Tag: WeaveMothers

When reality sucks and attempts to change that reality are met with derision and/or apathy, what is a person to do?  Sometimes the realm of fiction is a good escape.

I’ve had this piece in production since before I decided to give up the fight and stop working to improve that reality.  Let someone else take up the fight and put their heart on the line, to be stomped on and shredded time and again.  And I thought I should probably finish it and share it with those who desire some closure.

The fact that it is connected to the Transgender Day of Remembrance may give it some relevance.

The Engineer noted the curve in the happentracks ahead.  Sie pulled the cord which let loose a trumpetful of sound.  The Passenger awoke suddenly.  The Storyteller and the Listener looked outward.

Suddenly the train began to slow.  In the cab the Engineer cast a worried look at the Brakeman.  The Brakeman had a bony countenance…

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.

The collective consciousness of the WeaveMothers sensed the impending change of gears of the Celestial Steam Locomotive.

The train approached a long uphill grade of the current happentrack.  The Engineer engaged the lever of night.  The passenger continued sleeping.  The listener fell into a trance.  And the storyteller dreamed for them all.

It was a tale of life on the borderland, of the place which was on neither this side nor the other side of the rainbow.

The WeaveMothers have appeared before.  In what passes for chronological order, they are here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here.

Having ready Michael Greatrex Coney’s, Song of Earth is also helpful.  Or you could just relax and accept the possibility of the Celestial Steam Locomotive passing through the Greataway.

My brain seemed barely capable of stirring together a topic for this evening.  But that was this morning.

Time to make stone soup?  Maybe.

I had some set-ups, like buhdy’s piece about why he is a liberal, like the wholesale denigration of community activists I’ve heard about, or like even Governator Palin, but to be honest, I avoided the RNC broadcasts as much as possible.  Their message never changes.

The WeaveMothers were one and several.  The several part was not without its danger.  Getting lost in the a reality of a happentrack was an ever-present  possibility.  When that happened, sight of the larger tapestry was usually lost.

And when that happened, there was danger of the tapestry unravelling.  There was even the danger that what had already going to be happening could be forgotten, so that it would never actually ever reach the state of having happened.

They came back together determined to repair the snapped thread.  Raveling was kept to a minimum.  A dropped stitch or four would have to be picked up.  But only a few realities had ceased to exist.  The WeaveMothers mourned the consciousnesses that were still.  The Greataway would be poorer for them never having existed.

The WeaveMothers, one and several, saw the thread snap.  It whipsawed through the firmament as the tapestry of reality sagged and fragmented.  Like so many other wherewhens, the place of weakness involved the worldtime of the brighter spot.  As much as they could experience Fear, they feared another stillbirth should the loose cable strike the brightness.

And, one and several, they wondered if it didn’t seem dimmer.

The Engineer seized the braking lever suddenly and pulled with all hir might.  The giant wheels locked and a plaintive squeal proclaimed the rending of the fabric.

The Storyteller ceased singing the song.  The Listener’s head turned to watch the Passenger fall from the seat and awaken suddenly.  On the Passenger’s head there was what could have been blood…near where there could have been other scars.  Some of the Passenger’s face came away in its forelimb.

The Storyteller took a deep breath and cast back for another memory, another story to tell.  The Listener was patient, but did require the occasional feeding.  The Storyteller chuckled at the observation.  The Engineer glanced backward and nodded.  And the Train switched to another happentrack.  

The Storyteller began to sing.  The Listener leaned forward.  The passenger turned over, but otherwise remained sleeping.

Pine was at it again, hectoring all of creation.  Canyon rolled its eyes as Sun passed overhead.  Canyon preferred peace.

We read.  We absorb.  We often find thoughts expressed in much better ways than we could ever express them ourselves.  Sometimes we seek to share those thoughts, hoping against hope that someone else will see what we see, hear what we hear, feel what we feel.

I’ve been spending a long time reading/reading about William Stafford, a neighbor of days gone by, trying to absorb perhaps what could have been in another happentrack.

The Locomotive’s engineer cast hir mind outwards and sought awareness.  The WeaveMothers, those collective consciousnesses which had distilled from the collective knowledge of all creatures in the Greataway were tending their flocks and new happentracks were condensing into existence.  SpaceTime expanded.  There were new choices for the path of the train to take.

The Storyteller plucked a poem from the past.  The Listener perked up.  The Passenger slept.

The WeaveMothers agreed with a request to vibrate a string.  They were whole as well as individual.

Maybe the unit would understand.

Imagine a future.  In my future, you would choose a good one, one good for coexistence on this planet as long as we all have to live here.  

See if you can act so as to turn reality towards that future.  Plan.  Create or discover the necessary resources.  Shape a scheme.  

Set up the dominoes, as many as you can build, and try to find the words that will generate the change you seek.  You will undoubtedly fail.  Analyze feedback.  Loop.  Hope for convergence.  Better yet, design for it.