Month: November 2023

Iggy knew there was something wrong. The connection he shared with Gretchen and by extension Frank, was like having a whole new sensory organ. It all depended on what he chose to focus on. If he thought about his legs, one heel dug into the floorboard, the other keeping time to the Talking Heads, then he very much felt like an anchor. There was a part of Gretchen reaching back and because he thought of it that way, he could see a shimmering hand clasped over his own – when he looked out the windshield he caught glimpses of what Gretchen saw.

Then he was gagging. Unable to breathe. Filled with a terrible rage that was also shame. He threw up in his mouth a little and spat out the window. For some reason he thought this was very funny. He started laughing. He laughed harder. He began to worry he wouldn’t stop.

And then he did. He heard Gretchen whisper in his ear that it was alright. And it was.

He felt serene. Otherworldly.

And then he started to scream.


Gretchen had never felt more powerful. She had done it. More than that, the hag took her. She was in some respects completely in control and in a very real sense utterly helpless. The choice of the crow was not hers. The milk carton was. She felt the wound close then he went dark to her, to that place only men go. She knew he would come back.

She did not expect to find herself in a hut opening a door to him and shouting.

And then the vase. She knew what it was. She knew what it meant. She was powerless to refuse it. The hag had been waiting so long. Gretchen shared her exultation. After all these millenia.

When Frank recognized her, she revealed herself without thinking, joyous with revelation and triumph, both hers and his.

His mind came apart. It was too much. A psyche can only take so much.

She fucked up. The hag cared not. She shoved the hag. Hard. With everything she had and clung to him. The hag smiled. Gretchen did not know if that was a good thing or not.

She had spoken the words of binding and she thought this gave her a chance. She was also at the height of her power and she was determined to bring him back whole. She needed help. He would provide it.

Gretchen dove into his mind giving intuition its reign. Perfect.

The good doctor is exactly what he needed. She sent him to class.


He saw Gretchen. How? How could she. The crow. Was it? NO. IT WASN”T. NEVER THERE> NEVERYH TGHEIHREHNENR

And then he was in the hallway. He wasn’t late yet. He scooted in and found a seat. He liked this professor. He was one of his favorites.

Prof Jung:

That is the hero again. The snake always means resurrection on account of shedding its skin.

According to an African myth, there was no death on earth originally; death came in by mistake.

People could shed their skins every year and so they were always new, rejuvenated, until once an old woman, in a distracted condition and feeble-minded, put on her old skin again and then she died.

That is the way death came into the world.

It is again the idea that human beings were like snakes originally: they did not die.

It was a snake that brought the idea of death to Adam and Eve in Paradise.

The snake was always associated with death, but death out of which new life was born.

But what is that definite symbol? A great deal has been said about it lately.

Miss von Franz: The Ouroboros.

Prof Jung: Exactly. The tail eater, or the two animals that devour each other. In alchemy that is represented in the form of the winged dragon and the wingless dragon that devour each other, one catching the tail of the other and forming a ring.

The simplest form is of course the dragon or the serpent that bites its own tail, so making the ring; the tail is the serpent and the head is as if it belonged to another animal.

The same idea has also been expressed by two animals, the dog and the wolf, devouring each other, or the winged and the wingless lion, or a male and a female lion, always forming a ring, so that one cannot see which is eating which.

They are eating each other; both destroy and both are destroyed.

And that expresses the idea that once the hero eats the serpent and once the serpent eats the hero.

You see, in these Gnostic rituals, or the ritual of Sabazios, man is superior to the serpent in a way-he makes use of the serpent.

That the golden snake descends through the body of the initiate means that the initiate asserts himself against the divine element of the snake: he is then a sort of dragon that eats or overcomes the other dragon.

So it is one and the same symbolism whether expressed in this form or that.

In primitive myths it is usually the dragon that devours everything.

Even the hero, who by sheer luck and at the last moment succeeds in destroying the monster that has eaten him, cannot overcome the monster by a frontal attack, but he is able to defend his life and destroy the monster from within by the peculiar means of making a fire in its belly.

Fire is the artificial light against nature, as consciousness is the light which man has made against nature.

Nature herself is unconscious and the original man is unconscious; his great achievement against nature is that he becomes conscious.

And that light of consciousness against the unconsciousness of nature is expressed, for instance, by fire.

Against the powers of darkness, the dangers of the night, man can make a fire which enables him to see and to protect himself. Fire is an extraordinary fact really.

I often felt that when we were travelling in the wilds of Africa.

The pitch dark tropical night comes on quite suddenly: it just drops down on the earth, and everything becomes quite black.

And then we made a fire.

That is an amazing thing, the most impressive demonstration of man’s victory over nature; it was the means of the primitive hero against the power of devouring beasts, his attack against the great unconsciousness, when the light of consciousness disappeared again into the original darkness.

Now, in the alchemistic symbol of the two animals that devour each other, that peculiar functional relationship of man’s conscious to the natural darkness is depicted, and it is an astonishing fact that such a symbol developed in a time when the idea of the manifest religion was that the light had definitely overcome the darkness, that evil-or the devil-had been overcome by the redeemer.

In just that time, this symbol developed, where darkness and light were on the same level practically; they were even represented as functioning together in a sort of natural rhythm.

Like the operation of the Chinese Yin and Yang, the transformation into each other, being conceived and born of each other, the one eating the other, and the one dying becoming the seed of itself in its own opposite.

This symbol of the Taigitu expresses the idea of the essence of life, because it shows the operation of the pairs of opposites.

In the heart of the darkness, the Yin, lies the seed of the light, the Yang; and in the light, the day, the Yang, lies the dark seed of the Yin again.

This is often represented in the East as two fishes in that position, meaning the two sides or the two aspects of man, the conscious and the unconscious man.

Now this preparation should make us understand the situation of the shepherd and the serpent.

What does it mean in the psychology of Nietzsche-Zarathustra that he suddenly discovers that shepherd in deadly embrace with the serpent?

He is apparently swallowing the snake, but the snake is attacking him at the same time, penetrating him.

Why such an image, or symbol, at this place?

You remember in his discussion with the dwarf just before, the dwarf was already the chthonic power.

~Carl Jung, Zarathustra Seminar, Pages 1286-1287.

He felt much better. He thought he would skip his next, go to his apartment and catch a nap. Maybe later he would see Gretchen at the library. That sounded good. He almost thought it was her. If only she had dark hair.

The chairman of psychiatry finally took his own advice and went on a ski vacation.
He broke his leg badly and had to be rushed to the hospital.
After the x-rays were developed, the orthopedic surgeon said –
“Don’t worry, it’s all in your body.”

Never tell someone there is nothing wrong with you. 

They say loving a guarded girl

is the most satisfying of all

because she does not need you

she wants you.

They say that is the purest love

to be wanted and not needed.

My dog does not agree.

Nor any other.

It is a fine thing to be needed

finer still to be wanted

best of all

when you cannot tell the difference.

We think we can manage

the flame, the flint is under

our control, the fuel measured

the height limited.

The tickle and sputter the

flicker and whoosh. We

think we control these things

we do not.

Every fire diminishes to ember.

Except for the raging inferno.

It does what it will.

Goes where it wants.

It always will.

To be loved, ah to be loved.

It is the fire we all wish

to be consumed in.

All you have to do is say

three little words:

I want you.

When I was five years old, I had a friend named Rich. My mother and I lived alone in an apartment in Massachusetts and Rich would often come over to play. One day my mother asked me if I would like it if Rich were to be my brother. Not too long after that, he was. Rich is only six months younger than I am but for some reason I fell into the older brother role.

We fought as kids. I don’t mean we had the sort of rough and tumble fights that result in sniffles and hurt feelings for a few days, although we had those as well. No, I mean we fought. We fought to hurt.

There’s one particular fight that stands out above the others. We were 13 years old. Our father required us to complete a list of yard work every Saturday before we could go or do anything else. This was always fertile ground for conflict between us. Both of us pissed at being forced to pull weeds in the Arizona sun, sweep the damn driveway that didn’t need sweeping in the Arizona sun, use a push mower on brown grass that had no business growing in the Arizona sun, at doing anything else but be in a pool in the Arizona sun.

We had some legendary brawls. We gave and we got as is the way of brothers since there have been brothers.

This fight wasn’t like that.

It was hot. We were sweeping the sidewalk in front of our house (it was on the list) and Rich had been hectoring me since we’d begun. The list was maybe half finished with the truly shitty stuff still up. I was doing my best to ignore him, not let him get under my skin. I was standing there, legs shoulder width apart, broom in my hands, getting ready to push a scant pile of pebbles and dust into a waiting dust pan. A dust pan held by my brother who was down on one knee in front of me, looking up into my eyes with a sneer on his face and the sound of whatever it was that pushed me over the edge just past his lips.

I hit him. I hit him really hard. I can still feel the way the broom handle vibrated with the sensation of hard wood meeting dense skull in the palms of my hands. The look on my brother’s face: The complete and utter surprise, the shock of betrayal, the pain, so searing and bright, that brings immediate tears but leaves one incapable of crying, his face contorted, mouth hanging wide open, as one hand oh so slowly made its way towards where I struck him.

I still call it a fight but it wasn’t. It wasn’t a fight at all. It was one person taking advantage of another’s inherent trust. It was a complete lack of control born of rage. I’ve been very careful about getting angry ever since that day. I know how easy it can happen. I know how bad it feels to cause that kind of pain towards my brother. I thought I’d learned one of those great life lessons that everyone learns at some point in their life. I thought I’d had a visceral moment of empathy with my brother the very second after I hit him, that I’d felt his pain as well as the revulsion of being the one to have inflicted it in that particular way.

But I’ve never really had to hold the dust pan. I learned the lesson of non violence through the perpetration of violence. This is not something to be proud of.

I’ve given much thought to the idea of empathy since I was very young.

As the old masters invariably say, the ones worth listening to anyway, I am still learning.

The thing about acquiring learning, understanding, and wisdom is the tendency to think that gives you the right to dispense that learning, understanding or wisdom.

It doesn’t.

Wanting to help, being able to help, needing to help – these are all noble attitudes to adopt. It doesn’t give you the right to bully your way into someone else’s life.

I do not like bullies. Even ones that do so for the best and the most noble of reasons, perhaps from them most of all. Can you imagine a world full of saints? A world of busybodies going around pointing out your many failings?

I recently stomped on someone’s life. Because I thought it was the right thing to do.

It wasn’t. It never is. I have since asked for forgiveness. I do not expect to receive it.

I am still learning.

Intermission.

He was tired. He leaned heavily on his shield but kept his eyes on the dragon. It was one of those natural lulls in the battle, long after each side had assessed, attacked, countered and then repeated.

When it had swallowed him he had panicked at first, but found the shield and sword in his hand. He convinced it to spit him out.

Then it was on. They danced. The dragon hissed and spat, he laughed and slashed. He felt pretty good about how things were going, when it started out. But as he got closer to victory, it adapted. It learned.

Things got harder. He called forth armor and cloak. The dragon scored meaningful hits. It started to look satisfied. He began to get worried. Then he began to get tired.

That hadn’t happened before. He had always had a deep wellspring of energy. He had never fully tapped it because, frankly, he hadn’t had to. He found himself going back and back to it. It took longer and it was harder each time.

He wasn’t the only one to conjure things. The road shifted and blurred as the fight wore on, soon they fought in the dragon’s lair.

They danced. He used every trick he knew. He was almost there. The dragon was bleeding, heaving, one leg useless. But he was done.
He knew it. He had nothing left. The well was empty. In fact, he stood at the edge of it now. A wide yawning abyss. The dragon smiled. It knew too.

He had a choice. With the last of his strength he could lift his sword just as the dragon struck and hope his sword held true.

Or he could just let go. Topple backwards into the abyss of his empty well into the void.

This thought terrified him. Death was a certainty and it was no shame to bow to it when it came. He had fought valiantly, he could go with honor.

Fuck that. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction. He laughed his defiance, opened his arms wide and toppled backwards. He would take his chances with fear and the unknown.

As he fell backwards he felt the dragon lunge for him.

Damn thing bit his toe.

As he tumbled, he reached for it – his thumb and toe met, his body forming a rough circle.

And darkness was once again all he knew.

Iggy watched as Gretchen performed her magic. He was enraptured. She bowed to the moon, she sang and rang a bell. It was hauntingly beautiful and he knew how rare it was for anyone to see anything like this shit. Either high on mushrooms or otherwise. Something was bugging him though. The music.

That’s it. The music. It was all wrong. He turned off the satellite radio. That seemed right. He reached for his phone and synced it to the mini van’s entertainment system. He called up his library. He hit shuffle. The back of his hand itched like fucking crazy. He saw Gretchen lean into the car.

And then he lit up. He gripped the wheel. With both hands. Fully. His legs locked up against the floorboard. He was dug in. Fuck me, he thought, she wasn’t kidding. His music boomed from the speakers. Iggy had never felt so alive. He could feel Gretchen. He could feel her holding on to Frank.

I got you, Iggy thought. I got you both.


Gretchen sighed with relief. He had made the first hard decision. He had chosen the fear. Would he learn the lesson? She knew this man. Loved him. She thought so. And besides, she was going to be there to help. He wasn’t safe yet. He stood in both worlds, one foot in, one out. She reached down with one hand and found the seat catch. She pushed the seat back as far as it would go and when it clicked, she straddled him in the driver’s seat. His eyes never left hers.

He was a boy.

He had been having the dream for awhile now. It confused him. Sometimes, he liked the dream and just before he went to sleep he would sometimes hope he would dream it. Sometimes, he did not like the dream. It confused him. She had pale skin and soft dark hair. She made him feel things.

He would rather play with his army men. It was his favorite toy. He would set them up in rows and they would have their battles. He had a little plastic bag he kept them in and he would take them out into the woods close to his house and play with them.

He was six. His mother and father encouraged him to go outside and play. He liked his army men but he would much rather read his Hardy boys books. He had liked the first one very much. The Tower Treasure, it was called. He was excited when he learned there was more than one book. He was on number 11, While the Clock Ticked.

But mom and dad told him to go outside and play, so he did. They also told him to come back before it got dark. It was starting to get dark. So he gathered his army men, put them in his bag and started to walk back home. He got to the sidewalk and as he passed the green house he saw an older boy in the yard. The boy waved at him.

He waved back. The boy stepped to the sidewalk and smiled at him. “Hi.” He said.

“Hello.” He said.

The boy pointed to his plastic bag. “Do you like army men too?”

He nodded.

“I have a whole bunch of army men. Would you like some?”

He thought about it. The boy smiled at him.

He nodded.

“They are right over here.” The boy walked into the yard over to the side of the house, motioning for him to follow.

He followed.

“Oh. I left them inside.” The boy said. “I tell you what. I’ll give you all my army men. I’m too old to play with them anymore anyway. But first, I need you to do something for me.”

He leaned against the side of the house and took out his erect penis.

“Do you like lollipops?”

Before he knew it, he was choking, gagging, it filled his mouth, went up and out his nose. He had a panicked moment when he could not breathe. The boy was there with his shirt off, collecting and wiping his face.

“Welcome to the brotherhood, little man.” He said. “Because you were such a good boy, remember this. Always get payment first.” He then tousled his hair and walked away. To the sidewalk. And then he kept walking. For a couple of seconds he didn’t understand.

This wasn’t his house. There were no army men. There never was.

His rage was incandescent. He had been tricked. Used.

Because he didn’t know better. Because he didn’t know. It was his fault.

He was so angry he could not move. Yet he did. He went to the sidewalk.

On it was a large crow. It stood before a milk carton. Like the kind he got at the cafeteria at school.

It picked the milk carton up by the spout. It tilted it up. Milk cascaded all over the crow’s face and body. It screeched and shook. It was very angry.

It was the funniest thing he had ever seen (you didn’t). The white milk. The black crow. It’s anger. He laughed as the crow screeched. He laughed very hard.

And it occurred to him…it wasn’t the crow’s fault. It was just a bird that wanted a drink of milk. Well, it got it. He laughed and laughed.

As he laughed he walked back home rubbing his thumb along his jawline as he went.

When he finally looked up, he wasn’t home but in front of a hut.

An old man stood at a well with a bucket. He waved and motioned for him to come through the gate.

He did. The old man nodded to him and carrying the bucket filled with water, went into the hut.

He followed. It was the hut of a potter. It was filled with pots. Vases. Cups (and oddly, a singular ash tray). There was a small wooden table. On it was a vase. It looked new.

“I’ve been expecting you.” The potter said. He poured some water from the bucket into a stone kettle. Then he put the kettle on a hook over his fire.

“How so?” He asked.

“I made the vase. Someone always comes when I make something like this.” He said.

“So it’s for me?” He asked.

“Yes and no.” He replied. “Will you have some tea with me and then do me a favor?”

He considered it. His thumb rubbed his jaw. “Yes.”

He watched him make the tea. He didn’t feel like speaking so he didn’t.

They drank the tea. It was very good.

Then the potter got his cloak and picked up the vase. They left the hut.

They walked along a tidy dirt path through a charming little village.

They came to another hut. The potter stopped.

He handed the vase to him and as he reached for it, the edge of the vase caught the meat of his thumb and sliced it clean open. It was so sharp he didn’t even feel the cut.

“Oh dear.” Said the potter. “Here, let me help you.” He took out a rag and snatched the afflicted thumb. He pressed hard. “I should have warned you, the edge of this one is razor sharp, be careful when you handle it.”

The potter motioned to the hut. “If you would be so kind to deliver this to the herbalist, I would really appreciate it. She doesn’t like me much I don’t think and I don’t want to antagonize her. I really appreciate this. You are a good boy, you know.” Then the potter walked away.

He looked at his thumb. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. In fact, there was already a scar.

He took the vase and went to the hut. He knocked on the door.

A very old and very ugly hag opened the door.

“WHAT?”

“The potter asked me to give this to you.” He said and showed her the vase.

Her demeanor instantly changed.

“Oh did he now?” She said. “Well I guess you ought to come in dear boy, come in!”

She swept him in and hurried him to a stool. “Sit! Sit!” She hooted.

“I really don’t have time to stay.” He said.

“But you haven’t given me the vase yet.” She pouted.

He held it out to her. “Careful, the edge is sharp.” He warned her.

She slid up to him with a grace that did not belong to a woman of her age.

“Oh, I’ve always known that.” She said.

He looked at her. She was…familiar.

A name came to mind. It was not that of a flower.

“Gretchen?” He asked.

The hag melted and she was in his lap.

“Well done, darling. Time to go home.”

The End of the First part.

Author’s note: If you have been a victim of sexual abuse it is a great comfort to tell someone. Anyone. A pet. An imaginary friend. Best of all the resource below.
You are not alone.

https://www.rainn.org/resources

They were arguing. Well, Iggy was arguing. Gretchen was looking out a stone window as reality outside capered and yawned.

“I just don’t see how, not to mention why, you need to ascribe the existence of a whole ‘nother level of reality. We have described the universe super fuckin’ well with the standard model, the four forces, and the interactions of matter at the very…”

Gretchen, and the rest of the universe, decided that Iggy was indeed feeling it. Besides, she just saw her mother standing on the corner pointing left. Perhaps a test was in order.

“Iggy.” She said.

“…true, Feynman said the first thing you mustn’t do is fool yourself and you are the easiest to…”

“Iggy.” She said.

He finally noticed there was another human in the car. “What?”

“Take the next left.”

He did.

He needed a good swift kick to the psychic balls.

Gretchen said, “Consider this for just a second. If I am who I am because you are who are and you are who you are because I am who I am, than I am not I and you are not you.” Then she looked at him and waited.

To his credit, he didn’t ask her to repeat it. He opened his mouth. He shut it. He tilted his head. He finally looked at her.

She smiled sweetly and winked.

And they both lost it in the way only those on magic mushrooms can. Literal magic mushrooms.

She had never seen him that way. His laugh reminded her of Hawkeye on M.A.S.H. He squirmed, he wailed, his face – a rictus of delight. He was also driving automatically. It took a long time for them both to wind down.

They talked. Time moved differently. The universe outside their chariot squeezed down.

They both felt it, when their sailing ship bit the water and the spray came over the bow.

They were on a road with many trees. Gretchen felt warm in her jacket. She focused.

Yes. There was danger close.

“Heads up Iggy.” She said. “Don’t slow down and keep your eyes on the road.”

As they were getting close to a bend in the road, Gretchen saw a large dragon coming from the opposite direction. A very large dragon. Nowhere near a dragon large enough. She gave it her undivided attention.

She could stomp it like a bug. She didn’t have time for that shit. She knew it was watching her.

“Keep your foot off the brake Iggy.” She said.

“That’s not funny.” He said.

Dragon and witch passed each other. Iggy was looking at Gretchen the moment they passed. Each went their own way.

“He’s there.” She said. And pointed. Off to the side of the road was the SUV. “Keep going, there’s a place to turn around close.”

Iggy got serious. They flipped a bitch. They drove the mini van close, their headlights illuminating the scene. Frank was slumped over in the front. It was all she could do to stay seated. This was it.

Ever since she was a girl, she knew that there would come moments. Moments of testing. Moments of growth. Some would be defining. One would be critical. She drank the vial. She knew what tonight represented. She was almost scared. Almost.

“Ok Iggy. Here’s what I need you to do. Give me your hand.” He did. His eyes were big and wide. “Whatever comes to your mind to do, you do. But if I ask for something, do it. Ok?” He nodded. As she was speaking to him, she traced a sigil on the back of his hand with her thumb. He didn’t notice.

She nodded. Then she grabbed her purse and got out of the mini van. She got Iggy’s wheelchair, threw her purse on the seat and frog marched it over to the SUV. She didn’t look at him. She found the moon and performed the rite of gratitude and then she did it again. She reached into her purse and took out the book with the pen attached to the back. She took out the feather. And the silver bell. She took off the denim jacket and placed it over her purse, still resting on Iggy’s seat cushion. She put the feather in her hair and with her left hand she opened the book. In her right hand she held the bell, delicately dangled from her index finger and thumb.

And then she began casting. She read from her book. She rang the bell. She called in favors. Then she put the items back in the purse and she picked up the jacket. She went to him. She opened the door. She didn’t worry about a neck injury. She draped her denim jacket over his shoulders and leaned him back into his seat. His head lolled.

She took his head in both her hands and leaned down so her eyes were only an inch away from his.

They snapped open. Only the whites were visible. “Look at me darling.” She said.

His eyes slowly, slowly came down out of his head and they looked into hers. They saw nothing.

As soon as their eyes met, Gretchen sobbed. Oh no baby. Oh no. Now she was terrified.

There was no need for Gretchen to go looking for the problem. By setting up the icon on his desktop he had also given her psychic access to all of himself. He was an open book to her, or she should say, library.

The wound was deep. Very very deep. And it was old. It was not the bite of the dragon that put him in such danger, his emergency bag should handle that. He had lied to himself. He would accept the truth or he would be consumed. Nothing she could do could prevent that.

But she could tilt the scales. She didn’t hesitate. You’re not going anywhere without me. If you go, I go with you my love. She spoke the words of binding. She caught his toe just as he went over the edge.

She held on.

There was definitely something going on with Gretchen’s left eye by the time she pulled into the Denny’s parking lot. The drive over wasn’t too bad. It was late and traffic was light. She had an anxious moment when a cop eased in behind her and followed her for a mile or two on the freeway.

In her misspent youth, such an occurrence would have caused a fair amount of panic. Such is the conditioning of a cannabis user of a certain age. That and a vestigial compulsion to check the ashtray. Never mind she hadn’t seen an ashtray in a car in… my god, was she that old? She stayed cool. It was too soon for the pills but the vial…. She was feeling fine. She would feel even better as the night went on.

She breathed easier as the mini van traversed the empty asphalt like a shark. She headed for the shallows and parked next to the two open handicapped spots. She killed the headlights – her reflection in the Denny’s window front shot twin beams of light that reflected so hard it lit up the inside back of her skull.

Oh yeah. Things were definitely starting to kick in.

She pulled out her purse and reached in. She withdrew a tarot deck. It was extremely old. The tips of her witchy red hair started to wave, like kelp under the ocean feeling the stirrings of the tide. She shuffled and turned her torso to address the empty passenger seat.

She shuffled. She shuffled. Her mind spun. A card leapt from the deck.

A car pulled into the handicapped parking spot. She looked down at the card that jumped from the deck. A figure, in a box, before him two steeds, one white, the other black. No rope connects the figure to the steeds. The chariot. In the upright position. Good. Good.

The chariot represents succor and providence. It also represents war, triumph, presumption and trouble.

The last two definitely described Iggy. Who was staring at her expectantly from the backseat of the car beside her. Despite the urgency and the seriousness of what lay ahead, she giggled. Oh yeah. Definitely kicking in.

She got out of the car and helped with Iggy’s wheelchair. As he transferred onto his circular legs, she got his bag and placed it in the van. It was heavy.

They said nothing as the Uber driver took his pay and left.

Iggy wheeled to the driver’s side and using the steering wheel for help got in. She helped him set up the hand controls then slid into the passenger seat after stowing the chair.

“What’s happened?” He said to her.

“He’s in trouble.” She said. “And I need you to take these.” She held out two greyish capsules.

Iggy looked her in the eyes. Then his own narrowed.

“What is that?” He asked.

“A doorway.” She said.

“I don’t have a body that handles experimentation well. What is it?”

“A special blend of mushrooms and the bloom of a plant you haven’t heard of.”

“You’re tripping balls right now, aren’t you?” Iggy asked.

“I don’t have balls, Iggy.” She replied.

Iggy laughed. “Gretch, your balls are bigger than mine, they’re just on the inside.”

“I need you to take these so we can maintain a psychic connection. I need you to be my string holder.” Gretchen said.

“Gretchen. I haven’t driven in over a year. And you want me to do so, at night, on a psychoactive substance? That’s not fucking wise. And what the fuck is a string holder?’

“It’s a low dose. The effects should be light. And psychoactive mushrooms increase visual acuity.” She said.

“How would you know what a low dose for me is?” Iggy asked.

“I’ve helped you transfer enough to have a very good idea of what you weigh. No more than 130 tops.”

“Yeah but it’s all in my cock and charm.” He said.

She arched a very pointed eyebrow. “Oh really. You’ll have to show it to me sometime.”

He actually blushed. Delightful.

“Haven’t you ever flown a kite, Iggy? I need you on the ground holding the string so I don’t get blown off course. And if we don’t catch lightning he will be dead by dawn.”

Iggy snatched the pills from her outstretched hand and dry swallowed them. Gretchen did the same with three of the six remaining capsules she set aside.

“I’m going to fucking kill us both.” Iggy said. He saw her take the other three. “You’re taking MORE?”

“Trust me.” She said.

Iggy sighed and turned the engine on.

“Which way?” He asked.

“One sec.” She said. She turned the radio on. Mystic traveler by Dave Mason. She smiled. It was his song.

Her mind spun. Her left eye opened. She looked at Iggy and grinned.

He was staring at her. Fear was in his eyes.

She turned to him. She reached across and held his face in both her hands. She pulled him close and kissed his forehead.

“Let’s go get our man.” She said.

Tarrion; n, An odd interval of blankness you feel after something big happens to you but before you feel the resulting emotional reaction – stunned by a sudden loss, a stroke of luck, or an unexpected visitor – like those tension-filled seconds between a flash of lightning and the thunderclap that follows, which gives you a hint of how near you are to the coming storm. – From tarry, to be late to react, or linger in expectation + carry on. Pronounced “tar-ee-uhn.” John Koenig, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.

Now that she had a better feel for things, apprehension slowly gave way to purpose.

The Buddhists have a saying: Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. Gretchen didn’t think of herself as a Buddhist in particular – she had a very much cafeteria style approach when it came to matters spiritual.

Which is to say in her case, esoteric. One thing she always kept in mind – wisdom is wisdom wherever one finds it and it is a sloppy mind that throws away the metaphysical baby along with the mythological bathwater.

It was time to chop wood and carry water.

After she told Iggy what to bring and where the Uber driver was going to drop him off, she went to the front door and locked it.

Then she went into François’ study, booted up his computer and entered the password. She clicked the icon on his desktop he told her to use only if she was absolutely sure. She didn’t hesitate. It asked a certain question. She laughed.

She typed in, I do and a birthdate.

Her cell phone went off in her pocket. She saw on the screen why.

Full access. To everything. His work. His journal. His money. Everything.

She was overwhelmed. He knew. Of course he fucking knew. For a brief moment, she was pissed. All that time wasted. If he wasn’t already dead she was going to fucking kill him. No. Death was too good for him. She would make him suffer.

In ways he would not mind.

But first, she had her own preparations to make.

She went upstairs to her room. She gathered her items of power – her cloak of defense: A denim jacket, on it a patch sewn with a goat’s needle just above the right pocket, a child’s medal that read “Didn’t stab anyone today!” On the left pocket flap, a pin of a lovely girl in a lavender three quarters face cowl, printed on the forehead of her mask: Be your own Hero. The inside lining had an iron on patch of The Cosmic Rose, in full bloom and full of stars. The back had another iron on patch, of a knight, cloak aswirl, shield up, sword out and pointed down and across. The steps she had taken in making this item were costly both in terms of promises made and sacrifices met.

She went to her closet and took out her “purse” as she liked to call it. It had certain items that could be found in any purse. Lipstick. A brush. Breath mints. It also had a small book with a pen clipped to the back. A feather. A thimble. A small silver bell. Her three most powerful tarot decks. She removed one and put it aside.

Then she went to her lingerie drawer and got her medicine pouch. She unfurled the rug kept under her bed. She sat in lotus. She uncorked a small vial. She drank it. Then she did the rites of preparation. A calm came over her.

She reached into the pouch again and took out all the capsules in the small bottle that read “Papaya extract.” She counted them. There were eleven left. She had a moment’s hesitation. Iggy would need two. She would need six. That left three. She hoped it would be enough.

She changed quickly. She went downstairs and swallowed three of the capsules. But first she took a single grape out of the refrigerator and put it in the glass of water. As she swallowed the capsules, she broke the grape with her front teeth, eating and drinking simultaneously.

She went downstairs to where Rose was “born.” She gathered his emergency bag. She went back upstairs and got the keys to the mini van. She took the removable backrow seats out and after a minute search tossed in a foam camping mattress and a sleeping bag. She loaded the mini van with her items and keyed the security as she backed out of the garage.

It was a twenty minute drive to the Denny’s where she told the Uber driver to bring Iggy.

It was also well past midnight. If she didn’t find him by dawn he would be gone.

She knew it.

She was pretty sure three capsules of her special blend of penis envy mushrooms, lion’s mane, and a certain flower that only grows for a witch that has earned the right wouldn’t kick in before she got to Iggy. But she did also drink the vial. She had been saving it for the right night.

Tonight was definitely it.

I’m coming baby. Hold on.

There is one who sits at a keyboard.

They type.

They do not look at the screen,

There is no need.
They are answering a question.

They do so until the question no longer needs asking.
The question is not a difficult one.
It does not change.
The answer is the same.

It does not change.
They have sat at the keyboard

And they sit there still.
The question is this:

Will the paradox be resolved?

And the answer:

YES>

His hands were caked in clay. He bent over the wheel, his right foot slowly working the paddle; between his fingers – a fine mixture of earth, water, motion, and intensity of desire calling forth his art.

He leaned in close and breathed in the smell of wet clay as it spun. To his nose, both clay and water had their distinctions. Collected rainwater was different than that from the well. Clay from the opposite end of the village was not the same as that by the creek close to his hut.

When he began to spin the wheel, he wasn’t quite sure what was going to emerge. He liked it that way. He knew now.

This wasn’t always the case. There were the long years of apprenticeship. The misshapen failures that made him question if the potter’s life was truly for him. Those were the early years. He had thrown many a pot since his youth and he had long since moved past apprenticeship.

People called him a master craftsman. He did not see himself that way. In fact, he didn’t think of himself as a potter at all. To be sure, he worked with clay. He molded. He shaped. He allowed the material to dictate what the final form would be as much as his hands. This too, was not always the case.

In his youth, he was prideful. If what grew from the base of the wheel was not in conformance to his vision, he would destroy what he had wrought. This was a mistake. It took him many years to realize that the process was more important than the result. Many of his most cherished pieces were far from perfect.

He kept those. At first, it was because his pride wouldn’t allow such flawed creations to be seen outside the confines of his rough dwelling. Over time, this reason faded away and was replaced with another.

Beauty. He found them beautiful. Not only for the lesson they represented but because of the flaws. He could make something perfect. He was doing so now. But only if the thing being made insisted on its own perfection.

Just like the misshapen ones.
He knew he was done when his right foot stopped marking time.

He sat up and arched his back. It was a good stretch. Vertebrae popped.

He went outside and drew water from the well. He came back inside and put on the kettle. He measured three careful scoops of Lapsang souchong and waited for the water to boil.

He went to the wheel. He walked slowly around what he had wrought. He was not looking for imperfections. It was beautiful.

Would it survive the fire? He thought so.

He made his tea. He put his creation in the kiln.

Time would tell if the vase held water.