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Dreams take her deep into the sea.

Hava swims, the water sliding like a lover's hand over her skin and she breathes it in painlessly as air. There's no light except for one bright shape above her and she pushes toward it with a flicker of thought to her legs that are no longer just legs.

She breaks the surface of the ocean to stand naked on the moon's reflection, a silver trail over a rippling field. She follows the lunar path to shore, and lies down to rest.

Sand against her cheek and a bright yellow haze of daylight tells her its time to move. Standing now, the wind forms little whirls of gold that become dancing figures around her feet, calling her name, urging her forward. There is no other sound.

As she walks strangers approach and cover her nakedness; first with cloth, then with metal and gems. Hava doesn't know what these things are called but feels their weight on her body, her wrists, ankles and brow and accepts them as gifts.

She arrives at a gathering of men in the shade of a temple and knows she is not in her own time. They speak a language Hava can almost remember but for now understanding eludes her. One of the men hisses something at her so that Hava recoils as she passes him and comes to stand before the King.

The man who is King turns to Hava radiating with so much love Hava is overcome with emotion and falls to her knees. She finds herself weeping and kissing his feet, wiping her tears away with her hair. There's an aching familiarity about this scene, these men, this sandy place, this King, these feet, her kisses, her tears.

The King places his hand on Hava's head and tells her, without words, to stand. His face glows and he smiles at her, pressing a hand against her heart. It contains a great Mystery, he tells Hava. It is entrusted to her alone. She must take it back with her and guard it well.

He leans in to her and kisses her mouth gently, then looks into her eyes. In their reflection he sees the depths of the cosmos, an endless darkness punched through with stars. Hava finds herself floating, swimming in those depths, stars passing her faster and faster until she is blanketed in white....

renewal

She wakes.

Hava can hear voices but can't figure out what they're saying. A dull ache at the base of her skull tells her that something's up, but memory eludes her. In fact, Hava can't remember anything except her name, which she now recognises as the voices become clearer and louder.

"Hava? Can you hear me?" A bell-like voice asks.
"Hava? Can you hear me?" an echo returns.

Hava tries to open her eyes. A strangled groan comes from two different directions at once and Hava is shocked to realise that the noise is coming from deep in her own throat. She tastes something strange and salty, like week old sushi, and breathes deeply as nausea rises in response.

"help me with her!" The bell whispers.

Hava heaves and rolls sideways as gentle hands steady her, holding her across her upper body as she retches and relieves her stomach of its contents. More hands apply a warm wet cloth to her face, wiping away traces of brackish odour.

The world comes into focus.

She sees that she's inside a vast hall or pavillion - every surface of glassy black stone, and that its night.

Taking an inventory of herself, feeling for injury, Hava moves to dislodge the heaviness from her arms and legs. Smooth fabric against her skin tells her she isn't wearing much clothing, but that she's covered in a way that preserves her dignity.

"Where am I?" The words burn a trail from her belly to her lips. Hava gasps at the pain, sending another rip through her body.

"Calm. Heal." another voice washes over Hava, sending a wave of warmth through her. The burning fades.

Breathing carefully through her nose now, she turns her head in the direction of movement and sound. The room tilts slightly and rights itself as Hava battles her disorientation and wins.

"Hava, you're home again" comes from the bell voice, drawing Hava's attention to rest on a face so perfect she wonders for a moment if she has died and is now in the presence of god.

my god, phobia

"I'm moved by another intention: to warn. And warning, too, belongs to the negredo, for it speaks with the voice of the raven, foretelling dire happenings that may result from the seduction of black."

(James Hillman)

Phobia is described by most dictionaries as any kind of fear or dread, sometimes irrational, but as mostly implying strong aversion and morbid hatred. Its a dark idea, as far as ordinary human emotion goes, but if we have it, then we need it.

A cursory glance into the etymology of the word - and I can't claim to understand any concept without knowing its origins and essence - reveals its roots, or rather wings, in phobos - flight.

This, to my mind, points towards a mythical and therefore primordial style of fear - something that defies simple rationality and goes further and higher into the realm of the Gods. Its not just 'being afraid of spiders' its a deep-seated primal and polar postion against the very 'spiderness' of life itself.

In a pantheistic world view Phobia is an archetype and part of the larger story we're all subject to in our mortal human lives. More than that, the particular form or manifestation that phobia takes brings definition and becomes a pre-condition for action, behaviour and event. Phobia is an identity or role to be played out.

Suffice to say that if Phobia is true to its own shape, then to say that someone has a phobia is allopathic and untidy - its truer to say phobia has that someone. One is phobic.

So, this archetype, this force, Phobia - a character in its own right - is lived into experience in epic journeys and returns and battles in varied ways. Perhaps as a 'shadow' persona or villain that must be violently overcome; an anti-hero who's pain has entered, like all things divine, via a wound or trauma; a beautiful but divided soul to be healed and integrated; a healer; an outcast, lone-wolf or hermit. Or as the unclaimed parts of hero's, saviours, kings and queens. Encounters with giant insects, reptilian devouring creatures, vile odours, dark green creeping decay. Episodes of falling into dangerous hidden places, being buried and confined or abandoned to the dangers of nature.

Its ancestry in flight also places phobia in the realm of air - pneuma - and comes cawing and circling from above; birds of prey; carrion scavengers; open exposure to vast empty spaces; searing light and blindness. Its pneumatic nature calls attention to its language and ability to create out of its images; warlocks and witches and their winged messengers appear; uncanny abilities of mind-reading and control; repetitive destructive thoughts and voices calling and singing for death.

Just as phobia serves the narrative, phobia is served by the narrative - the story of phobia keeps the archetype in power. A strange irony (poetry?)- while phobia is defined and contained, it breaks free, provokes adrenaline-surged slow motion corridor runnning and lung-burning screams, and no escape. It will always fly faster.

sunday scribblings...

let me tell you about Writing...

Writing is my first love, my soul mate. We were childhood sweethearts, meeting in kindergarten and inseparable through school. Our playmates were Poetry and Story and when I moved away at age 13 we found Letters to see us through all the changes and scary new places. Letters came with us while we were travelling overseas, too, and helped us stay connected with everything back home.

Poetry and Story are married nowadays and so much more sophisticated - we're godparents to their children - but I can see they'll always be the same sweet and loyal friends. We lost Letters in a terrible disaster which really is too painful to discuss. Suffice to say Letters can never be replaced - no matter what that darn Email says.

But Writing and I have grown together over the years. There were times apart - I confess I've always been hard to pin down and nothing like as faithful and forgiving as my Writing is. He shows me exactly who I am, and I can never be a lesser person because he loves me. He's funny, sexy and beautiful - and dark, tempestuous and idiotic.

When we're together we tend to be wildly intense and because of that I've tried to make it work with other lovers, foolishly expecting that anyone else could free me or change me or give me something Writing can't. But its hopeless. For me there's only Writing.

Oh I have my very dear friend Drawing - she's a great distraction and companion. She goes places with me that Writing isn't interested in. Drawing has the knack of attracting people to her in all kinds of situations, so she's lots of fun to socialise with. And she teaches me to see things with my heart. I just adore her! She's eccentric and fearless and like me can't keep still. But there's something about her which seems not quite 'all there' - as if she isn't finished.

Occasionally Writing and Drawing and I collaborate on a project and it always goes really well. (All three of us have a thing for black ink pens and leather bound journals) We get together at The Page and all kinds of things happen. Maybe I should worry that the two of them will take off together? Hmm. Textual chemistry!

Sometimes I believe that because I have Drawing I can love Writing more.

So, anyway, right now Writing and I are working together toward a better future - I think we've both reached the age of settling down - we've got a new home, a few new friends and we are talking about having a baby. It could be good to just do some ordinary things for a while.

I'll let you know how that goes...

three wishes

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This Week’s Theme: three wishes

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Dear God,

I know you're really busy solving all the world's problems, and you sure have your work cut out for you, but would you spare a minute to listen to me? It would be really nice if I could ask a favour. Yes I know I am supposed to be all grateful and say thanks and please bless Mum and Dad and all that before I ask you for anything but that's what I say every time and you ought to know all that by now.

So here's the thing - I really really REALLY want something special for my birthday this year. Something that all the other kids will stop and stare at and will want to come around and play with. I mean I am not very popular at school on account of always reading books and doing homework, and I think I've actually forgotten how to play, so its about time I had some kinda pulling power. That OK?

And, if its not too much trouble, could I have a party too? But make sure Mum doesn't make a carrot cake again like last time - that really was the LAST time any kid wanted to come to my place. Hopefully they've all got amnesia on that front.

Last but not least it would be super if for a while I didn't have to wear second hand clothes. Not that there's anything wrong with them, don't get me wrong, and its environmentally friendly and all that - but it could help me with the abovementioned social problem if I could be just a bit cool. For a change. Please?

Thanks and god bless. I mean bless you. Oh, you get the gist.