This morning is not a morning for lounging; there are things to be done! I simply do not know what things….

The Oasis is quiet today, and everyone seems busy taking care of life. I wander the paths, and feel slightly out of place and at loose ends.

“I have plenty of things to do,” I say to Ishmael.

“In the outside world, you have plenty of things to do,” Ishmael says.

“I don’t usually come here when that’s the case,” I reply.

“Hmmm,” Ishmael says, and gives me a wink. It’s strange to think that I have to find a place for myself in my own place, which is, essentially, in my own head.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Harley says with her usual impatient twinge to her voice. She’s appeared out of nowhere, but then, that is not unusual in the Oasis.

“I thought you said I’d have to explore,” I say. Well, that’s *something*, isn’t it?

“A quest!” Ishmael says with the lunacy of a sidekick.

“You want to come along,” I suddenly realize. “Does curiousity kill angels?”

“Often,” Ishmael says, and he is not smiling.

“Harley,” I say, “why is everything working out now, and last week it wasn’t?”

Harley shrugs. “What’s different?”

What’s different? I feel better. I feel like there was something I couldn’t get enough of, and then I did. And that having whatever that was slaked now left enough time and attention to parcel out among other parts of my life. And at the same time that one need was fulfilled, something else that was overwhelming feels to have left. All I can think of was a huge monster sniffing near the place I was hiding, but then overlooking me and leaving instead (Shire! Baggins!).

“There’s a metaphor in my metaphor,” I complain. “Can’t I just think in straight lines?”

“Then you’d have been crazy a long time ago,” Bagheera says affectionately. I pet his great big head and he butts me playfully.

“Where have *you* been?” I accuse. “I could have used your help.”

“Then ask,” Bagheera says, without a trace of bite, figuratively or literally.

“Which would be the other problem,” Harley muttered.

“Fine,” I reply. “Then where do we start?”

“The Jungle,” Harley says. “You’ve left it woefully untended. You shouldn’t ignore gifts. Especially when given to you by a god.”

I am standing in the Conversation Tent in the Oasis.

The Tent is an Arabian tent bigger than most living rooms. Three of its four sides are rolled up, letting in the sun and the wind. The Conversation Tent is, in actuality, outside the walls of the Oasis and therefore has a beautiful, unhindered view of the ocean in the distance. And because it is magic, the Tent cannot be seen from outside the Oasis; one has to approach it from the path inside the Oasis walls or one will never find it at all.

A medium-sized firepit made of glazed tile sits in the middle of the Tent, and inviting couches and cushions ring the backside of the fire, positioned out to admire the view. There is usually tea to be had as well, because we are civilized, here in the Oasis.

(more…)

Before Night was named Nightengale, she was named Mono.

Nightengale is a small girl of about seven years of age. She looks more like a cartoon character in a dark gothic horror comic than a girl. She is formed of monochrome grays. That is, there is no color about her person at all, not in her coal-black eyes and hair, nor in her dove-soft grey skin, nor her grey gingham jumper dress. She carries a beat-up teddy bear that she drags behind her on the ground. (He looks like he was brown once, but now he’s too filthy to really tell.) Night lives in the Oasis, as she is one of the curiouser Aspects.
(more…)

What is the image of yourself in your mind when you forget to look in the mirror? I have one friend who constantly forgets that I am taller than she is. I have another friend who swears I am shorter than her, though our measurements come out the same. Those are the facts of the matter, I suppose, but facts mean very little. One friend sees me as equal in height, and the other shorter. Both always will see how they see, and that is the truth of the matter.

(Personally, I always insist that I am 5′5″, and have little problem seeing one friend as taller to match and the other friend as taller than I, making one 5′5″ and the other 5′6″, which I sincerely doubt any measuring device would ever corollate.)

But that is how others see me. Every once in a while on a very, very good day, for just a moment, I forget what is in the mirror entirely, and I think that I am Jade.

Jade is who I want to be when I grow up (to my next life). She is an Aspect, one of the fine ladies living in the Oasis. Jade has a deep, soft voice, the kind that reassures infants while at the same time making grown men babble just to hear more. She speaks very softly and with perfect calm, because Jade always knows what to do. She can instinctively handle any crises without ever losing an ounce of grace. She is willowy-tall and wears flowing gauzy sundresses. She moves like she is caught between being a dancer and a martial artist, never off-balance and always gliding and no wasted motion. She is wise and kind and effortlessly decisive.

When I was young, I made a ridiculous hypothesis that pretty women have ugly hands, and that women with pretty hands were merely tolerable to look at. (Because I have pretty hands, you see.)

Jade’s hands and long and perfect. When I don’t admire her like my own personal hero, I kind of want to kick her teeth in.

Jade speaks:

Days are for more than chasing butterflies; there are sparrows and squirrels who love a good chase too. No dreams are less shiny than others, so feed and water the ones that look more like philodendrons just as much as the ones that look like hibiscus.

Jade is never too sad, nor too happy. Her pleasant demeanor is honest, and while she feels strongly she has bypassed the troughs and crests of emotional swell. She rarely gets excited. Sometimes there is a gentle air of sadness around her, but I get the feeling she is sad for others, not herself. When she hugs you, she means it. Her hair is richly chestnut brown with body but little wave, and just touches her shoulders. Her eyes are emerald-forest-green.

The occasions I feel like Jade are very rare. Usually I am by myself, and nothing in particular is happening. I am often outside and the sun is warm and the air smells good and I get caught up in the moment. There’s nothing but me walking and the whole world as it passes under my feet. I forget to think and everything is just right. And in that moment, I am my own peculiar brand of perfect.