(In the next blog post, Part 2: Shamans and Alienisms… something about Mormonism and their belief in aliens, maybe Scientology too, but really lets discuss energetics.)
Hook. A tarot reader sat down at a bar and ordered a drink. Maybe she had her cards this time, maybe not. On occasion, she will grace the polished wood top and tumblers to request the consult of a couple spirits in the vicinity. If not for the synchronicities and familiarities, for the ambiance suitable to channeling personal advice.
Line. So this one time, in reading some member of an ensemble, she pulled out a card and bit her lip before reading out the first line in the interpreter’s book. An elegant new deck with brightly rendered archetypes can harmonize when their written words are read aloud. On this particular card, Peter Pan was that first sentence. She choked it back to herself; oh shit. Not another one.
Sinker. It took longer than expected to prove the Guides had it right… again. They dug in the lesson this time with a final chapter series. She saw the movies and plays portraying Peter as a young boy, a grown man, an elderly man eager to start the cycle all over again, and woman disguised as man playing the boy. Peter, nonetheless dense as stone, would burry you in Kensington not knowing 100% for certain if you’re alive or not. He’ll be wanting to possess for carrying resemblance to a nest. Those aren’t eggs in your basket. Honey, they’re rocks.
So flying means dissociating from your shadow. Anything cast is unaccounted for, a magician ignorant of his subconscious wrecking havoc in the collective psyche. A sort of antithesis of Narcissus, maybe, or a parallel universal construct of dysfunctional homo sapient behavior patterns. He’s not a full cup in the realm of tarot. He’s an energy vampire in the land of Oz, sucking the color from life as he greys. No matter how old they get, they crave youth and a mommy.
Now, this particular tarot reader colors life from head to toe. No stone is left unturned, no Peter capable of knocking her off of feet. That root chakra is locked in; that crown is anchored above. That shadow self always escaping Peter Pan is something she fully integrated. Her armor is mirrors reflecting back the consciousness of whatever is outside her. Harmonized and One with Mother Nature is a path in the woods she walks barefoot.
If you’ve never stepped on broken glass, know that it stings and gives you vertigo. It’s before the pain really sets in and the blood is already lost where there is a bridge of consciousness… if the wound is deep enough. The world and yourself suddenly change, unexpected, and a new reality sets in. It’s a primal feeling of the body’s urges without the mediator of logic and layers of classical conditioning.
Enter the rock with wings. It chases something it sees outside as something separate and attempts to attach it superficially or with the aid of a Wendy, or integrated friend that radiates light. Peter tries his hardest to convince her his world is best. He goes so far as to challenge her experiences and wisdom. She is forced to choose between her own life and giving her rights of sound judgment over to a musical player… to be the recorder or just a record on repeat in a collection of many.
Her experience has brought her to this point before, to the line of crossing into Never Return. Stolen treasure on a pirate ship, bound and forced to walk the plank. She’s used to being captain of her own ship; yet here she is, staring into the deep waters below. She’s been here before, she reminds herself. If he flies in to save her, he’s still not Super Man. He brought her here with fairy dust and coercion. Sink or swim.
Swim. Just keep swimming, swimming. Go with the flow and the battle stops. The war is over and Peter Pan flies off into the clouds. The water is cold and the mermaids are untrustworthy; envy paints their lips and curses their songs. Sharks and creatures at depths unknown are stalking, preying on fear and blood. And the water is just so cold. When you stop swimming, your heart freezes and you drown.
The warmth and the glow come from within. The solar plexus is a tiny star seed with enough energy to power a sun. It’s a warmth that defies all odds and blinds those who can’t see the forest through the trees. Some will never grow up, not in this lifetime. Some of us were young souls epochs ago and forget how scary wholesome can be to those who prefer the comforts of chaos. Order is restored by the bitch, Karma.
Salty 