It’s a Pale White Thing

This song has become a favorite if only because it stirs that lizard brain a bit. The singer is so fair as to be translucent. And I thought I was pale…

The words? Eternal in aspect. The Norse have a way about them and we ought to remember that “all the gods are one God and there is one initiator”. Why else the commonalities among all religions? I’ve always been comforted to find the similarities – a line of stories that wended its way through centuries and lands, hands and mouths, even if corrupted to meet the political needs of men along the way.

“The raven still knows if I fall.”  The Morrigan misses little. She has always been my mascot. A friend said they do not fear death but the dying – the unknown manner of farewell. That seems reasonable to me – I do know a few ways I hope to not experience. And I have dreamt a few so very intensely that I wonder, sometimes, whose death it was.

Ah, well, perhaps a somber post but not intended as such – rather, I am in a kind of…transition – the death of an old life and a rebirth, of sorts. It is an interesting section of this entire…journey.

The path to Hel



Who shall sing me,
Into deathsleep sling me,
When I on the path to Hel go,
And this track I tread
Is cold, so cold, so cold.
I sought the songs,
I sent the songs.
Then the deepest well
Gave me tears so harsh
From the Slain-father’s pledge.
I know everything, Odin,
To whom you gave your eye.
Who shall sing me,
Into deathsleep sling me,
Whence I on the path to Hel go,
And this track I tread
Is cold, so cold, so cold.
Early or in the day’s end,
The raven still knows if I fall.
Once you stand at the gate to Hel
And when you have to tear free,
I shall follow you
Over Gjallarbrú with my song.
You will be free from the bonds that bind you,
You are free from the bonds that bound you!
“Cattle die,
Friends die,
So, too, must you die.
Though one thing
Never dies;
The fair fame one has earned.
Cattle die,
Friends die,
So, too, must you die.
I know one,
That never dies;
Judgement of a dead man’s life

Hope Springs…

Well, perhaps not eternal but at least there is damp portent of a possible rivulet. A job may be in my future! Well, there are a few that may be but this one at least has gotten in front of eyes of human beings who actually make decisions. Huzzah.

I have tried to keep my mind set on the facts and figures, the research performed, my little soliloquy of me at the ready, and the questions that one must have all printed out. And still…there is that little creature that huddles and frets. My dear friend who made this all happen offered her advice, “Balls OUT!” which put great courage in my soul. Tomorrow we shall see.

There is not much else to report, I’m afraid. Stasis. Which is far better than travail, to be certain. Breath held against the storm. Once things start in motion it will be a lumbering beast of gears and sprockets that will chew through anything that doesn’t move. Nothing will stop its motion – only activity can surpass its gain. If only I knew what to do.

0ce35-periwink-bmpI spoil myself with visuals, with songs, to distract from the lurching thing in the distance. Old days are pulled around me like a shawl, so familiar and comfortable and Over. Known. Yes, that happened, we didn’t die, and then we moved on. Oh, and yes, that happened, lived through it, too, and moved on. And again…so that in a few more years this will also be stitched into that shawl of days, pain faded, sharp edges burnished with tears and abrasion.

You must turn your mournful ditty to a merry measure. I will never come for pity, I will come for pleasure.

That, a remonstration from a courtly man to his courtesan, another who waited and wrote, but who in the end lost all but the words. From one side it seems a reasonable demand but from another a cruel denial. We all need pity for our pain, our mourning. An understanding of what stirs within, never-dying. Like cinders deep in the belly,  now cold but weighing us down. The only cure being a straight spine to fight the gravity, the grave.

Do you believe in reinvention
Do you believe that life is holding the clue
Any way to face the silence

Saturday’s Narration

I was running through the old music on the phone, tossing this and that from my Amazon app when I found oh so many perfect songs…and I thought, you know, this would be a fine place to store them all nice and neat.

I make a wrong turn, break it
Now i’m too far gone
I’ve got a siren on my tail
And that ain’t the fine I’m lookin for

In my perfect world you’re happy with me.
When I picture it, it’s all heavenly.
But this fairytale is just a story, see?
Life is such an unpredictable dream…

You’re so very special
I wish I was special

You know you didn’t understand me
I didn’t say it was a problem

What I am to you is not real

And I sigh your name
Across the empty water
You made a crazy dreamer out of me

I’ve got this feeling that there’s something that I missed

And they say
She’s in the Class A Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since eighteen

Perfectly able to hold my own hand
But I still can’t kiss my own neck

Take your things, leave somehow
Blackbird song is over now

Tick Tick Tick

There is a metronome in my head that clicks along each day, counting the moments from hope to despair to chance and then to hope again. The days fly by no matter how I try to hold them back, buying time for myself. I have very little time, now, to plan, to make arrangements and yet – what can I do until the very last minute? This is the position he has put me in.

I wrestle to get away from it – the daily routine of apply, check applications, edit documents, tracking it all and then, when time allows, relearning the intricate skills lost to the years of thinking I was clear of it. Chart this, transition that, pivot the other…moving data in a swirl of 1’s and 0’s that is, in the end, so utterly pointless as to be laughable. On the grand scale of life – and the smallest of that of your own breath – it is all nonsense. And yet it has its place, its demands. So you try to meet them.

A dear friend noted a very nice role opening up and I have at least a foot in the door and my paper under the eyes of someone who can judge it as it stands rather than what some HR AI spits out. I pray to all the gods at this point – whichever one wants to step to the plate – to just give me a chance. A trial by fire – sit in a seat where I know nothing and no one and fight against the terror that I will not be good enough as I once did…it was a long time ago…but I still remember the trips to the bathroom, bent over and breathing deep to avoid the tears that show. It is an act, that competence and confidence.

At least the bone-weary exhaustion has lifted a bit. The last few weeks were very hard, indeed. I managed to get a 2k row in, some lifting, etc. yesterday. It felt good to stretch everything out. Everything’s a bit twingy now but I’ve been stretching so much lately – the kind a child does when it yawns – almost as though my body was trying to reassemble itself into a new shape. I thought I’d give it a bit more activity to see if that served the purpose. And it was quite nice. How I’d forgotten the beautiful feeling of the Garland Pose at the end. (She has a nice modern way about her…) I love feeling what the body can do, the musculature in a harmony…once upon a time I was rather serious about it all…and I looked quite nice. I had forgotten…

There is a sense of…futility in the activity of life. I am a pessimist, after all.  What good any of it if I cannot work? Why bother? But I remind myself of the agreement made on an October morning, the tree and I. Options. Paths. And yes, some of them meander into the woods where the fog hides your way. A plush purgatory of  loam and leaf. The tree understands this. The wolves, too, softly padding about the perimeter. An acceptance of fate once the battle is lost and the ravens have eaten the crumbs you left to find your way back.


Time enough, I tell myself. Time is whipping around me, skirling and demanding. And nothing I do can hold it back. But if I grasp hard to the earth maybe I can slow it, make everything move to a different rhythm. Widdershins, widdershins, to spin it back. Buying time with little fragments of soul…