The Fork

We have little control of our fates, at best.  There are daily things that we can choose our not, but so much Big Stuff is simply out of our hands — that’s just the way it is, Psykhe weaves our threads in the tapestry of eternity as she will.

Some of us, are occasionally offered a fork:  the fibres split, and for a fragment of a second, we can walk along this piece or that one, before joining the rest of the thread. Only you and She notice this tiniest imperfection in the tapestry of eternity, but She can’t take it apart to fix it — it would do too much damage.  So we live with it, knowing that for that millimetre or two, we had the tiniest choice of which fibre to follow, andwhat seemed all laid out for metre after metre suddenly gave us an option.

I’m not sure where to go, from here, but I know there isn’t much time before She pushes me along my thread.


Eros and Psykhe in song

Mortals hubristicly compare Psyke to a beauty greater than Aphrodite

Aphrodite orders Eros to curse Psykhe’s affections

Eros cannot shoot Psykhe

Zephyros takes Psykhe to Eros crystal castle

Psykhe’s first night with her unseen husband

Psykhe’s sisters cast a seed of mistrust

Psykhe plots to see her husband

Psyke sees

The oil scorches Eros’ flesh

Psykhe cast out:

Psykhe’s trials




(selections made more on overall feeling than necessarily lyrical content)

while I have your attention: Were you aware that I only have $170 to go to meet my goal in fundraising for moving next week? I have less than a week to go! I pick up my key on Monday and haul my stuff to Ypsilanti on Wednesday!




Nigella damascena (love-in-a-mist, ragged lady) is an annual garden flowering plant, belonging to the buttercup family Ranunculaceae. It is native to southern Europe (but adventive in more northern countries of Europe), north Africa and southwest Asia, where it is found on neglected, damp patches of land.

The specific epithet damascena relates to Damascus in Syria. The plant’s common name comes from the flower being nestled in a ring of multifid, lacy bracts. It is also sometimes called devil-in-the-bush. (from Wikipedia)

At the end of Psykhe’s trials, for a brief time She became lost in the mashlands, wandering and abandoning hope of returning to Eros’ crystal castle, much less finding favour with Him or His oldest friend, Aphrodite, again. Then She saw the flower and recognised it as one of Eros’. Psykhe asked a nearby bird where it came from, and the bird replied that they grew from her Father’s tears, and Psykhe then realised that She must not be far from the home of Her husband, for tears never scatter far from where they originate.


Moisai & Moriai: A Love Story

We who are driven by music, conducted by Apollon and the Moisai, tend to hear the music we’re meant to when we’re meant to hear it. We may even dismiss something we stumble upon too early as “not [our] thing”, but be it years, months, or even weeks later, we can hear the same band, artist, album, or even song as if it’s for the first time, and it will be life-changing, life-affirming, or however we’re meant to hear it. I hated Scott Walker five or six years ago, and had barely heard one song when i dismissed his work; lately I cannot live without his music.

If free will was at all a part of the equation, we might realise at that pivotal moment, “hey, wait, this is the same thing I’ve dismissed for years, why does it sound better now?”, and we could choose away the importance of that music. Sure, some songs or suites may lose importance with time, that’s only natural and is no more in our control than the burning feeling that this song, at this moment, is keeping me alive, or similar burning feelings. Our desires and choices don’t matter here, and they never will. What matters is that we entertain Her and all Her children and grand children, and great, greater, and greatest grands…. What matters is that the story of love that we’re here to tell called for us to hear that piece, by that muso, at that moment, and place importance on it for that length of time.

And that’s all this is: It’s a story of love, told with love and out of love, for the Mother of Love (Eros) and divine mitochondrial of all Divine beings. We are but marionettes carved lovingly to tell Her stories is love and joy and spirit and creation — of herself, her eldest boy, the youngest Fate to Whom He was betrothed, and Their shining daughter who puts the smile on the face of every child, the sweat of the brow of every orgasm, the delirium on the tongue that has tasted every dessert, and the pure unadulterated bliss on every mind that has enjoyed any great work of art, literature, music, and philosophy. They’re very close, you see, and They are truly in charge —Zeus is but a figurehead that keeps the uninitiated mortals in order. Some day, perhaps in a future lifetime, they, too, will come to understand this.