This was the first draft of a post for ‘Travelling with Le Enchanteur’. I temporarily lost it and wrote a whole ‘nother version of the post that I will share below.
I stand at the beginning, before me the portal fills my sight, skewing perspective. It should be opening for me, yet it remains solidly closed. I have wearied of attempting to open the Portal.
It strikes a chord in my memory, the ‘Star Trek’ episode “Gateway to Forever”. It sits in the centre of a drunkard’s henge, each stone leaned in a direction unlike any other stone. The stones were rough-hewn once; now they were sanded to a velvety texture by wind and rain.
They were all this striking gold-veined deep grey shade somewhere between the colour of moonshadows, and the night of a starless, night during the days of the New Moon.
All of the stones except for the portal were enormous triangular blocks. The portal was of the same rock, hewn in the same manner as the henge, it was shaped like the snake swallowing himself, a powerful symbol.
Facing the portal
Wednesday, September 13th, 2006
I stand in front of the Portal, drawn and repelled at once. Drawn because of the need to escape the knowledge I carry, and impeded because the knowledge cannot be ignored.
The portal itself is awesome in an offbeat manner. It is built after Stonehenge, but this henge’s stones lean at unnerving, drunken angles and no two arcs are the same.
All of the stones other than The Portal itself are carved in the same manner. Originally, they were rough-hewn; but, all Portals are places where dimensions intermingle and they are known for the violence and ferocity of their storms.
Time and the abrasive elements of this side of The Portal have smoothed the towering stones until sharp cuts are become smooth undulations, almost glassy in texture.
All of the stones must have been mined from the same place, for they are all the some colours, veins of a shimmering silvery tint, and the grey of the rest is somewhere between moonshadow, and the night sky at MoonDark.
Once upon a time, the runes were carved deeply into the stone, and could be read from an incredible distance. As I stand here they are a ghostly Braille and my sensitive fingertips barely feel the cut that remains.
The Portal is a carving from one enormous piece of pure white stone. The base narrows, one soft step at a time until it reaches the the doorway. The ‘doorway’ looks for all the world like a snake swallowing his own tail, the sideways 8 that is the symbol of infinity.
Westerly winds moan through the larger portion of The Portal, full of a restless swirling of images. If I look without looking I can see all of history in the images.
Here the Runes are as sharply graven as when they were first incisedd. I don’t know the language or recognise the runes, yet as my fingers run through the silken furrows in the rock, I intuit their rhythm and syntax.
I begin to sing in a well-modulated, expressive alto, what my voice would have been if I could sing. The sounds are unfamiliar, yet I enunciate the syllables clearly.
The runes begin to glow, a tracery of missing gold (long since stolen) in the rock. As I continue to sing, I realise that I am reading from the bottom left and rightwards up.
Oh!! I want so to slip through the spiralling images in their widdershins gavotte, lose myself in completely different worlds and time.
I am held back, a knowledge so heavy I struggle for each breath. I am confident that I can ’survive’ whatever comes and eventually flourish again.
It is my loved ones I worry over, what would this knowledge do to them. If I need to tell them ere confirmation I will, but I don’t want to upset them if I can help it.
I did not seek this knowledge, nor did I wish its presence in my life; still, here it is, a dark mutant who claims squatters rights to a part of my flesh.
I have refused to utter these words aloud, and they are too much for one spirit to carry.
This, then is what holds me fast on the wrong side of The Portal. A small word really, just 5 letters, yet it smashes into lives and leaves them indelibly marked. It brings such change, and loss with its presence.
I do not aspire to the word ‘Cancer’, I do not contemplate mortality. I seek instead to gather my forces and fight this with everything I can bring to bear against it.
Sibilant as a snake, coiling in fear is the word ‘hysterectomy’. Again I will not give in, I will face it no matter the fear I feel.
Suddenly, at last, as soon as I think this to myself; the swirl in The Portal pulls back somehow, and it takes on the guise of a tornado.
I am sucked through and I land in a glorious place. Everyone here bears their own sorrows, and faces their worries squarely. Their wisdom a healing balm on a spirit worn thin by the amount of worry and stress in life at this time.
I look up, seeking Mme la Enchanteur. She stands beside me, reflecting such beauty of spirit and character I could easily salaam deeply and ceaselessly in honour of her presence in my life.
I am crying, as I did when I began this life, in awareness, anger, and courage. I have friends now, ones I know I can turn to, and trust; with them I am indomitable and immortal.
The tears soon cease, as I am comforted by Mme La Enchanteur, and the other shaman(nesses)s that have found their way here. I am become invincible by their support, and planning for a long and productive future.
Mme wraps my fingers around the bag she has gifted me with. As she holds my hands in hers I feel a rush of ozone through my system. Goodness me!!!!
I am transformed into a scuttling crab, armoured, still vigilant and ever wary though. I look at my claws and flex them reflexively.
I am struck by a memory flash, Matt, Mum, Doreen, and Yoli, while Matt sleeps the women chat in the living room. I am recounting the tale of the beetley-bug Matt and I rescued from the pool earlier in the day.
After we had lifted the tiny beetle, no larger than a small freckle, from the water and settled him on the pool decking to dry.
As everyone else chattered and bounced in the water Matt and I watched the beetle dry himself until he waved his antennae in a seeming thank you,and then flew off, unharmed.
I began to laugh, because Matt and I had called the beetle’s cleaning ‘The Dance of the Drying Crabe(A whole ‘nother tale)’.
I was with family, and we all were glowing a bit more than usuall, so I demonstrated The Dance of the Drying Crabe to them.
On my chubby hands, and knees I imitate the beetle cleaning his wings, legs, and carapace before his antennae are carefully dried and coiffed.
Mum and Doreen were laughing helplessly, between fits of laughter Doreen yells,”Matt, you need to cammere!!! Gwen looks just like a bug!!”
Yoli had enough sense of mind to videotape that, after taping a bizarre bit of animation for Matt, as well as my doing a Tarot spread, and the only living thing that paid any attention to me was Yoli’s Chihuahua; she sat next to me looking quite Sphinxlike as she would first look at the card I was pointing to, then seem to listen to my words with great interest and attention.
I want to tell everyone that I think it quite funny that I am now a crab (crabe?), then I think to myself, “Self, they won’t understand crabspeak. Just find the nearest computer, there you can whack your message out!”
I took off in my crabwise scuttle, climbing a curtain one scrabble at a time, and stand before a computer, claws aloft in jubilation.
I focus my eyes on their stalks on the monitor, must it flicker so?? I may get landsick if this continues. With the smaller claw I begin to write my message one claw-on-key click at a time.
I am not quite up to capital letters, or punctuation, but I can space and ‘return’ so it is a beginning.
“hello mme la enchanteur thank you for having me here and thank you for making me a crab now i will have a good reason to tell you the tale of the drying crabe“
gwenguin
Gwen M. Myers 