Erulisse Dances

It was an unassuming exterior. She had learned long before about blending into the societies in which she set up her practice. After all, any entity needing her services would be able to get through the wards she had set up around her residence. Still, her business also had its’ share of thrill-seekers; curious groups of students, timid would-be suitors and occasional lonely hearts. It was these people who paid the money she paid to the City of New York.

Her other customers, those from alternative realities or other dimensions gave her the items from which she paid the Magikal Dimensional Council. In turn, the MDC awarded her the license to practice in the other realms and dimensions. Funds also had to be paid to the Magikal Protective Guild (the MPG was NOT to be confused with the MDC) which assigned her “cat” to her. The “cat” having the appearance of a grey tabby, was a younger sprite tasked with her safety. On rare occasions the “cat” had frightened away people intent on robbery or worse. The MPG dues, renewed annually, were a bit steeper.

They would have been less if she was practicing in Minneapolis, but she loved New York City. To meet these pecuniary requirements, she sometimes had to provide them with a subject for experimentation or fill a cage for a special courier with a selection of rats or other critters to take back to the alternative dimension. She didn’t enjoy thinking about the fate of these beings, large or small, but the MPG and the MDC needed the beasts for some of their spells, and she had a business to protect.

She had inherited her powers from her mother, of course. Witchcraft always passed through the maternal line, although not all magic users were female. The methods she used in her craft had been honed over many years of practice, and she had tried many different styles and types before settling down to tea readings and Tarot card spreads. The cards she used were from a deck that had finally adopted her after she had tried more than 20 different old and new decks. Her deck hummed in her hands; shuffling the cards always built up a charge in her body that cleared out her sinuses as well as her “magical” pathways.

Smiling, she poured the hot water in with the tea leaves. She preferred a personal mix of two teas – a green tea named Gyokuro, and a black called Kamari. These specially selected teas balanced each other and assisted her focus. She often read the tea leaves for her clients. Most people enjoyed the slight taste of brown sugar and nuts the Kamari tea was renowned for.

Shuffling the deck, she pulled a random card, placing it face down onto the table in front of her. Continuing to shuffle, she pulled additional cards, placing them into a specific pattern. This reading was for herself – a daily ritual to guide her through the day ahead. As she prepared to turn the cards over one-by-one, the bells above the shop door rang out a warning. She wrapped the cards in a silke wrap as a baritone voice, trembling slightly, called out a tentative “Hello?”

“One moment,” she called. Putting the cards back onto the table, she put the saucer on top of her teacup in an attempt to keep the beverage warm and moved into the sales area.

This room was her main money-maker. Decks of Tarot cards, incense – both stick and cone, and jars of medicinal herbs of all types, cluttered every surface and shelf in the small street-level room. Hanging down from the high ceiling were silk scarves and bundles of herbs, kept out of easy reach while they finished drying. Other shelving held sprays of feathers, various animal claws, and crystal points, as well as talismans, incense sticks and cones, books on Tarot and alchemy, and small statuary used in personal shrines. It was a bit of “industrial chic meets Wiccan”, i.e. a jumble, but it suited her well.

Stopping short, when she saw who had walked into her store that morning, she gasped. “My Lord! How may I be of service to the King of the Fae?”

The King, for indeed it was he who had entered her shop, turned gracefully toward her. “I need your assistance, as well as your advice, if you please.”

“Of course,” she said, as she bowed deeply. “If you would pass through to the inner room, I will close the shop so that we might be uninterrupted.” The King nodded slightly and moved toward the hanging curtain separating the public area from her divination room.

After locking the door and turning the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED”, she passed into the back room. “Would you care for tea, your Highness?” she asked before taking her chair. The King shook his head, so she proceeded to her chair and sat, waiting for the King to speak.

“Actually,” he began, “perhaps a cup of tea wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.” “Of course. Immediately,” she responded, and moved to the hot water still in the electric kettle at the back of the room. “Do you have a specific tea you prefer?”

The King made no specific request, so she made a pot of her favorite blend, which he seemed to enjoy as he took his first sip of the hot beverage. “I apologize for taking away any custom you might have received this afternoon, but I have a dilemma and hope you might assist me.”

“How may my poor skills help you, Sire?”

“My youngest daughter is missing. I have had the guard and my knights out looking for her for two days now, and there has been no sign. If she had been taken by an enemy, I’m quite sure I would have heard about it, or her remains would have been found prominently staged. But my soldiers and soothsayers can find no sign of her. From that, I assume that she came here, to your lands, where my powers are weaker.”

He sighed and continued. “It’s not as though I haven’t other children; over the millennia I have sired hundreds.” He shook his head and continued, his eyes a bit glassier than before. “She is … well, she is dear to me. She brings joy to all who meet her; enchants them without thought or effort. My Court is in mourning. We are missing the brightness that she brings.”

“She sounds special indeed. How does she present in the human world?”

“As a young woman, before children or marriage have aged her.” The King nodded, envisioning his youngest. “She has embraced the modern world, especially music. Although she plays a variety of instruments, she prefers to listen to the music of your world, especially this singer called Taylor Swift. She has trained all the court musicians to play the songs of this Swift, and dances under the moonrise to them.”

“Ah. Taylor Swift is scheduled to play this very night here in New York City. If she truly is a ‘Swiftie’ as her fans are called here, she more than likely will be in attendance.”

“That will be simple, then. I can just cast a finding spell in the venue, find her and bring her back home. No-one will know the difference.”

“Ummm, I beg to differ, your Highness. Are you aware of how many people attend these concerts? The arena, Met Life Stadium, will hold more than 80,000 screaming “Swifties” who follow her every move, know every word of every song, will be dressed in brilliant colors and festooned with bracelets up each arm as well as others nearby to give and to trade. It’s a festival of goodwill pulled together by music. I’m sure your daughter will have a wonderful time, but I’m also sure you’ll find it almost impossible to locate her until after the show ends for the night.”

She saw that the Elven King was a bit distraught at the news. “Your Highness, may I suggest something?”

“You come highly recommended, which is why I am here today. How can I find my daughter and return her to us in the Fairy realms?”

“Allow her attend this concert. Let her attend and scream along with the multitude, dance, sing, trade her bracelets and generally act human for one night. She can go back to the court revived, and ready to take up her tasks once again tomorrow. Send out a beacon. She will follow it and find you here when the concert is over. Both of you will be the better for the experience.”

“I had been told that you were wise, and as much as I don’t like the advice you are offering, I can see the wisdom in it. I will send my lieutenant to this building. He will cast a beacon to guide her to us when she has finished dancing with the mortals.” He looked at her sharply. “You are certain that she will be safe among these people?”

“I’m quite sure she has powers of her own that will protect her from any mortal meaning her harm. It might be a beneficial experience for both of you. She will have the opportunity to spread her wings a bit, and you will allow her to have just enough leash for the experience of her long lifetime. Your wisdom will be celebrated even more than it is now, and she will have a memory that will never die.”

“That is wisdom, indeed”, the King said. “Might I have more of your delicious tea, and perhaps I will indulge in a reading after all.” They smiled at each other as she got up to fetch the teapot. It would be a long night, but it could prove to be an interesting one.

 A QUEST FOR SELF-IDENTITY – aka NO TIME FOR BOREDOM



I’m a 70-year-old white middle-class woman with adequate means, a 45-year-old marriage, a beautiful house (older, but quite serviceable for us), and no children (by choice). In my past, I’ve had four dogs and three cats, although I’m dreadfully allergic to cat dander. I’ve got a general BA Degree and a specialized MA in Anthropology. My personal goals as I was growing up were straightforward – a basic college education (my Father insisted on that one), and an appreciation for the arts (a strong point of my Mother’s).

The information I’ve imparted in the beginning paragraph, although accurate, doesn’t even begin to describe the person I am, however. It describes my public exterior – the surface that we all wear like a mask in a play. The mask that we use to interact with other people, whether well known or total strangers.

How often do we allow our complete selves to peek through the cracks, shine out from our eyes, guide our hands, and temper our voices with the correct words to say to others? Do you allow your “real” self to shine through? If yes, do you get support for that aspect of your personhood, or are you strongly encouraged to replace the covering rock once again?

Over my lifespan I’ve experienced both responses. My parents fell into the first category. I can’t claim that they understood me, but I knew I had their absolute support in almost any endeavor I decided to attempt. I also knew that if it required anything from them – money, a place to crash for a day or two, or just a kind voice on the other end of the phone – it would be there.

I married, expecting to receive the same support. DH and I had lived together as students for two years, survived our Comprehensive Examinations and my oral defense of my thesis (his orals and thesis weren’t complete until six months after I graduated). When we lived together as students, he was encouraging, expressed interest in anything I was doing, and seemed willing to throw himself into something new if I wanted to examine it.

But as he aged, and life responsibilities weighed heavily on him – paying for our house (whichever house we were living in at the time), taking care of his aged parents, and being the only “responsible” male in his family for years – his mindset narrowed and the fun person I had married became the solemn businessman I’m partnered with today.

While I was trying to expand my artistic vision into new areas, new trends and new techniques; he was narrowing his viewpoint while erecting a non-physical fence with a single gate that he guarded carefully.

I pushed and prodded myself, and with the help of friends, courses, and teachers at trade shows like the Bead & Button Show, I created - finding out what artistic things I loved to make, and which would be done once or twice and then not repeated. I made lots and lots of artwork, utilized many different types of techniques and media, and fed my creative side – the side that gives me reasons to live.

He, meanwhile, learned the tricks and trade of finance – the stock market and investments. He created our safety-blanket, but in doing this, by worshipping at the Altar of Money, he lost the person he used to be. It was a necessary sacrifice for our security, but it is leaving him isolated now, in his late years, when he realizes he has no real friends and no real activities of interest to him.

I still hold hope that I’ll be able to leave my business behind me and return to the things I love best – making artwork for the sake of the making, learning new techniques, teaching on occasion, and expanding myself through my personal artistic vision.

I hope that in retirement, he can allow himself to expand a bit if he doesn’t have a daily job to go to, but I think there’s an equal chance that he’ll be horribly bored. I guess that’s the kernel of our differences – I’m NEVER bored; there are always a multitude of things that I can do. I’m a multimedia artist and there’s always something that I can create or design. If I’m not designing or creating or writing, I’ve got my nose in a book. Books are my constant companion since I first learned to read. He declares himself "bored" all the time, and relies on the Television or his computer games to occupy his time. I wonder who will die of boredom first? I’m pretty sure it won’t be me.

I bin called on me tale many times, but to the folks ‘round here, it’s just common sense. It’s not like none o’ em haint seen strange things a-goin’ on ‘round these parts. Hippies or “Moon Puppies,” or what’er they call theirselves these days, gather at the ol’ quarry every full moon. Maybe it’s witches. “Wiccans” they call theirselves these days. Like “witches” ain’t good ‘nuf for ‘em. Witches was plenty good ‘nuf for Grandpa ‘n Gamma. Don’t need no fancy terms to be spoutin’ off ‘n provin’ your worth. Not in these parts.


Like I said, it’s jus’ common sense. When the moon’s full, stay outta the woods. Stay in the town proper, or in a snug house with the lights on. If’n the ‘lectrical ain’t working well, light a fire and use them oil lamps. We all have ‘em. City folk call ‘em “New Age”. We know, tho. We know them oil lamps kept those bogies away fer centuries before you could just flip a switch. And that ‘lectrical stuff – it don’t work in the downpours we get. Ever’ summer ‘round Solstice the wires fail, so there ain’t no power nohow.


Ma, she taught us right, me, me brothers and sisters. On the hard nights, the ones right around Solstice times – them that she always called the Long and the Short days – she’d light a fire in the hearth and made sure she had plenty o’ kindling around. She’d put rosemary and sage ‘round the windows and doors, ‘n scatter evergeen fronds ‘round the barns. She made sure the beasts were bedded down early and locked each stall. It wouldn’ do to lose any animals – they worked fer us, fed us, and helped us with the crops every year. Our animals are kin, needin’ our protection.


When all ’a the prep work was done, we gathered in the main house for a meal, then settled down on blankets all ‘round the main room. No-one was alone those nights. We’d stay together. “There’s strength in numbers,” Ma’d always say, as she checked each door and window, scatterin’ herbs across the thresholds and sills.


The wind down the chimney would blow embers onto our blankets, burning some new holes, but we stuck together in the one room. Old Gamma, she’d start out by tellin’ us about the Old Ones - them who’d come out of their hills on certain nights, seekin’ slaves. It seemed every year or half-year someone would be missing in the area after Solstice.


I ‘member the time it was Trudy Watson’s daughter missin’. Just a youngling – maybe 12, 13 years old. Miz Watson was besides herself the next day when Trudy turned up missing – her blanket was cold and the hearth fire was scattered. She came a-runnin’ to Gamma, beggin’ for her to use her witchin’ to find her girl. We all knowed it weren’t worth the trouble, but Miz Watson was a good lady, helpin’ all in need. So we gathered into groups and went into the hills, a’ callin’ and a’l ookin’ for Beatrice. Damned fancy name – probably why she ‘tracted the wrong kind o’ attention. Lest that’s what I think. But we all gathered because we knowed it could a’ bin any of us. It weren’t more than two hours ‘til old Dan called out that he’d found her. We all gathered round Trudy who was a’shakin’ with the grief. Her girl had been pulled apart. Messy. But we knew we needed to track them hobs down this time. They had actually gone into a house to fetch the young’un, somethin’ that hadn’t happened before. If’n we didn’t teach them a lesson, none o’ us would be safe.


Thinkin’ back on it now, it seems we declared war on ‘em as had killed Trudy’s girl. The menfolk all banded together while the women comforted Trudy and made ready for the funeral. Food had to be made, ‘n herbs had to be scattered. We even called the local man o’ God to come say a few words over the corpse (and as a bye, do his blessin’ through the house as well. Me Da’ always said it never did hurt to hedge your bets.)


The old ones, Gamma and others, also came together. They cooked, and not everything they cooked was meant for food – ‘leastways, not for us’n. The food that wasn’t meant for us wasn’t cooked at the family hearth. A fire was built outside for that “stew”. We was going huntin’ that night.


After the sun set, the old ones and many o’ the other men and women gathered. It was time to take the fight to them that wuz harmin’ us. Everyone was armed with rifles and knives, and with herbs and holy water. M’Gamma always said she doubted about that holy water – that it were the intention of the persons scatterin’ the waters, not the blessin’ of the man wearing a dress. Me? I didn’t care neither way. I had my rifle and my good skinnin’ knife, and we waz in a group. No goin’ it alone.


‘Course there was those who stayed behind to keep the younglings and old ones safe. I ‘member the days when I would be a’doing that too, but now I was armed and goin’ after them that had harmed us. We gathered together and hunted high and low. We had gathered to seek, and we found them – those what had killed one of our own. We stabbed and we burned, and we got ‘em back good. Probably good enuf that they won’t bother us’n for many months. I killed one of their young ones me self; my knife had its’ black blood on it. What? Don’t think I’m big enuf, strong enuf, and mean enuf to be a’ killin’ one of them that harmed us? Well, it ain’t braggin’ if it’s truth, and them words, they’re truth. Just ask anyone from these parts.

Hikkomori - Solitude in Life – Haiku in Four Acts

Me, myself and I
Walking life’s road with myself
My life becomes clear.

People are so noisy
Talk, shout, babble; ads nonstop
I seek my quiet.

I’m solitary
I am satisfied. Alone,
I answer to me.

Do not disturb me.
Contentment follows my choice
Silence is heaven.

DIVE IN AND DO IT

It’s rarely pointed out that saying “I do” in front of family and friends isn’t a culmination, or even a high peak after which all will be an easy downhill scenic journey. No, it usually takes months, or even years, to get to the point where two people join their lives together “…for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part”. All too often, though, the ceremony Is considered the penultimate goal; the life following those vows is seen as an afterthought or maybe as an excuse to have children.

But in reality, that’s hardly the case. The marriage ceremony isn’t the finish line, it’s the starting line of a new life – a life shared with another. The road of marriage starts with promises, and those promises are focused on a future barely glimpsed through the trees of challenge. It’s impossible to predict exactly what challenges will be faced, but challenges are inevitable; it’s life.

That pathway stretching in front of the married couple is virgin territory. Every couple needs to find a way to work together as a team, clearing the path in front of them and absorbing the vicissitudes that life is bound to throw at each person. Couples quickly learn the strengths and weaknesses of their partners. After a short time jostling for position, the new couple will settle down into a rhythm and a true partnership. Most of the time.

However, that’s not always the case. Partnerships that are dominated by one person who weds an indifferent, distracted or unfocused partner may never succeed in arriving at the end of their life’s pathways together. Stepping off the shared pathway is easy; but sometimes staying on the track, even when it is faint or filled with dangerous obstacles, is the better goal and harder challenge in anyone’s life.

So why do we keep trying? Why do we continue to commit to walking a barely visible pathway with one other person – jointly committed to arriving at forest’s end as a couple? There are numerous reasons – friendship, love, trust, shared duties and burdens, children, etc. Most of these are duties that have existed in every family, passed down from generation to generation. But partners in marriage aren’t the only long-term partnerships available.

Friendship – best friends, “besties”, can walk the same path as you. With a best friend, you can chat about any topic, and no matter how many years you’ve been friends, there’s always something new to discover – a new corner around which to peek. The roads that friends walk can develop deep ruts over years and years of shared experiences, keeping their friendship solid gold – untarnished and brilliantly shining. The goals of friendship are different than those in a marriage, but there are a lot of similarities as well. There must be consideration for the viewpoints of the other person; an understanding between two people that doesn’t require speech to be present; shared goals and history; and the desire to keep adding to their story year after year. These things and more pulls them together time and again.

Does anyone form a friendship thinking “I’ll want to be friends with this person thirty years from now”? It’s a rare friendship that will exist for that length of time. Friendships, like marriages, start with faint paths stretching ahead, but shared experiences and common ground between friends creates stronger and stronger bonds over time. Friends can become as close as family, or in some cases can even surpass the friendship of family. A friendship like this isn’t something acquired quickly – it’s not the classmate in the history class, the friend with whom you exchanged Spanish grammar books in school, or the pal who saw “Jurassic Park” or “Minions” with you. It’s all those things and more – it’s a shared history. The slight, barely defined pathway of friendship can become scuffed into the earth over time, creating a scar which reminds them that they need that other person to be whole.

Paths in the forest are made by walking. People or animals will search out the easiest way to the freshwater stream, the wild berries, the ridgeline and the next valley. To find these paths, you must look carefully. They’re often just a faint footfall, soon to be gone when the grasses regain their height. But paths, although faint, are still there. It’s not virgin wilderness, it shares itself with other living creatures – 2-footed, 4-footed, or perhaps more. Every creature who has been on this path, no matter who/what they are, has left a mark. By reading those marks carefully, a history can be determined – the history of the area and the path itself.

Walking the paths of others can be an adventure. We’re often looking away from adventure as we age – getting accustomed to the pathways we’ve developed and walking in a rut of our own choices. But one way to stay young and to enjoy new experiences is to walk new paths. Paths don’t have to be a physical step upon the earth. What about starting a new activity? Have you always wanted to learn how to throw a pot or make an item from stained glass? Why not? What’s stopping you from exploring something new? Are you afraid to walk a new path? Or is the thought of allowing another thing into an already overcrowded life stopping you?

I think for many of us, it’s the second thought that stops us; and that’s a shame, because humanity grows through new experiences. If you walk the same path to the waterhole every day, you’ll become so accustomed to it that you might not notice the lion has come over to hunt, and you are possibly on its’ menu. Maybe change can actually be a good thing! An awakening thing. So often we look at change as an upheaval; and it often is both dramatic and challenging. But embracing change is one of those things that allows us to be human.

So, as you begin this day; while you read this small essay on pathways – old or new, four-lane highway or barely noticed footprints in the dirt, think on this. Will you be brave today? Will you allow yourself to expand your personal horizons? Will you think about doing something you have always wanted to do but never had the time/courage/guts to? Why the hell not! Dive in and do it. If it’s a mistake, you’ll grow from that too. But if you don’t try it, you’ll always feel as if you’re lacking something … just something. Won’t you? Dive in, walk the secret pathways and live!

 Voting is now open for the latest story and I'd appreciate your vote if you read and enjoyed my Open Letter to My Husband. I've had many of you tell me that what I was saying rang a bell with you. I'm honored that I managed to engage you, and hope that I've merited your vote. Every one of those votes counts! I'll be reading over my own list and reading any tales I haven't managed to read over the past few days. I'm hoping to get my vote in before tomorrow evening (since I'm sure I'll have a tale or two to catch up on first). 

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https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1147601.html


Thanks in advance for your kind consideration. 

Slava Ukraini 

Erulisse (one L)

I won’t say it’s been an easy road – we’re both stubborn and share a German heritage; you with a bit of Irish thrown into the mix, me with that Austrian and Czech backbone. Anyone looking at us could easily tell that any road we walked on would be filled with curves, detours, potholes and the occasional steep cliff. Those looming cliffs! That’s when we trusted that we would be safely caught at the bottom – and so, we jumped. Did you catch me? Did I catch you? I know I tried, but I’m not sure if I succeeded in all the ways you needed.

I’ve wondered, as we’ve grown older together, if my parents had faced the same issues. Did they fight? Did they talk over, above and around each other, each person trying to get attention for their personal point of view? Or maybe they were calm; weighing the pros and cons of each other’s views, discussing problematic issues or family dramas. Lives shared isn’t a smooth road; problems seem to crop up with regularity. Discussion was probable with my parents – I don’t think I saw my father raise his voice in anger more than ten times through the years I lived with them. But I am also sure that many of the more difficult discussions were held back until after I was asleep, or they were held in a different part of the house.

Your parents, on the other hand … I can easily envision your father losing his temper. He certainly had one, and even if he didn’t exercise it often, it was a finely honed blade of chosen words with just the right tone of anger. Your Mother, as we both know, was a Saint, but even saints have their breaking points. After her stroke she grew more vocal with a strong voice expressing her personal views, objections, and praise. The intense and supportive work that you put in with her during her rehabilitation paid off in so many ways. I was shocked the first time I saw her talk back to your Dad; it was well deserved but knocked everyone for a loop. My mother-in-law was a mouse who grew into a lioness unafraid to roar.

To shift things back to us, we have our times. We can be perfect companions – working towards common goals quietly and with the knowledge that the other person is there to remedy anything left undone. We’ve been a team for … oh my! Can it really be 45 years this September? With all that practice, you would think we had our partnership down to an art. But we don’t. We still hold fast to individual ideas of how things should work and how things should operate at home and at work. There are many times when there’s not a meeting of the minds. We argue, we fight, we turn our backs on each other and sniff – we butt heads. Goat and Bull – it was rather inevitable.

But when I get so frustrated that I think about moving out, choosing a different life, starting over in my old age and living a life without the stress, I stop. I stop because there’s no one else I’d rather grow old with, and because without you, I’d be missing my other half. The air you exhale is the air I inhale; my crazy dreams need your ropes to pull me back to the ground. But you need my love of running alongside clifftop edges to interject some drama and excitement into your life. When we work together, we work very well indeed, when we don’t, it’s cataclysmic. But at the end of it all, I can’t imagine a life without you to share it with. Despite the challenges of our lives together, beneath it all and past everything that’s been said and unsaid, is the foundation we both stand on – love.