The pieces today's chapter of the WeaveMothers are cobbled together from are The Five Fears, The Brakeman had a Bony Countenance and the Quicklies
Any more about the Weavemothers must await being freshly written. The Song of Earth is extremely long, however, so it could happen.
The WeaveMothers watched the train switch to the happentrack which they had just finished. The transition was as smooth as ever it could be.
The Engineer guided some steam through the whistle.
And the Storyteller began the tail of the Girl and the Five Fears.
Somewhere in a swamp
In mystic crocodiles' domain
Live Loneliness, Humiliation,
Loss and Death and Pain
--Michael Coney, The Celestial Steam Locomotive
The Girl awoke, nearly face down on an island in a swamp. She was dirty and wet and extremely uncomfortable. Inspection of her arms and legs revealed many bruises and scrapes.
She could remember little of how she got here. She did seem to recall walking/stumbling along as the water got higher and what land there was became muddier.
Nor could she recall why she came here. Thinking back, the last thing she could remember was falling asleep with the others on a moonless night. Had she wandered away from them? Or were they the ones who left, leaving her behind?
She thought she saw a flicker of motion behind some scrubby bushes to her right. She tried to stand to get a better look and discovered a sharp pain in her ankle. There was more motion, this time to her left.
And she began to be afraid. They might see how helpless she was, lost in this place. When she thought that, she saw another movement, this time directly in front of her, hidden by a tree. And she called out to whoever was there, begging for whoever was there to show themselves.
Part of a head of one of the beings peeked out from behind a bush. A leg and an arm of another was visible as well, not quite hidden by a tree.The creatures appeared humanoid, but seemed very fragile. The Girl asked them to help her.
As she spoke, the creatures cowered and shivered. One of them finally responded. She said they were too afraid to help her. They were afraid of her. Finally Pain, for that is what she said her name was, stepped out into the open, still keeping a safe distance between them, and the others showed themselves as well.
There were five of them. The Girl learned that the names of the others were Loneliness, Humiliation, Loss and Death. Pain told the Girl that she had been wandering through the Forest of Fear and become mired in the Swamp of Submission until she found this place...their home...the Slough of Despond.
When the Girl asked why they didn't leave this place. the Five answered that they couldn't. This is where they lived and it was too dangerous to attempt leaving. And furthermore, this is now where she lived...and she wouldn't be able to leave either.
"You came for a reason," one of them said. "It was your own attitudes which guided you here."
_ # ^ & _ # ^ & _ # ^ & _
Fear is like that. Once it gets a really good grip on you, there isn't much you can do but just try to get from one day to the next. I know. I was there...for most of my life. I was over 40 years old when I finally started to break out of it. It was definitely not easy. It most definitely will be easier for me to talk about it than it was to do it.
Maybe.
I started getting the upper hand when it occurred to me that Death might be the easier way out, that dying would at least be the end of my pain. Forever after it became...and has remained, a viable option. Every day has since been an exercise in living on house money if I choose that day to not be the day I die. And everything else just fell into place. Coming out as being transsexual is not so hard if the worst thing that could happen was that I died for doing so. And coming out cured my fear of Humiliation, for what could be more humiliating than to have my whole community considering my life to be nothing but a joke...and me to be a target of their jokes. In my heart I knew that it was I who was free and they who were not. If someone had a problem with me being who I was, it was their problem and not mine.
I did have to overcome the fear of Loss, the loss of my profession, my friends, and my family. Some of that happened, but some of it didn't. I survived.
Pain is easy to overcome if one has no fear of death. At least it was for me. Beat me if you must. I will stand proud of who I am, what I have done, and who I have become.
And that only leaves Loneliness, which I have found hardest to overcome. Fear of rejection has hounded me my entire life. But somehow I found that I had more friends after transition than I had before...eventually. The years before "eventually" came to pass were difficult, but I always had an option...a way out.
And I found that adopting a mission, deciding to spend as much of my lifetime as I could helping others however I was able, kept me saying, "Not today." And whenever it seemed like the mission had hit a snag, I have stepped it up a notch, trying to help others on a more difficult level.
If the world isn't a fit place for people like me, then the world needs to change. I will continue to do that and continue to try to make that happen...no matter how many people express the notion that people like me don't belong in their world.
Out of fear comes Hate. And Fear comes out of Ignorance. To stop the Hate therefore, one must eliminate the Ignorance. And I will try to eradicate the Ignorance until my last breath.
_ # ^ & _ # ^ & _ # ^ & _
Quagmire
Releasing Fear
One day the Girl
had had enough
She called the Fears together
and they all held hands
And they marched away
from Despondency
Pain was afraid of falling
Humiliation was afraid of failure
and looking foolish
Loss feared leaving behind
what they had
Loneliness feared being separated
Death feared the crocodiles
For an instant
the Girl lost her resolve
and the crocodiles appeared
and the fears wanted to turn
and run away
but the Girl screamed
and lightning struck
and the forest burned
as the Girl and the fears
crouched in the swamp
until the forest
was no more
The Girl led the Fears
to the edge of the swamp
and sent them on their way
And she walked
proudly forward
--Robyn Elaine Serven
--June 5, 2009
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The Storyteller remembered an ancient story, a story that came from many cultures on many worlds. Thanatos, the Angel of Death, Grimnir, la Morte, the Grim Reaper, Śmierć, यम, 閻魔王, Susan's grandfather...the list goes on and on. It was the story of Death, come to life.
As the Storyteller spun the tale, the Brakeman reached out of the cab. A bony finger grazed a strand of the tapestry.
The Weavmothers sensed the unraveling of the strand and one...or all of them...rushed to save it.
Somewhere and somewhen, one of the autonomous units ceased to function, mostly unnoticed and uncared about.
Sometimes death can mean a new beginning. Sometimes it means change. And sometimes it is the premature extinguishing of a life not yet lived.
Every day people around me reveal that they live in
a country that shocks my soul. Words that they
speak suddenly open infinity between us.
Books or friends or conduct they embrace
recede to a pinpoint on my screen and go out.
It is my habit never to hurt these people
around me. Their offenses against my taste, my moral
sense--my religion--can't be allowed to darken
their lives or our joint residence in our time.
In separate rooms we are traveling our lives.
--William Stafford, Daily Writing, 2 June 1993
I probably had something approximating the same thought at around the same time. I was a little more than half a year into transition. I could list all my friends on one side of a sheet of notebook paper and still have room to write an essay or two.
William Stafford was busy dying. I was busy being born. Both can be lonely business.
The train regained its speed and rhythm. The Passenger once more dozed. And the Listener sobbed.
The Storyteller searched for other words to say, but nothing seemed appropriate. It was as if some of the brightest of stars were being dimmed, even snuffed out. The tapestry seemed to be losing its luster.
Words from a long-forgotten poet leapt to the fore:
We live in an occupied country, misunderstood;
justice will take us millions of intricate moves.
--William Stafford, from Thinking for Berky
But we...none of us...can make all of the moves ourselves. So sometimes we have to trust that others will do so.
And when they do not make those moves...or they ignore the moves made by those who do...or they don't understand how vital those moves are...they abandon the striving for that justice...thinking there will be another time...another place...somewhen more convenient for them...after more and more of the bright lights have been broken...when someone else, but not they, can worry about those moves.
After all, the world has more important things to consider than justice. Always has and always will.
And the Storyteller wondered what riding the train across the Greataway was accomplishing and considered disembarking somewhere. If only there was a place "with liberty and justice for all".
And the Listener pondered listening to a heartbeat, as opposed to listening to the absence of one.
And the Passenger wondered about the Girl...and whether she would ever find a place she could truly call home...and Manuel...and the art he created with his mind.
And the Engineer asked why the train should exist if there were no passengers.
And the Brakemen lifted a bony finger...
Lives Trapped
in a Puddle of Blood
Lives Worth Less
Lives worth less
or worthless lives?
Lives lived
in between
denied access
doors closed
always adorned
with the signs
expressing
the desire
to be rid
the different
Forced away
unwanted
unless we are
content
to be fodder
for the "jokes"
and slaps
too often deadly
debased
defiled
sometimes dismembered
at best ignored
until space is made
for us to step into
after it is vacated
by everyone else
Words spilled
into a void
are worth what?
Liberty and justice
for all?
Not hardly
--Robyn Elaine Serven
--November 20, 2009
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The WeaveMothers picked up a dropped stitch…repairing an error in the Ifalong. Sometimes the past had to be repaired so that the present would progress appropriately. The amazing thing about SpaceTime is that the past, present and future all exist…more or less simultaneously.
The Engineer chased the Brakeman back to his post and berated him for interfering. The Passenger looked at his ticket. The Storyteller began an old tale. The Listener sat on the edge of his seat.
_ # ^ & # ^ & _ # ^ & _
Some believe that the Quicklies are just humans who evolved a faster metabolism. Much faster. Some believe that they are just animals.
Some have come to believe that the Quicklies are True Humans who live on some other happentrack, one in which time passes much more quickly. There is dispute, however, if such a thing could ever come to pass.
From the perspective of the people of the village, the Quicklies were a nuisance who would steal food and other items and, if legend was to be believed, steal the skin and flesh off the bones of bad children.
Manuel didn't believe that. He had tried his best to interact with them, going as far as giving one some fish he had prepared once upon a time. Unfortunately, it seemed that after she took it, the other Quicklies had attacked her...and she was dead within minutes and her body quickly turned to dust. He noted that before the body disappeared, it appeared to be a small humanoid.
He still found no harm in them, at least to him. They did, unfortunately, seem to be almost constantly at war amongst themselves. But he wanted to know who they were and what their story was. His curiosity about such things is why he was so different from the rest of the inhabitants of P'oeste.
There was another point of view. The beings, called the Quicklies by the villagers, had another name for themselves. They referred to themselves as "The People."
They did notice that one human seemed to pay attention to them, indeed would spend years of their lives watching them. Quicklie scientists sought an explanation for why he did that. Quicklie priests believed he must be a god…or close to one.
There was a cult religion which came into existence which revered the man. Its members believed that he must be venerated…and so began building an image of him out of sand.
A rival cult arose, which believed that icons were immoral. So they attacked the Builders and tore down what had been built. To the human eye it was difficult to discern anything but a dust devil.
The scientists, on the other hand, were interested in pursuing intelligent contact. So they attempted to determine the variation between the time rates of the two frames, which were clearly different. And they tested ways in which sound could be altered so that the man's ears could hear what was said.
The linguists among them visited the town church…attempting to peruse the artifacts they could find to determine what words could be said that the man could understand.
Janem was one of the linguists. She spent most of her life listening to what was said in the church…attempting to decipher what was being said. Then one day she saw the Dedo outside one of the windows, speaking from where she could not be seen to their man from the beach and the church man, who was known as Dad Ose.
The thought came to Janem's mind: What do you say to someone or something who could be a god...or nearly one?
Shenshi turned towards Janem and Janem heard, very clearly, "When the time comes, you must speak what is in your heart."
One day, in human time, Manuel observed that the Quicklies were active again in his area of the beach. On the spur of the moment, he decided to show them his latest image he had created using the Simulator.
In the time stream of the People, the image lasted for decades. People sat in groups to observe it and discuss its intricacies. People sat and watched, sometimes, until they died. And then their descendants watched, because their parents had…and their grandparents.
The scientists felt the time was right to contact the man. It took years of her life for Janem to utter the message she had decided on, which had to be spoken clearly, very slowly, and at the lowest pitch she could possibly reach.
It needs more love.
When she finished, Janem laid down and died.
As Manuel watched, a Quicklie suddenly became still, then fell over…and disintegrated. A tomb of sand appeared in her place.
_ # ^ & _ # ^ & _ # ^ & _
The Storyteller grew weary and resolved to reconsider priorities. The songs must continue to be sung, but perhaps not here and perhaps not now. Upon hearing this, the Listener became sad, but understood. Truly there needed to be other ears hearing the songs. The Passenger's stop was approaching. The Engineer slowed the train.
Maybe there would be another WhereWhen, another group of people to whom the stories would have meaning.