1/26/2015
Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death, but I intend not to mourn but to celebrate her life as it is now…ethereal and perfect.
Last night I was shown a white feather, which I instinctively knew meant that a message of great importance or some significant piece of information would be brought to me within 24 hours. This morning my husband caught up on the mail and brought me a small package…something I had ordered from my last session with R.
It arrived, wrapped in cardboard piping with eons of packing tape to protect its wayward edges and precious cargo. At first glance it said little to me other than the melancholy doodling’s of a man lost in his own demons and phantasies.
It was written in 1965…just after and just before. On its cover a road map to his kills. It was so clear that I almost missed it– so blatant that it was almost insult…so fiendishly clever that no one else has ever made the segue…until now.
Why?
Because fools of another nature were naive enough to think the dead do not display their deeds. Because they believed in their infantile megalomania that the poetry of the soul could disguise as it divulged the deeds of the demon. That it could protect the architect of the trinity and the engravings in blood.
Every year they came up and died upon the rocks.You used her finger…traced it with its bloody stump… a perfect match to the purple mountain’s majesty, sent out into the world by envelope and postcard to announce the arrival of all things red.
Not so clever now are we?
The tapestry has begun to unravel and X marks the spot…or shall we say…spots. So many I can barely keep count of them. Like a traveling Dalmatian who wandered the nation in search of a safe place to rest you have finally come home…not to where it all began, but it it all was inspired.
The Green Man would be pleased.
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