I sent a message to the fish:
I told them “This is what I wish.”
(from Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll)
All my wirings are tangled, torn,
Loose ends dangling like
A hangman’s noose, mismatched
Connections, all my calculations
Are off, sparks fly off most
Inappropriately, missed cues,
Chemistries all gone wrong,
Fallen out of time, out of
Line, oh how dare I
Love as if I was any good
I need to walk my own story
the story I want to write
not what others want me to do
the one that keeps getting
stuck on pause, constantly
spinning in place, looped waiting
for signal to proceed, hovering in
hope, but perhaps
I should just fall, crash,
hit the ground running
R is for the Rage of storms and of hearts,
the Resistance to defaults,
the Rain which has more than one true name,
it is for Resilience against all kinds of hunger,
it is for Rue, a flower and a feeling,
akin to Regret, a fever that strikes
when love is suppressed,
it is for the Rising of the sun,
always a birthing of hope,
R is for timely Retreats, for Rest,
for the Rune of Raido that signals the time to move,
it is for Reflection on every path taken and abandoned,
it is for Remembrance,
and for Rebellion, the kind that grows
a quiet Revolution,
it is for Rules that are bent, broken, remade.
R is for the Revelation of hidden things,
the Release of what has been constrained, caged, censured,
the Reclamation of the self, the Recovery of one's true place
in the scheme of the universes.
R is for Ravens, an unkindness from the dreaming,
a conspiracy for the crowning of kings and queens,
it is for all the Risks taken to Reign upon the kingdom of a single heart.
While the raven monarchs have the nightmares under their command, the blue heart princelings have the alliance of ghosts and monsters.
The forest was flooded with songs. The queen learned that music has its scent & it is a symphony of ocean & petrichor, of brewing storm & the aftertaste of lightning, of morning sunshine & the full moon. She learned how well love can breathe while drowning.
This is how the queen feels. Like she is burning and turning into ashes from the inside. At the same time, the air is getting used up and the fire itself is suffocating. Her heart is a hunger eating itself until the tears flow from eyes blinded by blue.
In a clearing in the forest I set up a temporary camp. The sky above is caught in the stormy grey of a fast-falling dusk. I dare to light a small fire, knowing that the princelings will sense it, for they are great fire-wielders, but I spell a protection of earth around me, to buy me some safe time.
I spill what I've gathered on the ground, turning pockets inside out.
Spools and cut pieces of red thread, needles whole and broken, a pair of scissors, blank music sheets, a keychain of a rabbit's foot that thumps to warn of danger, a pocket watch with thirteen hours, a handful of fallen sakura petals, an ice cream wrapper, a hairpin, an empty pupa, loose pages from a dictionary with words that keep on changing meanings...
The trees around me rustle in conversation, murmuring among themselves. Leaves flutter down on my head, on my shoulders, settle into my lap, as if to comfort.
...finger bones, an inkstone, a gingerbread key, a shard of a broken mirror that never shows what you expect to see (if I poke it with a finger, my finger goes through), burnt coffee beans, half of an oni mask, blue matchsticks, tangled guitar strings...
A blue moth circle my small fire. Its wings have eyes that stared.
A raven swoops to devour the moth, brushing a wing against my cheek.
The trees fall silent.
So much of me is kindling
The tiniest spark is fatal
A particular song for instance
Or a line from a poem
A certain shade of blue
Or the sound of wings
It is also a heart, and a story. A fairy tale. A hope, a wish, a longing. It is addressed to the one who can read it. The one who will understand the nuance of every leaf and flower, every creature's tail twitch, wing flutter, every tree's murmur.
It is desire split open like a ripe fruit. A secret shouting itself.
It is a call, a sign, a hidden country with an unspoken language.
It is a quest along wild flower paths and through unlikely doorways, where the keys shapeshift and the most basic requirement is a belief in the impossible.
First few days of disorientation, but now discerning the specific dangers as well as the particular enchantments of the princelings. I cradle a slightly broken left arm, narrowly escaping a rather fierce grasp from a feisty one. I caught the soft sound of tiny chains.
My heart is shaking so. The forest shivers. Scorched marks of monsters passing.
A small retreat today. Tried to do too much too soon. Got too reckless, and now an almost fatal wound from a rigged arrow I did not see because I got distracted by the sound of unfolding wings.
It wasn't a cloak or a hood but a tent. It appears and disappears at random parts of the forest. The girl and the grandmother are one and the same. The wolf is a prince fulfilling an ancient ritual that has kept a kingdom alive. Sometimes the prince fails because he fails to see the girl in the grandmother, and the grandmother in the girl. In such times the kingdom falls, and the prince is cursed with forgetfulness and an unspeakable ache in his heart that sends him wandering in the cities that corrode his spirit and taint his senses. He confuses the scent of magic with the tricky scents of mortal indulgence. He hungers for a love he only remembers in dreams.
The forest is crisscrossed with thresholds. Invisible borders much like the veins of a heart.
There is a ghost in the forest.
He was a blue-blind boy and thus could not see her blue heart magic. She wove for him an impossible story that could only become true if he opened his heart instead. But he persisted to see only with his eyes and lost his way through the forest, and lost a kingdom.
He is many forms but is one. He is sometimes all of himself and sometimes only part, hiding behind the eyes of strangers. When the mood strikes him he runs on all fours, singing to the moon. He picks up the scent of my wanderings, following the paths of wildflowers. But he does not know me. I am the blank side of the mirror, the empty cage, the missing door on an invisible wall.
I am the wildflower, hiding in the honey. I am the flash of iridescence on a beetle's wing.
He is the one who stops my breath, grips my heart with a glance. Yet he does not see me even when he looks. He is distracted by all the light spilling from my fingertips.
Today the forest path is wide open, festooned with mist and shadows, laced with the hushed whisperings of the trees, humming the secret song of a blue heart.
I woke up and I wasn’t sure I did because a trail of a dream still drags behind me all tangled up with my soul threads invisible silent light like nothing but blinding deafening weighted with impossible hope.
Hello. Who are you? Are you someone new? Someone who was something else? Someone who has been here all along? I keep seeing traces of you, hints and clues, unfinished questions, cast in the wind of the Dreaming. Never a word, only a hope, and the markings of a blue heart.
This is why the garden is impossible and the forest is wild.
It is a present that is writing its history in order to shape a desired future. And with every shaping the future becomes the present.
And the past is a vast, vast landscape where anything could have happened.
To craft a story one needs to be fluent in forest, for it is wildwork, and only chaos carries the seeds of impossibles. To be fluent in forest one must navigate the grammar of dreams. For dreams is where chaos slides along the fragile edges of our souls, like hands feeling for seams on a blank wall, looking for ways in.
In the Wildforest there is a web of water, from brooks to rivers to lakes, all flowing into and out of the sea. All the water creatures can endure salt, as sometimes all the water becomes like tears when the ocean rages in a storm. Every water creature can either fly or walk on land, or both. It is all a matter of heart and choices.
I’ve started but I’ve barely begun. The forest is deep even along its edges. Its heart is too well hidden even though one can feel its presence in every thing and every creature. Maps are mere tools for pretending to know the paths, perhaps only good enough to mark the waystations of longing and loneliness. Trigger warnings.
So many layers of hard walls and sharp boundaries before I even dared to declare that I was getting anywhere. Duties and daily life drain so much spirit. So much magic lost in the concrete and the false lights.
So slow, I go. Circumnavigating my own defenses and fears. I fight even myself, as if there aren’t enough dragons along the way. As if there are only dragons. As if I have so much life to spare.
I clutch my worthless scribbles close, checking from time to time if maybe something has changed to reveal a clue, a secret, a signature. For this is known, that the forest seeds itself in all heart-creation, and grows into a Story when it is Time.
The blue-heart boy visits the forest in his dreams, and wakes up afraid to sleep again. He does not know why. Nor does he understand the weight in his own heart as if it had grown many hands and clutch at the earth wishing to be still and quiet and waiting.
And my own quest? Only half-known, half-remembered. Something to do with breaking. Something to do with finding and being found. Something to do with waking. And falling. And being still while moving everywhere. A lot to do with bringing forth the impossible. Of grasping the chaos within order, and the order within chaos.
Something about escape and coming home and realising that the North is a place of the soul. Of re-wilding what has been tamed. Relearning what has always been known.
So much to do and I am so slow. And often so afraid, and weak, and so terribly, terribly lonely.
Loosened shoe straps. Walking barefoot. Unbraided hair tangled by the wind. Sap stained hands. Sun pours on face mingling with rain. Perfumed with petrichor. Flowers catch on skirt’s hem. Leaves approximate a crown. Something eager waits through the morning mist.
STORIES are what happen in the Impossible Garden & the Wildforest. They are the overheard conversations, the gossip of the flowers and the trees, the fragments written on bones and stones. They are the secrets whispered by the wind, the tales of the stars, the knowledge earned or traded with the forest dwellers. They are the fairy tales that had been forgotten or never told. They are the rules and the history and how they are repeatedly broken and rewritten. They are the murmurings of magic, the language of hidden love, the wildness beneath every order and the pattern beneath every chaos. They are truths and they are lies and in the end they are real to those who have the heart to see.
All works of art and writing on this site are property of the author/artist and may not be reproduced in part or whole in any form without permission. Please credit appropriately when sharing.