“Magic is afoot, God is alive.”- Buffy Sainte-Marie
Her dreams reassuringly whisper in journals made of leather. The engraved cover
gathering dust in the creases of her ancestors’ knot work; mythology and aesthetics that render
the heart through time. The company of rocks, feathers, and photos stand astute as altars to
memories through the halls of nostalgic flowers, dried and pressed.
A richly painted sunset grow’s silent in sleeping eyes, as if preparing herself for ritual,
she lays the journal on the tiered nightstand. The bond of dreams now past, yet ever present in
the great rites of a secret society. Curious shadows drape the night, and words fall from her
sleeping lips. Will those words find their place engraved in the leather bound journal of her
heart?
The delinquent voices sing the praise of night’s great sermon, ushered forth through pens
whose ink refuses to run dry. The extravagant want of knowing sits in a curious corner, the
holder of shadows, and fields of exhausted dreams. I wonder what she writes, as she scribes the
visions of a reluctant Sage? What great prophecy does the night entail in these pages lined with
words? What monsters lay slain at the feet of her Gods?
In the high noon of a winter’s day, when the light strains through the milky white
shutters, and the bustle of waking life dances the dance of routine, the old journal sits. What
silent conversations must happen in these churches of dust? Do the rocks tell stories about how
they were born of Volcano, and have lived to witness the anthropocene? Does the Phoenix
silently gather back their dormant flaming feathers? Do the flowers speak of their once great
pageantry, before being pressed and fitted into their eternal form? Does her father escape his
photographic prison to share stories of his daughter’s great feats? The totemic dragonfly lamp
stands guard atop its utilitarian box made mountain, draped in cloth and stone made coasters,
ready to sound the alarm of the creator; an ushering of quiet as not to give their animism away.
The tapping of the pens scribed great scripture, a drum that eternally beats in time with
her heart. A calligraphy of soul draped in esoteric symbols only meant for her sacred eyes; span
the enormity of dream, nightmare, and waking life. It tethers her to the divine, and unravels the
great inferno. There must be so much beneath those covers made of leather. Seas upon seas of
tear drenched papers brought from the clouds of grief and sadness, or the suns of joy and peace.
The stories of grandbabies and daughters whose hearts have hers, and blood pumps forth the
changing face of family. All these stories wrapped and tidy, made from the love of a well lived
life. All the stories where the beast is slain with great bravery and skill, as not to disturb her
loves from sleep. The holder of the flame, the Phoenix from the ashes; a journal.