The veil is thin. The military uniforms are displayed. I had a visitor this morning in my dreams, in white just like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman. He was at first a statue on the campus at Penn, and then he jumped off his pedestal with the ease of a panther, placed his cap upon his head, and fairly oozed through the campus of young and naive students.
I knew him. However briefly we shared the same space, I learned more from him than most of the men I ever thought to love. This man was worldly and only 20. He had the gentle white glow of someone who was very close to Heaven.
He was engaged to be married.
Early this morning he entered my dreams, gentle and confident. He didn’t speak, but compelled me to follow him with a tilt of his head.
Alas I may never know where he was leading me, because I woke up to pee….
Early on in my adventure into testing the boundaries of reality, a wise woman explained that our efforts to change look like a pendulum. Your first try is a bit over-the-top, but you eventually settle into a balance. For me, I liked to visualize Newton’s Cradle, but I’m far enough along the road to Figment now to notice the various nuanced little adjustments that allow me to flow as smoothly as the sand under the waves between Reality and Figment.
The reality is that my bucket list was empty. I was stealing things from other peoples’ buckets just for something to do. Then I went to my dreams for inspiration and couldn’t settle on a choice between three things. An Indian Scout. A Harley trike. A Polaris Slingshot.
The reality is that I miss driving a stick. I want to be forced to pay attention to my driving. But the recurring dream is that I am downshifting in a left turn and can’t remember if I am on an old Triumph or a new Honda. And I am riding with Heartbreaker, whose opinions have always inflenced me more than anyone else’s. I do not want to fail this turn and bruise my ego. Forget about bones and guts. In real life I have flown over the driver, who flew over the handlebars of a borrowed bike. I landed on my borrowed helmet. He was turning left in front of a NH memorial to their war dead. I got my permit. I let it expire. For forty years I have downshifted into that curve.
So for now I think my balloon motorcycle best represents the indecision. I can hold all options as viable…..until I renew my permit, at least.
Here in Pennsylvania, where most of the year’s full moons have been hiding behind the clouds, it is understood that the bubble riders sometimes lose their way. Such is the case with Wanda, who has been found nibbling on all the wrong mushrooms.
Wanda, we have discovered, needs a mental health vacation. Having been sent to a playground in the park, she became sidetracked by the sight of an alpha male in the parking lot. This sort of challenge is several levels above her pay grade, and she ought to have remembered her training and left him alone in his truck. Instead, she was smacked down by Goliath and fell off her bubble.
Wanda landed in a meadow somewhere between the swing set and the corner of the truck’s bumper. It took a week to find her way home to recover. The skinned elbow and the torn wing healed quickly after that, but but she will be in therapy for months. Thankfully, no bubble rider sprite is down for long before others fly to her aid.
Someday she will laugh about her latest misadventure. Others have done so already.
O well done! I commend your pains; and every one shall share i’ your gains; And now about the cauldron sing. Live elves and fairies in a ring; Enchanting all that you put in. – the Bard
Last night there was a dark moon, and I usually stay indoors because I am not a witch, and I am especially not a black magick witch. But a couple of cauldron owners I know who were unfamiliar with such things noticed that they’d need eye of newt for their love potion, and I am a Newton with several eyes to spare. Their potion included CBD water, and we were ultimately confused about how to transport the bubble riders under the circumstances. The bubbles produced by their secret recipe were far less effervescent than Potion 17, so we spent the day trying to find a method that could lift the bubble riders higher and faster than this potion seemed to allow.
We started at a shooting range for women. We tried handguns, revolvers and a fancy bow and arrow. No luck.
We tried rusty train tracks and leaky kayaks. No luck.
We tried non-GMO corn cob sabers. No luck.
We tried beer. No luck.
We tried nuclear power. No luck.
We tried sunflower stalks. No luck.
In the end, we came upon an unusual method that worked. We “Cruze”d to a street-side basketball hoop and made a couple of three-pointers. We got caught playing in the road by Beloved himself, the RoyL Viking, but we were in disguise and prefer to think that we got away safely.
There are at least a half dozen names for the August full moon. August is my favorite full moon and I missed it last year because my mother had died and I was mourning the loss of her vibrance. Sturgeon is what it was called last year, and I had to look up on Google what it was. It would look like any other fish in the sea if not for its Frito Bandito facial hair. But I wanted a name for this moon goddess that represented confident beauty…
Enter Queen Aleena, from Sonic the Hedgehog and the trusted Urban Dictionary. There is only one person under the moon who might object to this name, for reasons only the fairies know. The only Aleena I know is a dog. A beautiful confident dog, to be sure, and if she howls at the moon tonight I might answer.
The new moon is on schedule to coincide with the time when old lovers who have crossed over reach out to us.
Mother nature, however, is due to send an electrical storm at the same time. Most communications with these old lovers is accomplished through electricity, so it will be difficult to know for sure what is being said.
That’s OK. As with most mothers, Mother Nature knows what love is. She has no interest in eavesdropping or redirecting messages. Sometimes I hear from a spirit who left his wife behind, and that’s fine with me. He can see her at the next 11:11.
The Fairy Godmother was able to squeeze all her charms and talents into 240 square feet, with plenty of room for her tiny charges to come and go as desired. There was a fire extinguisher and candles and cauldrons with athames both large and small, which is relative in a tiny house with fairy visitors.
The house sat on the edge of reality near figment, where the veil was thinnest under all phases of the moon. At full capacity, it still weighed 17,040 pounds, because the fairies visited only at night, and were therefore naked. When these visitors left, they would take all evidence that they had ever been there. There were clues, but a sharp eye was needed because they were bubble rider sprites; the smallest of the fae, yet the most powerful.
It is important to note that The Fairy Godmother is not of the fae, nor is she a witch. Most days she is an ordinary human who reheats her coffee in the microwave and forgets where she left it. She wears neither wings nor pointy hat. She wears costumes and uniforms above red shoes. In public she wears sneakers with t-shirts from Walmart.
The Fairy Godmother never cackles or talks like a baby. She is just as likely to be talking to a human as a fairy. This is the reason she is sometimes considered to have gone mad.
But she is wise. Wherever her life has shrunk in reality, it has expanded across the veil. She sees the fairies and caresses the stars.