Weather-Eroded Arch

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

They are a methodical steadiness, a quiet keenness. They are the enduring dance of air and stone, both wind-sculptor and standing-stone sculpture. Patience and dedication wears away the stone from solid rock into a graceful arch, stone balanced impossibly on stone, rooted deep into the earth and whittled into shape by the ceaseless air. Stillness and dynamism, a rock that seeks the challenge of shaping, a sky that seeks the stability of stone. When worn too thin, perhaps they collapse to earth – and begin the work anew, fallen into a new shape, ready to windcarve again.

arch

Faerie Fire

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

She is something fluid and fey, a dancing flame that burns with an otherworldly light, golden smoke and green faerie fire. She entrances and she dances, she is hot enough to burn and cold enough to freeze. Now she flares to fill the room; now she dims, ungraspable, slipping from sight. She is eyes in the flame, Cheshire-slitted, a keen mirthful awareness, a merciless evaluation. She gleams, and she laughs, and all the tales of the fair folk with their silver bells and will-o-wisp glances come to mind, all feline languor and a predator’s playfulness. There’s a rawness beneath that fey shining, a hidden heart of the eldritch flame, kept safe behind glamour and clever Cheshire sharpness and icehot changeling games. And when you try to grasp the flame of her, hold it still or hold it captive, is it you who feels the pain of burning or is it she?

They call the Fair Folk heartless, but I don’t think it’s true –
rather they live by different morals than me or maybe you,
And their hearts may be hidden in a stone or in a flame,
locked away with the key of their secret name.

They’re truer though than humans, cleave completely to their code,
a moon-bright sense of justice, though it be alien and cold.

Threshold

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

This is a creature of the threshold and the ways between, shadow-walker with a shapeshifter’s eyes. This is something synanthropic, the wild come to dwell and thrive amidst civilization, yet lairing in the cracks and edges of things, crepuscular, watching and waiting, observing with a night-bright gaze. This is kin to coyote and jackal, buzzard and crow, fox and coon.

A moonlight passion thrums in the bones, but the passion is a quiet hidden thing, like the wild cracking through the edges of the city concrete, the startling sight of eyes in the alley glowing from a car’s headlights, the sleek shadow of a lean canid silhouette in an abandoned lot. The wisdom found in 4am stillness when the whole world seems at rest and the sky is infinite above. The kind of beauty you have to search for in back alleyways and abandoned buildings and overgrown cemeteries, the kind you can find nowhere else.

Theirs is not that of predator nor prey, not the hungry teeth of the stalking jaguar nor the rapid pitterpat heartbeat of the rabbit. This is a quiet confidence in movement and speech, a laughing wariness, a weighing look that seeks to stare through the skin of the world.

Lines in Water

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

Lines. Fracture-lines in darkened scrying mirrors. Strong thick spiderweb lines wrapping around the self, reaching to the surroundings, connecting, enfolding, entrapping. Jagged lines, curving lines, spiraling, a network of lines.

Compartmentalizing, and connecting, and walling off. The lines are cords and links–and they are walls within and without–and they hinder, and they protect, and they do nothing at all. They obscure and they outline, and she is covered in lines, made of lines, radiating them, entrapped by them.

Some are connected to others, and she pulls them. Some are connected to her, and she is pulled by them. Some once connected elsewhere and are now snapped, broken, frayed. Some are knotted. Some are slowly repairing, slowly growing.

She is all lines and often monochrome but there are flashes of color, some strange textures, red ocher and azure, golden, opalescent. In places she is held riged and in places she is as shifting-shimmering as water.

There is much of water here. Rainfall, storm-crash, new-moistened earth. And sometimes stagnant pools, murky, choked with moss and pondweed. She is a bark-skinned liquid chimera with half-wings nad fur and mismatched gaze, feet in four worlds. She is at once soft and spiked, staticky, roiling chaos with the wind that stirs the water or whips it into frenzy.

Water in lines, a net in the murky depths, tight-constrained and breaking free a tie at a time.

Flame in Stone

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

It is not the sunlight creature that one might expect from muscles shifting beneath loose dark-tawny fur, from amber staring and twitching tail. Here is instead wary seeking, shadow prowling through the thick rustling of ferns beneath the sun-shield of tree canopies.

It is potential. The potential of force, the steel-springs under pressure sort of potential, of claws just sheathed, of sated felinity lounging. Potential at rest, coiled, waiting. Waiting and wary, wary and watching. Looking before the leap, the bite, the creeping-forward stalk with nervous tail-agitation.

There are no edges to it, all liquid muscle beneath fur-velvet, whisker-twitch. There is force, power, but it is a crushing force, not a slashing one–not saber, not rapier, not blade-edge. It is bottled fire in an earthen vessel, fire-in-earth, tiger’s eye or apache’s tear, the jungle flame living in a stone.

It is warmth, burning like embers and hearth-fire. Not raging bonfire, not leaping wildfire, not sunwarmth–but the fire that burns low and hot and deceptively quiet. There is no coldness to it, only that beneath-the-surface heat.

Wolf in Winter

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

Gentle supple strength, wolf’s eyes, the deceptive fragility of a willow tree. There is moonshadow at the edges of her gaze, slowly losing the pain it once had, softening from jagged sharpness to the quiet shadow silence of snow beneath the half moon.

There is much of winter within her: frost clinging to a wolf’s thick fur, snow blanketing a den full of curling body warmth, evergreen scent heavy and cold on the wind. Dark greens, amber, dappled twilight.

I have seen winter’s breath drive harder within her, blowing hail against her spirit till she winces, curls deeper in her den with its velvet darkness and its bits of jagged rock that hold their own sharp comfort. Rarely, she is bared teeth and lifting hackles, more often protective over that-which-she-claims than her own self.

Moonsilver, star-shadow, frost and fir and snow, a wolf in winter.

Dark Water

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

He is dark water – the slow dripping of mineral-rich moisture forming stalactites deep within the earth; the currents far from the ocean’s surface where light never touches; the silent pools of stillness just outside the river’s current, where fish sleep and light only just filters in, dimmed by depth and silt.

There are reflective stretches of water, glacier-blue, in the highest furthest pockets of the mountains, natural mirrors for the moon to preen in. There are hidden places in the cradle of tree-roots surrounded by rock and moss that fill with cool rainwater, places that the sun illuminates green and gold mottled with inky shadow through the canopy of forest leaves. These are the sort of waters I see in him.

He angers, but it is a cold rage, wind whipping up the lakes and oceans, a piece of a glacier falling into the sea, the glittering icy rage of fae. Mostly, he watches, and chooses to let others make of him as they will. His magnetism is that of the blackness of a forest pool that tempts you to dive, though it may have no end to its depths, and trying to reach the bottom may swallow you whole. His hunger is the gnawing mouth of a cave that stretches cold and deep and houses nothing but the dripping formation of stalactites.

Where Am I?

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