Gather Around the Kotastsu

Recently, as I’ve mentioned in earlier blog posts, I’ve just bought my first home. If you’ve bought a home or have moved to a new space, you know there is so much work that is involved, especially if the place isn’t turn key.

The previous owner let the house go–she was depressed after her husband died and was left with two children to care for as well as a home. In the disarray, there are glimpses of the woman she was before sadness. When the grime was washed from the walls, bright and bold color choices were apparent. The tiles in the bathroom were chosen with care, and in the attic there were boxes of Christmas decorations.

It’s taken the whole summer to get the house move in ready. At this point, I”m still working with a gutted kitchen and in search of painters. But the space is becoming my home little by little. I’ve had to cancel on my friends and on bbqs because I”ve had to dedicate lots of time to getting the house ready so that I can not only live in a beautiful space but I can also have them enjoy themselves when they visit. While I feel guilty, I’ve kept my friends updated and they’ve been really good at supporting me and offering their help.

The point of my narrative is that between work, family obligations, the upcoming teaching semester and the renovations, I’ve been busy. But I haven’t been so busy that I have forgotten the people I love. I make sure to keep myself updated on their lives via text. Just because I’m busy doesn’t mean I have no time for my loved ones. At the very least, I have been responsible and caring enough to let them know why I haven’t made appearances.

My question then becomes is there a moment when a person gets so busy that they can’t even connect via text or 1 minute? Yans seems to think so. He believes his life is so hectic that he can’t spare a moment each night to say goodnight or to check up with me. In the beginning of the week when I mentioned this to him, he apologized and said he was busy. I told him I understood but to do his best to respond to our good nights. That’s all. Simply respond goodnight before bed.

He has not been able to do this. And this had happened between us before–where he goes MIA, and when I mention it, he gets mad and pushes me away even more. And when the dust settles, he pulls me back in because he’s overworked, hungover and a wreck. I have to mend him.

The problem is, I’ve grown really tired of simply being the mender. I’ve grown tired of only being needed to lift him up. We’ve spent far too long in this push and pull. I  just find it really hard to believe that a person can be so busy that they can’t call or text. It makes me wonder–if we had children together, would he get so busy with work that he couldn’t play with them or pick them up from school?

I can’t help use my friend Kam as an example when it comes to being super busy. She’s in the process of pursuing her masters, and as part of her journey this summer she took an unpaid internship at a museum. Between the commute, and her hours there, she came home during the week exhausted. Yet she still managed to have dinner with her family, still managed to respond to group messages, still managed to hang out with her friends during the weekend. She made time for everyone, even if she had to miss a few hours of sleep here and there. And I know she probably feels guilty that she wasn’t able to see everyone before she left for university this weekend.

But what was more extraordinary was that despite how busy she was this summer, she spent a month working (in secret) on my house warming present. When I first bought the house, I mentioned that I really wanted to get a kotatsu–which is essentially a low table with a heater installed that is popular in Japan. I loved the idea of my friends and I hanging out and our toes being toasty warm. She heard this all and when I last saw her, she presented me with my very own kotatsu, made from ( a book lover’s dream) a card catalog.

She spent her free time designing something to my taste, then built it, her family all helped too…she did this for me. And she did it while she was super busy. And I can’t find words to really say how much it means to me…it’s more than the physical gift–it’s the fact that she made time for me. Once again she has given me a lesson on the capacity to love, the depths of love and how love gets us to create cool things because we want the people we love to be happy. And to have warm toes.

So there is this terrible sadness I feel on thinking about Yans and the skill set he lacks to actually love a partner properly. To give this person, me, time. It almost feels like he thinks I will one day leave, so why put in effort? Or the stupid notion that we have plenty of time, so let’s leave it until years from now.

Yans is so busy with abstract concepts of a future life that he is abandoning the life he has now. Perhaps, like the former owner of my house, he is depressed and is letting this go to the wayside. He is focuses on work because work doesn’t ask him to emote. Work doesn’t ask him to be an open feeling person.

So while I contemplate Yans and his lack of connection, I am thankful for the people in my life that not only love me but show me love in different ways. I promise I will treat them to delicious food and spend time with them. People who are never too busy to send you a cat picture or build you furniture or randomly come over to say hi…those are the best kind of loved ones, no?

And you have these people in your life too. They’re there. I know this because you all take time to read blogs, to hit the like button, to leave comments. So you all get a thank you too. Because you are all helping me figure out not just my writing but are helping me become heart wise.

The Bird and The Wolves and The Magic: A Letter to Terry Tempest Williams

Dear Terry Tempest Williams,

I was in Barnes and Noble last week in search for Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ Woman Who Run With the Wolves for a friend as a thank you. I find that this book and Name of the Wind are what I buy constantly for book lovers. If I am buying a gift card to a book store, I buy one of these for them. I love them, therefore, I want to gift them these words.

As I was looking for a copy of Estes’ book, I happened upon your book When Women Were Birds. I was immediately taken by the title and the cover and flipping through it, I was curious to know more. But I was on a budget. The end of August always means I am strapped for cash as I wait for the semester of teaching to begin again. In addition I just bought a home, so all my purchases go to the house via Home Depot. So my little vacation means I don’t buy much, I stay indoors, and I try to be economical with my money. I end up reading lots of books I order from the library.

So I ordered your book from the library and it came today. I began right away and  I am already half way through it. There is so much to annotate. With library books, I use a pencil and bookmarks to mark any of the quotes I want to put up on Twitter and Ello as a way to get people to read the books I’ve read. I have kept my feed on a steady diet of your words, your thoughts, your wings…

I am enjoying discovering the beauty in and of your words:

I am up to the part where you mention your mother’s passing: January 16, 1987. I was born January 3 of same year. I was 14 days old. I think about the life-death-life cycle. The breaths we take.  It was snowing in New York. Our breaths were foggy in the air.

Your book is creating a quiet space in my body, a cavern of thought, of comfort. I’ve already recommended your book to my friend CL and plan on buying copies for my friend Kam as well as others. I plan to hunt for your other books. Like you are with bird watching, I am with books. I search, I savor, I discover and I fly.

It makes me think of Yans but in an opposite way. It makes me think I must think less of him and more of my art, of my magic. It makes me realize that when I talk to him I believe my voice is small, that I am not capable of explaining myself. But I now think my voice is too strong and clear for him. He, perhaps, is not ready for my voice, my song. I have a well defined voice. He is on his journey, absorbed in his work and I have to be let him be. I have to let myself be. I am stardust. My voice is as strong as the stars.

I am thinking of words, and names–these are my wildlife in the city.

Tempest: noun

1. a violent windstorm, especially one with rain, hail or snow
2. a violent commotion, disturbance or tumult

I love the idiom tempest in a teacup. There is a beautiful fierceness in that phrase. I enjoy it. To create commotion, to disturb yet its from nature. It’s like the earth needs to shout and dance and feel alive. Look and feel my power. Weather is a reminder of Mother Earth’s capacity to breathe.

Your book will stick to my ribs, it will make me think and write–it is a book that makes me want to compose.

It makes me smile at my womanhood, it makes me embrace my potential. I may not have a child yet but I am a mother…I have created worlds and have peopled these realms.

I connect more with my water and earth elements, but you have opened a window in me to experience clean pure air and you have ignited fire in me.

I am running. I am flying. I am becoming a tempest.

Thank you.

Jae Dawson

Background on Ean, The False King and Scions of Magic

So the awesome and supportive Tori_Tore, a reader of this blog asked a really great question about Poisoned Wells and the False King in particular. I realize that the story I am presenting to you has thrown you into the world of Dali and there are characters and story lines that have been established in pieces that have come before this story.

I am definitely open to answering all questions. The reason why I am not going to post the actual novels up on the site is because I’d like to get an agent and some agencies don’t want material that has been on blogs or in lit journals. But I wanted to create a fan base for Scions of Magic. Hence, my idea to create a limited edition story for the blog.

With that said, I’m going to try to fill in the blanks for you. So your questions definitely help me do that. So back to Tori_Tore who wanted to know some info about the False King. This is what I wrote in the comments:

The False King actually presents himself in the Salt Water War which was a battle against the tyranny of the King of the Golden Kingdom. This is actually a lost story in the Dali and there are only bits and pieces left. But in this war there was a scholar Ee that was to become the King Magician and he met Saravia. The False King found an opportunity to steal Ee’s body and position–he threw Ee’s consciousness out and took his place. Ee managed to keep himself intact through the process of reincarnation using magic and thus became Ean. The False King usurping Ean’as original position caused tahra to flare up and the Dali began to become brittle. So Ean has reason to be angry with the False King. But as we see in this story, the False King has been punished by the universe already. Actually, I’m going to make this comment a post tomorrow as well as discuss where the Fae and Elves and shifters fit in this world.

Originally, Scions of Magic was a bedtime story I created for Yans. Lots of our interaction has always been via text. Early on, we established bed time rituals, and if I couldn’t sleep, he’d tell me a bedtime story. I love getting stories made just for me, especially at night when I am trying to fall asleep. So one Christmas, I decided to create a story for him. I typed up the story, printed it and made a storybook for him. Honestly, I don’t really know if he’s ever even opened it.

But the story–The Salt Water Chronicles of the Golden Kingdom inspired me to create Scions of Magic, which now has 3 novels, some short stories and this serialization (All of which I am constantly editing and making beautiful in the hopes an agent comes along). In the bedtime story, I used archetypes of characters that I had been developing and nurturing in my head for years. Even Windflower and Southwind make a cameo.

So after dipping my pen for the bed time story and realizing I could create this world, I decided to write the novel. I was hesitant because I mostly worked with short stories and my attempts at novels always ended up with me getting to page 50 and not knowing where else to go. I would hit a certain point and I would revise and draft but I would lose the sense/passion of the story. The plot and the characters didn’t connect.  I was forcing events to happen to my characters. However, Scions of Magic bubbled out of me. I knew these characters, I loved them and I knew I could trust them to take me into this story and this world.

Ean, like I have mentioned in earlier posts, was created because of Yans. I was disheartened with Yans’ actions yet loved the man he was/is. So writing this was my way of dealing with a a difficult situation. It’s my way of grieving as well as searching for the joy of my inner self.

I think that after Poisoned Wells ends, I probably will share with you the original bedtime story, though the Scions of Magic world has shifted and changed and grown. And characters have become well rounded.

As for the Fae and Elves in the Dali:

Elves are very tribe centered and they are very closed off from the rest of the Dali. They are keepers of woods and forests, of wild magic. They rarely have interactions with anything outside their sacred forest areas. There have been a few who have ventured out, traveled. One was captured in the Dazin for experiments but he managed to free himself. Elves are very stoic, it is rare to see one smile–they only do that in the privacy of their tree house with their very, very close kin. They have wild magic but really they are trained warriors, healers…they use the earth.

Fae are an unruly bunch. They all stem from the elements: water, earth, fire, air. However their magic is unique and different based on the fae.  In the old days there were royal houses, but those were eradicated to avoid any rebellion against  Queen Titania. For the most part, fae can’t lie, but many are tricksters and they want to live forever. They spend an enormous time trying to avoid death, much like Ean who spent his time as a child with Queen Titania–he was given to her as a gift, but is soon sent to the Dazin to live a “normal” life. Fae are known to have internal strife in land of Fae, particularly with the Water Fae Clan. Water Fae are more aggressive, they enjoy war, bloodshed and torture. The Queen is water fae so their numbers have grown. Unlike Elves, the Fae have an Awakening which is like puberty but they either grow into their magic or they aren’t strong enough so they de-evolve.

I hope this helps. Again, I love questions because when I am answering them, I am also figuring out the world and how to explain it into words as well as deciding what should be included in my revisions.

Look out for the next installment of Poisoned Wells some time next week!

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 005)

*In the last installment, we watch Peter begin his perilous quest—a quest that is still unknown. In this edition of Poisoned Wells, we’ll leave Peter on the Traveler’s Way and focus on the friend he’s mentioned Caragris, who is sitting in his father’s bookshop/library in Musaal. He isn’t alone, but rather with the Sharu of the Heart & Want, Gavriel now called Windflower.

Caragris is the son of a royal family based on a matriarchal line. His mother Reshi is the main character in the third book in Scions of Magic. Her mother is a character from the second book.

In my drafts of Poisoned Wells, Ean won’t appear…not for a while, but I want to ask the readers—should I have a section at this point in which we check up on Ean’s comings and goings? To see if he knows Sharus are interfering and what he plans on doing about it? Post your thoughts in the comments.

(Actually as I was working on this part, I’ve decided to have a scene with Ean—that’ll be in installment 007/8)

Once again, thank you for reading!*

“Don’t you want me to tell you about your first love?”

“No.” The rest of the sentence was muffled.

“Speak up.”

“Go. Away.”

Windflower sighed and leaned against the table he was primarily speaking to since the boy refused to face him. He really had no time for pre-teens. The ways of their hearts were pure yet fickle. Their love could be as lasting as the earth’s core or as brilliant and dissolving as a snowflake. He was desired at this age but not needed. His city needed him. Bluewing was in the process of being rebuilt. There were so many commissions he needed to oversee. He had vowed that the war would not destroy the city’s art. They were skilled at more than shoving steel into the hearts of their enemies. They were poets and painters. They were invincible in art. This is what made them stronger than the enemy…those idiot water fae lacked imagination if it didn’t involve bloodshed.

And though his husband, Southwind, had promised to tend to the city’s needs, Windflower knew the General valued military safety far above art. Windflower was very afraid that by the time he returned, everyone would be in sensible uniforms that camouflaged blood stains and they’d be living in homes painted a sensible forest green so as to hide from oncoming battalions. Windflower knew very well what his husband was capable of: forts, metal bars, motes, children skillfully wielding swords and dogs in chain mail. He suppressed a smile. He missed his home, but more so his love.

But he was here. And he had promised Saravia to help. Though he had thought things would have gone smoother. He shook his head, making the blue feathers in his hair cuff his cheeks. He’d made sure to shave the sides of his head and braid his hair along the middle like any good travelling Suran*. This was the first time he’d traveled out of his beloved city and was not headed towards a battlefield, so it was only right to look his best.

He lifted the table cloth, his crystal blue eyes adjusting to the dark of the table’s underneath.

“How do you read in there?”

“With my eyes,” the boy said. And Windflower had to admit, that like the boy’s grandmother Anselme, Caragris’ eyes did glow.

He used another tactic: the parental reference. “Matriarch Reshi wants you to explore. To find an adventure, to be careless and wild for once.”

“She may have said that but my mother has also said boys who read become good men. I’m becoming a good man, so if you’ll kindly leave me to my becomings…”

“She also says an adolescent that lives under a table, never venturing out, will live a lonely and sad life with a terrible complexion.”

“My skin is fine. And I’m not lonely. I’m not sad. I have my books here.”

“I’m not saying you have to abandon your books. Why don’t you take them for a walk?”

“You sound ridiculous.”

“You know what I mean. Come out once and a while.”

“I do.”

“Erratically time jumping without control does not count.” Windflower pinned the boy down with a stare, but the boy wasn’t backing down. He held power in his veins from elves, from the royal line, from warriors…the boy’s will was not one that could or would bend easily.

And puberty for those like Caragris, with different lines of power in his blood was a difficult thing—power that needed to be controlled and limbs that didn’t always following instructions, growing pains and heart hurts…

“I says it does count,” he said as if he were wielding steel. Then with narrowed eyes, he asked, “Really, why are you here?”

“Your mother sent me,” he said simply. This was true in a sense. Death had called him and the Matriarch to her dwelling for tea, where she’d let them in on the King Magician’s fun and games. Windflower shook his head at the thought of Ean—when he had first met him, he’d thought the man to be good, if a bit confused and clueless as to how to deal with his temper. But as Ean grew in his power, Windflower’s warmth towards him had cooled. Ean was always wanting, and while it made the Sharu pulse with power, the King Magician’s desires would only lead to war and insanity. It would lead to Southwind’s death and Windflower would not see that happen any time soon.

“She wanted me to talk to you about doing more than just reading. To want things, to desire even the smallest of adventure. To, maybe, fall in love. Love at your age is quite fun.”

“What do you care? You’re not a Sharu anymore. You tossed that aside, no?”

Windflower could hear the laughter of the universe in his ear. He could walk away from his title of Sharu, change his name, stop using his powers, but he would never be able to change what he was made of. He was a Sharu always until the universe said no more.

Windflower peered back under the table, but all he saw were stacks of books. Caragris has tunneled deeper into the dark.

“I came as your mother’s friend and as a diplomat.” Along with Reshi and Head Council Fevla of the Fae, Windflower had been asked to bring back stability to the Dali. They were to work towards reviving the realm and reestablishing the Dali’s former glory: a time without bloodshed. A time where warriors where more likened to dancers than axe wielding heart devourers. Though the Sharu of War, and her constant servant Southwind would not appreciate this. Windflower was still clueless as to how he’d fallen in love with a soldier…still baffled at how he himself became a soldier.

“You’ve wasted your time. Buy a book and go away.”

“Caragris!” Windflower’s voice was no longer dripping with honey and platitudes. He sounded very much like a soldier about to head towards enemy lines. “It astonishes me at how rude your tongue is towards a traveler. Do you insist on throwing our customs under foot? Has your loneliness eaten away at your manners?”

“…” The mumbled whisper was undecipherable.

“Speak freely, Caragris.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Sharu Windflower. But I have what I need…and what I desire here with me. You are welcomed to join me. If not, then please send my regards to General Southwind—I enjoy reading his military strategies and philosophies.”

“Oh child, why are you so adamant in staying hidden?” Windflower let the tablecloth fall and sat cross legged on the table pondering a different approach. “All right. Don’t come out. But let’s talk for a bit. Would that be okay?”

There was a pause. Then the sound of a page turning. “Okay.”

“Don’t read while we’re talking, Caragris. And be kind enough to offer me some tea.”

From under the table there came sounds of grumbling, rummaging, pouring, clinking, and then from under the table came a tray with a lovely porcelain cup containing amber colored tea.

Windflower took a sip. “Thank you.” Then “Do you read about love in your books?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t lovely?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t you want to experience love from the books you read?”

“Of course.” There was a pause. “But if it’s really love, then the person will join me here. They won’t force me to leave from this spot.”

“That seems unfair, no?”

“They’ll understand if they love me.”

“Caragris, does Reshi know just how selfish you are?”

“Leave me alone if you don’t like my answers. I’m not going to say what you want to hear.”

“I don’t want to hear anything. I want you to understand. Life is more than hiding. And love is more than life. Love isn’t easy. It doesn’t let you take the Traveler’s Way. It asks that you jump whole heartedly into the wilderness and create a path. It won’t let you sit nicely and simply breathe. It comes and demands attention. It comes and demands that you be active. That you feel and do with body and mind and soul.” Windflower was breathing hard and he could feel the threads that tied him to the universe’s will pulse. He stood up. “The more you ignore and fight love, the more charming love will become. It won’t play fair. What you use as a shield will disappear without you even noticing. And guess what Caragris, love is coming for you. It will demand action from you and you deny it now but you will follow it to the ends of your being. And I pray that you do because it’s what will keep you safe.”

“…” Caragris mumbled.

“That was a good speech. It deserves an intelligible retort.”

“I said…is that how you felt with Southwind?”

Windflower sat back down. “Yes. For him, I gave up all I knew, all my shields. I didn’t realize that the moment we met, I was already vulnerable to him…”

*Suran: A fierce tribe of fighters. Within these fighters there is a special clan with the ability to shape shift into bears. All Surans, shifters or not, are known for their fealty to Sharus. Their hand to hand fighting techniques are unparalleled. However, they have trouble healing on their own and are weak at magical combat. Well known Suranians: Felix Standing Bear, Happy Silent Bear, Bebe, Snow Bear, Fat Cat, Laughing Bear, Mother Bear, Southwind, Windflower, Will the Imaginier

The Tough Stuff

So I had mentioned before re-potting Ringo some time back and worrying that he might not survive the move. I should’ve been more worried about my mother’s arcane sense of gardening. I should pause to say that her role as a gardener is quite opposite in her role as a mother. Keep this in mind when I mention the knife.

I was worried about Ringo’s growth already due to my mother thumbing him with little care of his roots. Also,  his pot is currently an aluminum pan and it doesn’t have any holes at the bottom. I know most planters have holes or a hole at the bottom to help with excess water (that’s probably not why but I feel like I should give you my explanation even if its not true. I feel confident about that answer and I’m sticking to it). At the kitchen sink, where Ringo lives by the window and my mother was doing the dishes, I mentioned this concern.

To my horror, my mom grabbed a cutco knife, grabbed Ringo and just stabbed at the underside of his pan. She didn’t even pretend to be gentle as she stabbed so hard that the knife poked up from the top soil and just barely missed Ringo’s leaves. Rather than scream bloody murder, I took a deep breath and said to myself well my mother, its obvious to see,  is one for tough love.

If my little strawberry plant can survive and flourish after this rough treatment then it’s obvious he is a strong plant. I think life is like that too. Nothing is perfect, there is always something we have to do without, something we have to figure out, something that asks of us. Life is challenging, we can all agree. And I think we sometimes spend an enormous amount of time complaining about it, and wishing things were perfect.

But perfection is a myth and it’s a boring myth. If Ringo was perfect, if he grew perfect strawberries with no work between us, then I wouldn’t are as much as I do for him. Our relationship is based on us rooting for each other. In fiction, true friendships form over the journey. Think The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings. Perfection wouldn’t have brought these friendships–friends grow on tough love. That is, a good friendship is tough, it weathers droughts, over watered soil, mindless gardeners.

This blog post was simply supposed to be about Ringo and my mother wielding a knife at him, but the more I think about my strawberry plant, the more I have been thinking about Scions of Magic, especially Peter and the friend he’ll be meeting. This friendship will be a compass, a tent, a morsel of food. Love will grow without bounds. I am still in the process of writing this piece and I hope that these two characters can weather the journey ahead of them.

Death, Dying and It’s Capacity To Create Life (Notes on a Sharu)

I’ve actually been working on this post for a while. I wanted this to come out with the latest Poisoned Wells installment because this is where you meet my take on Death. From here on out, you’ll be meeting lots of Sharus–beings that the universe created for humans to understand and experience emotion. But Death by far is the most important.

In the novels, she is the focal character, even when the story isn’t about her. The actions Saravia takes or doesn’t take causes ripples. Her children and her lovers are all part of a bigger plan, a bigger concept of life and the universe.

Lady Death in my series, is beloved by the universe. She is their most cherished child. In my mind, Death is really a gift–she gives us mortality. Mortality makes us cherish each breath, each step, each moment in our lives. She makes us live and makes us love. No, she doesn’t makes us do anything, but rather asks us to choose life and love, to see their importance.

In reality, I’ve been thinking about this post and Death  since I was 12. I grew up reading Neil Gaiman’s The Endless and J O’Barr and yes they rubbed off on me. But my Death isn’t really about shepherding souls from here to the afterlife. My Death doesn’t even own the underworld or, for that matter, knows what happens to them after the River Styx.

Saravia is love. She is life. She is the traditions and rituals we give to our loved ones when they pass. I’ve been to more funerals that I would’ve wanted to and it’s inevitable that I will have to face more…but I’m always moved by the people, by the respect, the dignity, and kindness funerals bring out of people.

Regardless of culture or religion, death moves people towards gentleness. We honor our dead and we are horrified when a person is left unattended. Seeing a loved one pass on is hard and brings an immeasurable amount of grief, but it also shows us how good people truly are. I’ll never forget how my mother cried over her mother at the funeral. To me, my mother is stronger than bone yet here she was lost…she had become an orphan. And here were all these people around my mother to soothe and comfort her. Another example are those that wash and cleanse the dead–again, this is such an intimate ritual, full of love and respect for the person who has moved on.

Saravia, in my realm(Dali), is both hated and loved. Those that spit at her are the ones that are afraid–they believe she will steal their breath. Those that love her know she only tries to get mortals to breathe deeply. They know she isn’t really Lady Death but Lady Life. Though don’t call her “lady” as she’ll tell you she isn’t royalty.

And I know what you’re thinking. What’s up with her and Ean? Well, magic divides them. They disagree as to how they view the universe. Or rather, Ean believes he can control the universe and Saravia, who probably has the power to do so, doesn’t want to control the universe. Why control a power that in its nature is wild and vast and all encompassing?

I think its also hard for Ean to come to terms that eventually he will die. A man with control of all magic…he wants to live forever. He knows that loving Saravia means he has to love that she is Death and, therefore, accept that no matter how prolonged his life, it will end eventually. And he’s scared. He’s lost so much time and power already. He doesn’t want to lose himself again.

I think its okay for people to be scared of death–as much as I champion open discussions about death and dying, I get scared too. The other day it broke my heart to think I might forget all the books I’d ever read. What if in my next life I didn’t like to read?

Being scared only shows us what we cherish and in knowing that we can become brave. Okay so what if I do, in my next life, have no way of reading…what if I became a tree and in my old age I become paper and a beautiful love story is written on me and it’s the most favorite of books by one person. That’s a pretty cool life, no?

What if I become a star and I get to take care of a planet? What if I’m a moon and poets write sonnets about me? The possibilities are endless and they make me brave. And they remind me I’m bigger than I imagine myself to be.

Saravia reminds me I shouldn’t worry about what will happen. I have no authority over that. What I have is this life and I’m going to read as many books as possible. And I’m going to dance while washing the dishes. And visit every ramen shop. And I’m going to get published. I’m going to sit on a panel with Patrick Rothfuss. I’m going to invite Neil Gaiman over for tea. Jenny Lawson pick up the phone because I’m making you watch Farscape with me.

I’m going to have little ones. They’re going to be adorable. And I’ll blog about their adorableness.

And when I die, all of my favorite people will send me off with love from their souls.

It only saddens me that there are people in this world that won’t get that. And its unfair. And I would say don’t let the people around you die alone.

Yans played a stupid joke on me recently (I considered writing a post about it, but couldn’t) and it had to do with death and dying. And even though it was a joke, I knew that I’d never let him be alone.

I think it’s okay to talk about death, dying and what might happen to us in the after. I think it’s okay to be an atheist or a to believe in a higher power. I think it’s all okay as long as it’s based on creating dignity and love in the last moments of breath.

Saravia represents this…the Sharu of Death is the warmth that encompasses every person in the end because every person deserves to feel safe, and loved, and given the dignity that all life deserves.

Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 004)

Bonus Installment this week of Scions of Magic! I couldn’t help share this section with you. Also, later tonight, I’ll be posting thoughts on Saravia. Enjoy!

*In the last section, we met Peter. Currently he is starting a journey that he thinks is of his own free will but has been ordained by the King Magician. In this section readers will be meeting a very important character of the entire Scions of Magic series and there will be an extra post to discuss how important, Saravia (the Sharu of Death) really is.*

From Claray’s main crop field, and past the town, via a shortcut through the shallow part of the forest, Peter made his way toward Pedrina’s River. The bridge was of solid pine and showed signs of repeated patches from both skilled and unskilled hands. The river and wind weren’t kind to the bridge, but the people tried to be.

It was a surprisingly long bridge. The river itself wasn’t very deep, but it was wide and the currents played roughly with the sharp rocks. Perhaps a person could cross over without the help of the bridge but not with their goods and not without receiving various bruises and cuts.

Peter was surprised to find the passage empty. Normally it was its own town. There were always beggars sitting at various points, waiting for a morsel of rice or a coin to buy bread. There was always a woman selling jam from her basket. Lovers gazing at the water in a daydream. Families encumbered with packages to visit Old Mother. But on this particular day, it was empty of people.

Except for a pretty, dark-haired woman at the start of the bridge. She was leaning against it as she peered at the rushing water below. Most of her body was tipped over and if she sneezed, she’d tumbled over and onto the rocks. The fall wasn’t far at this part of the bridge, but she’d land face first. Bones would shatter. Fear would strike. Drowning more than possible. Peter cringed at the thought of her face streaked with blood. But if he called out, she might startle and topple over.

Before he could think of a proper solution, the woman straightened and turned to face him. He inhaled and sighed audibly at her smile. She was beauty that he’d only ever seen in the memories of his past lives. Surely she was there at his first breath. Was with him the first time he climbed a dangerously tall tree. Was the moon’s glow he used to illuminate his path at night during his small but elaborate adventures about town. His heart thumped evenly, with ease, and he was aware of the way it directed the blood throughout his body. She made him very aware of everything, even the way his feet took it upon themselves to move toward her, to move closer to her.

“H—hello,” he croaked. He swallowed wondering when he had eaten chalk.

“Hello. Are you going to walk over the bridge, by any chance?” Her voice was even-tempered but strong. It held numerous possibilities—she wasn’t just one thing. This made Peter instantly like her.

He nodded. She frowned and it made Peter’s heart expand ever so slightly but he still felt the pain nonetheless. “Would you like company? Aren’t you young to wander alone?”

He huffed and puffed out his chest. “I turned 12 yesterday. The age of adulthood. I could join an army.”

She nodded, “I have found it’s the age of running towards dangerous dilemmas. Most perilous of age, I’d say.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been 12 for a day. Nothing terrible to report so far.” Peter stood a bit straighter. “And you really can’t talk. You shouldn’t be alone either. How old are you? 17?”

She laughed and he swore the bells of the universe were ringing around her. “Even at 12, you have a silver tongue. You’re very kind to say I’m youthful. But I have a grown son and…” Then she whispered, “A daughter on the way.”

Peter arched his eyebrow. “You don’t look very pregnant.” He pointed at the woman’s midsection. “I’ve seen pregnant women. The blacksmith’s wife is pregnant now and she’s gotten so big that the midwife told her to stay in bed. I bring her letters from her women kin. She lets me have tea with her.” She’d also let him touch her belly and he’d been surprised to feel four separate hands press towards him.

“It’s still early. I’d like to keep it a secret—don’t tell anyone.”

“Who would I tell?”

“True. But promise anyway.”

“Okay. Promise.”

She nodded. “You do know promises are import—”

“I always keep my word! You don’t have to tell me about promises.” He yelled. “What kind of men are you around that you need to explain promises, huh?!”

His shouting didn’t cause her to back away but rather to lift a brow as she said, “And what gentlemen normally shouts at a lady he has just made acquaintance with? What women are you around that allow you to yell like that?”

He opened his mouth wide to argue, to disagree, to defend himself but grimaced instead. “I’m sorry.” He lowered his head, but she lifted his face up by the chin. She was smiling.

“It’s okay. How about you make it up to me. Be my escort across the bridge? Please?”

“Of course, that’s easy.” He smiled relieved that he hadn’t mucked things up with the pretty stranger.

“Thank you.” They moved to a small box by the first post. “What’s your name?” She extracted two sticks of incense, lighted them with a whispered spell and then handed one to Peter, who watched her carefully. He wanted to learn simple magic. It would be part of this adventure. He’d decided. He didn’t need a school if he kept his eyes open and observed carefully. Secretly he knew he didn’t have the talent for magic—that he could coax cows to milk but to pull energy from the air wasn’t an easy feat for him. But he would try. Stories were always better if the main character tried, no?

With the incense held in hands of prayer, they began to walk across the bridge.

“Peter, happy birthday.”

“It was yesterday.”

“Still. Birthdays are very important. It’s good to accept all well wishes. I love birthdays.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I’m just excited at my little one’s arrival. But birthdays mean promises, wishes, life, breath.” She paused. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

“Ahh. I guess that’s why you’re travelling alone.”

“I guess.” He didn’t want to tell her about Annie, though he knew if he did mention her, the stranger would understand. She would find the words to comfort him. But he didn’t want to be comforted about losing Annie. He didn’t want to acknowledge it until he was older, when he could see her and smile without sadness. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes. 2 brothers. One older, one younger.”

“So then why are you travelling alone?”

She smirked. “You’re astute, no?” She shrugged. “They are quite busy…no, actually they’re not busy at all. They spend most days doing nothing…sitting and searching for…” She waved her hand. “Tra la la.”

“Oh”

“Where are you headed?”

“Musaal”

“That’s here Gali’s library is, no?”

“Yup. I’m friends with his son.”

“And do you know Matriarch Reshi? I hear she is quite lovely.”

He nodded. He had met her when she was still part of the sentimental, circus. He had seen her perform for Lord Claray Benoit. She’d floated. She’d swayed in time with his heart and it was she who  had made  Annie long for ballet shoes. Peter had made a promise to himself that he would buy her a pair. He realized that he might still be able to fulfill that promise. It didn’t matter if Annie threw them away or didn’t care for that dream anymore—at least she would receive them and know that he would always think fondly of her. Peter shook his head. Why was he thinking this way? As if he would never see her again? Because adventurers were risk takers and they never knew if they would return.

“Are you all right? You became pensive all of a sudden.”

He nodded. “I’m okay. A bit cold,” he fibbed.

“Do you want my shawl?”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if took a pregnant woman’s shawl?!” He did his best not to yell.

“Pfft. The baby keeps me warn enough.” She threw the shawl over his shoulders. Lavender. She smelled like a field’s worth. Then asked, “If you’re going to Musaal, wouldn’t it do you well to take the south path?”

“Too out of the way. Too long a walk.”

“But it’s much safer, no?”

“I can fend for myself.” He shrugged like he’d seen travelers do at the local inn when asked about bandits or tahra lairs.

“Perhaps you can, Peter…but there are things you can’t account for. Being brave isn’t enough.”

“I can also run fast.”

She smirked. “That is a fine trait to have.”

“Are you a fast runner?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have much need to run. It’s typical, I find, anything that can run will run to me sooner or later.”

“Why?” Though he knew why—who wouldn’t want to run through a field of lavender? He wondered if she had a husband and what he thought about her travelling alone where someone braver, better looking, kinder could turn her head. If he had a woman like this…Peter wouldn’t have her wandering about alone.

She shrugged. And squeezed his fingers gently. At some point, he’d let the urge to hold her hand become an actual action. Her fingers felt strong, cool while her palm was warm. He could feel her bones under the skin, so delicate, yet he knew how strong bones were. Especially the bones of mothers. They were stronger than any soldier, any magician. He squeezed back lightly. This was what the kids felt, what they had, but weren’t aware of. Why should they be aware of someone who was forever by their side? Mothers, for the other children, were constant.

“You’re very brave.”

He wanted to tell her most kids were, but he didn’t want to diminish the compliment she’d given him. So Peter simply smiled.

“Would you like me to tell you a story?”

She told him about Pedrina and how she came to owning a river. The woman knew a lot about the mermaid, about mermaids in general. And she told the stories well, full of suspense. Even though Peter knew the stories, he found himself holding his breath at Pedrina’s scale upward to the sky. As the story winded down, Peter knew this woman was a good mother and would be again. He wanted to compliment her but he didn’t want to interrupt her train of thought. Would she invite him to dinner with her family? What was her family like? Surely she had a good son and maybe her husband was working hard which was why he couldn’t travel with her. Perhaps they owned a farm. Or perhaps they were simple magicians and were from the university. Perhaps they were scholars or instructors. Good storytellers came from the university. Peter was very curious to see where she dwelled, where she travelled, where she left her love.

“We made it! And not one water spirit tried to lure us to an unfortunate drowning.” She pulled Peter to a grassy clearing and they sat together. He followed suit and sat cross-legged. They had a good view of the dirt road indicating the Traveler’s Way.

“Aren’t you in a hurry?”

“Not particularly. The Sharu of Time is good to me. I seem to always be on time. I’m always where I am supposed to be.” She stretched. “Today you’re on an adventure, no? So you are in a hurry, but I’d like to give you a parting gift since you were so kind in keeping me company.”

She began to braid blades of grass together into a tight and intricate pattern. “Danger is always lurking for those on adventure. You can be young and brave, but remember a bit of fear will keep you safe.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t need fear. My friend’s got plenty for the two of us. If I didn’t go visit him, he’d just stay under his table reading about the world.”

She laughed. “All right. You’re far too confident for me to say otherwise. I’m glad you will be taking your friend along. I think that’s a good plan. Adventurers need companions.” She tied the bracelet around his wrist. “Keep this on until we meet again.”

“When will that be?”

“I think not for a very long time.”

“I hope not.”

She went to say something but instead squeezed his hand one more time and then sent him on his way. At least he was taking the main road. She had thought of giving him coin for the train but he wouldn’t have taken money not earned.

Saravia, the Sharu of Death, sighed. Ean was being foolish. The journey was far too dangerous for the King Magician, so imagine a boy like Peter. The amount of water spirits clamoring to grab at his ankles had surprised her. They would’ve drowned him had she not interfered. Glimpsing back at the bridge, they were still clamoring unto the sides of the pathway, grinning and gyrating. Beckoning the naïve to take a swim that lasted forever. She sternly pointed back at the water until they snarled and shuffled back into the dark underbelly of the river. How many more dangers would Peter attract?

She was pleasantly surprise to find where the woods began the Sharu of Time stood waving at her. She smiled. It was his way of saying she couldn’t interfere anymore. She’d protected the child over the bridge and gave him a gift of mindfulness. That was all she could do. As she walked over to her Sharu kin and fell into his solid embrace, she smirked. Perhaps she couldn’t interfere, but there was perks to having so many kin, no?

Charlie and the Typewriter

Dearest Charles Bukowski,

You know I’m part of your readership. I’ve read you since high school, argued to have you a part of my MFA education and always taught you during my poetry classes. Your words are just as visceral to me now as the first time I discovered them. The closest to your work would be Kurt Sutter. You would’ve loved him.

I have a picture of you on my nightstand–you and Alex King. You are the two men I regret never meeting. You two inspired my writing, make me love the simple act of creating and make me feel okay with wearing my heart on my sleeve. You have always made me want to write, to love words, to listen to the stories around me.

But to be fair I wouldn’t have talked shop with you. I would’ve simply liked to have danced with you. You were 73 when I was 7. Had you only lived anther 11 years. We could’ve tangoed. I have dresses in my closet I know you’d have liked on me. I would’ve asked you not to write a poem about me though. Dancing together would’ve been poetry enough.

I just read the newest collection of your letters. On Writing. I’ve got to be fair with you (and I know you’ll understand and appreciate my honesty), it wasn’t a great collection. The editor had a concept in mind but it didn’t always seem cohesive. Your letters were chopped up a bit and, at times, things got muddied or repetitive.

I’m not saying I would’ve done any better as an editor, but having read a majority of your work, I’ve always enjoyed your detailed and short pieces. They leave me satisfied with the morsels yet desirous to hear more. The collection demanded a thesis from your letters and the humor was lost. Your thesis and ideas were lost.

But there were some damn good letters in the collection–though I’d read them before and they seemed better in the older letter collections published. I got more out of them years earlier in these large tomes because I had to sift through so many letters. So the sentences that inspired me were well earned.

The letters I did read in this edition, and I don’t know if I should feel happy or sad, made me think of Yans. That image of you sitting in front of your typewriter–writing and drinking…Yans does that a lot too. But unlike you, he hates what he writes and throws it away. Doesn’t let anyone see it. Recently, if I read a word of what is on his desk, he promptly crumbles it up and throws it in the trash.

There were plenty of times you hated your work, but you still sent them to readers, to magazines–rejection sucked but it helped you get better as a writer. I think of you when I sit down to submit work to various publications. These things makes us stronger, no?

But he is drinking so much. By his desk is a bag with bottles and ties. I worry he is getting sick. There are days where is seems strong. But more days when he feels weak and lost, sick and wanting of death. I wish I could write a better life for him, but he isn’t one of my characters. He’s a person, a person I love. So I’m mad that he is drinking too much…just like I’m mad at you for drinking so much. If you weren’t able to dance with me, then I want to dance with him. I worry we won’t have any time to do so.

Tonight you have made me think of writing, of Yans, and of words. Words I could only tell you. I think I’ll be in love with you until all the stars grow cold.

One day, we’ll meet, so your shoes better not pinch if we are to dance.

With more love I ever imagined I’d have (so much so, Yans would be jealous of you),

Jae Dawson

Scions of Magic: Poisoned Wells, Imaginiers Save Us From (Serialization 003)

*Ean is planning to go against the universe’s wishes to destroy him. He has ignored even the False King’s warnings. We’ve left our hero to plotting and planning. In this section, we will be meeting Peter, a minor character from the third Scions of Magic book. Here he is given his own adventure and he becomes a major character. Peter is the naïve Ean is looking for.*

It was Peter’s birthday. Well, to be specific, yesterday was Peter’s birthday but today was the day he would be getting a very special gift.  A gift only he could give to himself. He was going on an adventure. And not the pretend ones he’d hunted and rooted out for around town. Not the runs he’d made as Claray Benoit’s messenger. Not in the stories the circus folk had told him during their yearly journey to Claray Court to reaffirm Lord Claray Benoit’s favor. No, he was going to travel. He was going to create an adventure away from the lands of his birth.

He’d asked Annie to go with him. But she had said no. She had turned 12 a month before and it seemed that her birthday was the last day of mirth. All fun had been siphoned with the change of age. All Annie ever talked about was chores. About mending, about etiquette lessons, about earning enough to buy a new dress in town. Lately all she ever did with her free time was to look dreamily at Claray’s estate and castle…as if one day soon she’d be living alongside Lady Benoit as opposed to being a simple laundry girl. Annie no longer dreamt big—to become a ballerina, to write books, to be more than a hand maiden that could catch a Lord’s eye.

Peter remembered well how Annie spoke with excitement at the prospects of joining the circus, of apprenticing under Reshi, of learning to make art with her body. They’d both discussed learning how to juggle and how to tell fortunes. But then winter came and then she became quiet. She no longer was keen to run through the snowy woods in search for hidden treasures.

Despite what people thought boys were heart-wise and, because of this, Peter knew Annie had changed and she wouldn’t be changing back. Things between them would not get better. They’d be forever kind to one another, and maybe if he stayed, followed her lead loyally, when she was broken hearted over a travelling lord, if he left her with child and no coin, Peter could use the love they had as children to offer her a home. Peter was heart smart to know that possible future wasn’t fair. They both had dreams. And though Annie’s had changed for something closer to their birthplace, Peter’s heart couldn’t stay here, hoping Annie’s dreams would fail. If she wanted a lord, he hoped she found one that loved her. He wanted her to be happy. But he wanted to be happy too. They couldn’t compromise, they couldn’t offer each other alternatives to the dreams they desired. So Peter was going on an adventure today.

He’d had an odd dream the night before, of the King Magician inviting him to a table of meat and mead, of poached fruit and buttered bread. And as Peter ate, the King Magician mentioned stories, of his travels. Everything felt so real. So unlike his normal dreams. The fruit was sweet. The meat gamey. The stories full of details he’d never heard before. How the King Magician described Lady Death. Lord Ean knew exactly how many eyelashes Saravia had and the exsct shade of her eye color. Peter was fascinated. He wanted more.

Before Peter was waking, Ean invited him to share a secret. To find an adventure. And Peter’s heart couldn’t do anything but oblige. Annie would’ve called him silly to run off because a dream told him to. But the dream hadn’t told him to do anything…it inspired him. But as excited as he was, he didn’t want to go alone, so he planned to convince another friend.

While he packed his rucksack, Ean sat on Peter’s roof (invisible, of course) braiding grass together; he was weaving the trail he intended Peter to take. He didn’t want the course too perilous. He couldn’t have the child dying before he secured what Ean needed. Peter needed to get to Seinseyabo Library. He just needed the boy to enter the space where the oldest books and scrolls of the Dali held court. It even held a copy of Destiny’s tome. And he was very curious to know what those pages held. Ahh…to know what was planned would ensure Ean that he could plan to stay alive and without harm.

Ean frowned at the braid. It was too simple…and it would surely arouse the curiosity of Sharus. He began another braid that he’d twist around the first. He was tying the ends when Peter left the home he shared with his great aunt. He became wind and tied the bracelet to Peter’s rucksack before he moved on towards the Dazin. He decided to visit his sister and his niece. He wanted a strong cup of coffee and to visit the world he’d once called home.

*Terms*

Sharu: Sharu: In many of the history books, Sharus are compared to as angels. This is incorrect. Angels and Sharus are different. In the Salt Water Chronicles of the Golden Kingdom, Aiel Sedai defines the Sharus perfectly as:

beings who birthed humans and who were born of humans, who were of the spiral and, therefore,  tasted the bitterness of the human fall, the human loss, the human death…all this weighed greatly on the Sharus. Without humans, the Sharus would die out and without Sharu, the humans would cease to be.
Sharutan: creators of imbalance. Created by taint. It is the only thing that can truly cause a Sharu to cease to exist. In the Salt Water Chronicles of the Golden Kingdom, Aiel Sedai states:

A Sharutan was something from the underbelly of human consciousness. The negation of all that was human.

What Would Ann-Margret Do?

I’m an Audrey Hepburn fan. I love her movies, her style, her grace. My favorite movie of hers isn’t Charade, or Breakfast at Tiffany’s but rather Love in the Afternoon. It’s a film about a young girl that falls for the same cad that her private eye father is sent to keep tabs on. Any time the movie is on television, I watch it. There is something perfect about cinematography, the humor, the dialogue that always keeps me focused.

Most times, it plays on a channel that is targeted towards 55+ and they literally have commercials that say these are movies for 55+, which then makes me questions what I am doing with myself. And I begin to wonder what 28 year old normal girls watch.

With some time off from work (I have an actual vacation for once!), I tuned into the particular channel. I figured I’d finish reading my Irene Adler mystery and catch an old movie. I was met with my newest obsession: Ann Margret.

I was watching Made in Paris and honestly, I wasn’t really paying much attention, but then she began to sing and then she danced. And though the ending was cheesy and predictable, Ann Margret was not. She was sexy yet not trashy. Provocative but not stupid. She was strong and sassy while also being sweet, ladylike…she was lovely. Lana del Rey as a similar physical look and I could imagine her singing Ann Margret’s songs, but Lana seems sad even when she smiles. Ann Margret exudes the silver lining even when she’s in tears.

I ended up watching Pleasure Seekers and, again, while it wasn’t the best movie, she caught my attention as struggling singer in Spain (say that 5 times fast). I was discussing this with a friend and she was like of course I know Ann-Margret. She’s super popular and cool. And she has an affair with Elvis. I don’t really care much for the Elvis trivia, but I am curious as to why she happened to fall into my line of vision all of sudden.

From my stories and the things I love to read, I have found that the universe is always keeping it’s eye out on you. They throw things at you that you might need at the moment. For example, you have a bad break up and all of a sudden you happen to fall into an anime that helps you with the grieving process. The anime itself is goofy and has nothing to do with your actual life, but it allows you to escape.

Or you pick up a book, but you aren’t into it. But then months later, you rediscover it and you are ready for it. I believe the universe has a hand at that. It goes this person needs this right now.

So Ann Margret has appeared and it’s funny because she makes being beautiful–really beautiful, like radiating from the soul loveliness–easy and simple. Her characters just act like themselves. They are comfortable in their own skin and in their own desires. They root for themselves.

I think I have to be prouder of myself. Especially when it comes to Yans. I shouldn’t be the woman he wants, but be the woman I am and the woman I want to be…and I should be confident that the woman I truly am is good enough for the universe. I have always patted myself on the back for being a hard worker or honest, but I am also interesting and I can be flirty in my own way. I guess what I am saying is that we are allowed to call ourselves cool. We should feel as confident as Demi Lovato’s Cool for the Summer song feels.

I think Yans is struggling to be a good man, to be a man he is proud of. It isn’t enough that I’m proud of him. Every person wants to make themselves proud. I think that is an okay endeavor. But if you are faltering at being proud of yourself, you also have to fall back on the people that love you. They will make a list of the awesomeness that you bring forth. I was re-watching Pleasure Seekers with Kimchi and she was like your body type isn’t too far off of Ann Margret’s. And I was like pfft. But it made me feel like wow, the people I think are awesome, think I’m awesome too. I’m allowed to be proud of my awesome.

Like Rupaul says: how the hell you going to love anyone if you can’t love yourself.

Cue dance music, drag queens dance and lip sync, Rupaul breaks into a laughter that can only be described as diamonds falling to the earth like rain.