the warrior and the many-tentacled thing
- the warrior and the many-tentacled thing
- the warrior and the many-tentacled thing, ii
- oasis living is free
Finally I have time to come back to this image.
On Monday I met with Lori and she did a process with me. Her processes generally involve her asking me questions about a subject that is making me uneasy that I asked for help dealing with. The point of the asking is to listen inwardly for an answer.
My answer to one of the questions was this:
Two figures on a plain. One is a woman warrior in full plate mail. She doesn’t have a helmet, and she has long blonde hair. The other is some sort of monster. Most of the monster is outside the image, and all that I see of it is three or four tentacles. They are fighting each other. They are dirty and exhausted and both spattered with blood.
My unconscious is, if nothing else, creative.
The strange part was that in answer to another question, something like: “And when is this problem not a problem?” My first inner response the the question was: “When I am out, with people, looking outward instead of inward.”
This lucidity was followed up by another image: the two fighters sitting just out of reach of each other, panting. Like they were finally able to get a break.
And that is where we are at.
“Ishmael,” I call. I call and he is there. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course,” he says. “Though you really don’t need me for this.”
“No?” I ask. “Then what do I need you for?”
“To remind you,” he says. I take his hand and lead him down the hill to the warriors. We are in the Fair, where all my inventions, deliberate or unconscious, come to life.
I can hear the warrior’s heavy gasps for air as we come closer to them.
“Please,” I call out. “Could you stop for a bit? I need to talk with you.”
There is not even a hitch in their battle. I frown. Usually that works. Most things that live in my head acknowledge my wants as something important to make time for.
“Not with them,” Ishmael sounds almost cheerful. “They’ll keep going at it till you look away.”
“Don’t tell me I need to do something ridiculous like close my eyes and approach.”
“Fascinating idea,” Ishmael says. “I’ll pay you to try it.”
“Sadist. You’re supposed to be helping.”
“Aren’t I?”
Clang, clang, clang go the blows the tentacles score on the warrior’s mail.
Gritting my teeth, I say: “You’d better have Bob at the ready.” And then I march down to put myself between blade and flesh.
Neither creature could check their blows in time; a tentacle walloped my back, and the flat of the blade caught me on the shins. Well, I thought as I staggered, pain ricocheting through me, at least she managed to turn it.
“Who are you?” The warrior-woman demands. I’m bent over, trying to work out which hurts worse.
“Funny,” I reply. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”
Tags: ishmael
