is abandoned and begin the automated attacks in earnest. A post a week, keeps them at bay.

I’m noticing folks signing up their blogs for this Networked Blogs thingie. I don’t get it. But then again, I don’t get most social internet activities. So, somebody sell me on it. What does it do for you, and is it worth the assimilation? (Someone said it provides a central point for you to read blogs without having to go to each blog to see if it updated. Are RSS clients that damn old already, that people don’t know what they do anymore?)

So, in summary, blah blah blah, bullshit, blah blah, fuck that, blah.

Make of that, what you may.