Search Results for 'mother'

— “I’m sure some weaving of threads can be done at a later date if necessary, if it doesn’t weave itself. Did you see the weaving quotes?”
— “Well, it would be like asking shaven sheep to have their mops of hair on the floor weave themselves on their own…”
— “Text/textile ~ weaving a story, which was where mother goose came in!”
— “And how would she know the first thing about weaving, she’s only got feathers on her back!”
— “Ah but she weaves a good story”
— “She doesn’t,… she pens… That’s what I call weaving… We need more giant spiders! Are you still … game?”

Santiago, Chile, May 2020

For the last past years, Becky now a pretty young teenager had been traveling from one school to another to pursue her artistic aspiration, but more so to discover as many places as possible. Schools were a necessary evil, for as long as she was too young to choose without her father’s consent, but at least she could choose which one she wanted to go to.
Although she barely remembered it now, she already did a fair deal of traveling out of the body when she was younger, helping her to map out the places and order in which she wanted to see them later. All of that subjective programming of sorts was now extremely helpful to her forgetful nature, as all she needed do was to trust her impulses to go here and there.
She would then magically find a distant relative who had been lost in the far ends of the family tree, or a friend of a friend who would accept to host her or recommend her to a friend. From there, her open nature and smiles did the rest to win them over.

In a month from now, she would be eighteen, and she wanted to go somewhere else, perhaps settle down for a little while. She had taken a world map and thrown a few coloured pins to let randomness choose for her, as she trusted it was her proper way of essence, so to speak. To her surprise, none of the pins seemed to stick but a single one in the vicinity of New York. America wasn’t her natural choice of predilection, but she knew she could trust the random flow of events. And to top that, she knew her aunt Charmille was living there. It would be easy then.

Charmille was the elder sister of Sabine Baina N’Diaye, Becky’s mother and first wife of Dan. She was a middle-aged eccentric and cheerful lady, who had never married, proudly saying that it was what had kept her young at heart. She was living in Brooklyn with a dozen birds twittering all day, and a few cats and other creatures the neighbours would give her to care for while they were away.

When she learnt that her niece would come here for three months, she first thought that it was a darn long time to be nice to anybody. But then she smiled and went preparing the spare room and brush the cats’ hair off the sheets.

Little did they know that the Lost Eggleton was the Lost Sneggleton of a mother snake, fruit of some hazardous experiments…

That was it. She had enough for the time being. Ever since the management had agreed to hire him for the new show, the Freakus was not as Fabulously Great as it once was.

Not that he was a bad guy, but he was all so closeted, he was imprinting it to the circus, and she wanted to breathe some different kind of air. Of course, never been a freak himself, Morgan the Mentalist wouldn’t ever come close as to understand what having been closeted your all life would mean. Being the Lobster girl of the show, she knew quite a bit about that.
It had took her awhile to know that there wasn’t anything wrong with her expression, so no one would told her how to express. Not the Mentalist of all others.

Damo, the guy who was setting up the tents had seen her leave the Freakus without a word, her little piece of luggage on her “normal” hand, while her claw-like one was tucked in a glove under her bosom. Sweet-hearted as he was, he had tried to convince her to stay, that surely there was some misunderstanding.
“Lyla, don’t be stoopid, ain’t got nothin’ fur you out there” he’d said to her.

She didn’t know how to tell him that all was good. She didn’t want to tell too much either, for Fama, his teen daughter wasn’t really loving the life at the circus either, and would easily have taken the bait to get out of there too. So she had moved saying that she would come back, “when it’s safe for kids” she’d added mysteriously.

Strange at it seemed, it was like taking a breathe of air, and yet, she couldn’t help but think over and over at how she could have changed anything in what had happened. Perhaps it was just a pretext for her to do her next step.
When Morgan first came to the show, he wasn’t in a good shape, and had begged Pat Elson to hire him. As he was kind of smart guy, he didn’t stay long in Damo’s team of workers. Pat saw his potential as a sort of empathic guy, and devised the Mentalist act with him.

He was good at cold-reading, mostly guessing at people problems; in the beginning, some of the freakus’ people would play a part with him, to amaze the audience, but it became less and less necessary, and he would do a nice job buy himself, with lots of “it wouldn’t happen to be that your mother gave the watch to you? No… not your mother… but someone close… I can feel blah blah” and then picking on the subtle hints the guy was giving off unwittingly.

Lately, he had started to kind of feel stuff for real. And he started to freak out. After all this time, not many people remembered Morgan as he first came to the circus, and for most he was the Outstandingly Great Mentalist. Yeah, he had been pimping up a bit his name too… Those things happen in the milieu.
But Lyla remembered. She was a girl at this time, but your work at the circus starts very early when you’re a freak.
She had seen how he gained a little confidence in himself, as long as it stayed within closed tents and half-lit veils. He was truly a master of illusion games, and he didn’t want people to see him differently than the way he was presenting himself. He’d first tried his little games of séances with some close trusty friends, and Lyla had been quite encouraging; he deserved to blossom his potential; no one deserved to be maintained at a place where you can’t reach your highest.

A few days before, Lyla had had the pleasure of seeing Jenny, who’d been snake charmer many years ago, and had quit to become a singer in a bar: “tired me to travel so much, ya see” she’d said to Lyla “Now my life ain’t so complicated”.
Then Jenny had then asked about the guys she’d known in the freakus, first of all was Morgan the Mentalist. “How’s that old fart of Morgy?” she’d asked with a giggle “still scamming around?”

Lyla had said innocently that he’d been practicing doing it more genuinely, even to some success with local peasants in a few séances. Jenny had greeted the news with a cheer. “Wonderful, hey!”

The next day, Lyla had had the Mentalist erupt in the caravan she shared with Zarafina and Venus, since Twi had gone to sing too. He was looking furious and once they were out of earshot (how could there be any need of making secrets with the others, Lyla had wondered, they shared everything, even the tiny bar of soap) told her with his sweetest voice how he appreciated Jenny. Of course she wasn’t a Mentalist, but she knew when someone was beating around the bush; and she needn’t be Moses to know the bush was smelling of burning.

“I greatly appreciate Jenny, but I’d love to choose when I disclose my information to her” that’s what he said. At first, she’d thought, well, why the theatrics? Cool for you guy, peace off now. Then she slowly understood that he wanted to tell her to shut her mouth. How could she know what part to shut and which to tell? She hadn’t done anything wrong did she? Why was he having the same tone than the frigging priests with their sermons telling that you’re sinful, and when you’ve got a crooked arm, it’s because you’re born evil and such guilt shit.”

Well, she didn’t want to stay in a position where she had to figure out which of his sharing was a real sharing or was not. So she better bugger off, take some fresh air.

She thought how she loved to hear the radio, and her lifelong dream was to work there, in a place where people would hear her before judging from her appearance… Maybe she would thank Morgy in the future for giving her the last excuse to do what she wanted.

That’s some stroke of genius, said Al to himself, as he was waiting in the cold for a gondoskate to pay a visit to Becky Tooh who was sick with the flu at home with the three kids, and Sean nowhere to be found. Usually Sam was keen on helping Becky Tooh with the motherly duties, but as he was gone to the City he had relied on Tina and Al for that…

If we manage to move the characters of the Reality Play out of that freezing land sooner, we’ll probably soon get hotter as well… Well, at least it’s worth a try!

“Mr Ryell?”
“Yes?”
“It’s such an honor to meet you, your carvings are absolutely gorgeous! I’ve bought one for my mother, she loves your creations so much!”

Sam H. Ryell, known as Sam to his friends, was waiting in his studio for Tina and Al to come pick him up for the Hallowe’en celebration. His exposition of vitrified watermelon and pumpkin carvings had attracted lots of folks from all corners of New Venice, quite unexpectedly.
He wasn’t too sure he deserved all the compliments, but if the lady’s mother loved his carvings, why muddy one’s pleasure.

Truth was, since he’d came back from the Floridisles, he’d felt completely uninspired to carve any longer. All the carvings that were on display were at least three months old. And the more recent of these were not actually of his doing,… not quite entirely.
He wanted to do something else, try other materials. No matter what they all said; he was fed up with vegetables.

“Perhaps I’ll try nuts next, what do you reckon, Foxam?”

The little nine-tailed fox yelped at him approvingly.

— “Dory?”
— “What, hon’?” a distracted Dory answered to young Becky
— “You’d better remove the magnets from the iron, or you’ll ruin another one…”
— “What are you talking about?!” Dory was perplexed, trying to find her way through the airport to Gate 57-¾, but only to find nothing but benches in between Gate 57 and 58.
— “Oh, never mind… It’s only a dream and you probably won’t remember it anyway.”

“There!” the suspicious bag lady of the Heathrow terminal had reappeared briefly just for Dory to spot her entering the restrooms.
Becky was already rolling the heavy bumper-stickers patched suitcase to follow her without question.

— “But why are you taking the suitcase to go to the bathroom, Beck’?”
— “What are you talking about Dory!” Becky was sometimes losing patience. “Can’t you see it’s the entrance for Gate 57-¾?!”
— “Uh?” A moment of clueless mystery on Dory’s face. “Oh…” Another mini-black hole on her face.

“Oh. Okay then. Let’s go…”

If there was something that her exotic life had taught Dory, it was to never question the moment. If the circumstances are here, if the impulse is there, then go for it. Explanations will follow. And in case they don’t, make them up as you roll and rock!

Becky meanwhile was rather surprised at how people, even her own step-mother, as tuned in ghostly stuff as she was, most of the time failed to see the things for what they really are. And if these big painted letters on the door “GATE 57 ¾” weren’t obvious enough, and people preferred to interpret them as restrooms, then… what else could be done? She sighed.
Later on, she would learn that it was a common, well documented trait in human consciousness; that people were sometimes psychologically (but not physically) blind to stuff outside of their current focus of attention, or simply blind to things too far off their beliefs; in other terms, it was a matter of energy reconfiguration. As long as it worked…

“Oh look at that… Yukailli Airlines counter is here! What bloody stupid idea to put a closet door at the entrance…”

After having made the departure arrangements at the counter, Dory came back to Becky who was looking outside at the planes.

— “Ain’t them beautiful?”
— “Yeah, and I suppose you’re seeing planes, aren’t you?”
— “Err, yes of course, what else, silly… Though now you ask me, they seem a bit weird… foggy or something”.

In fact, what Becky was seeing wasn’t conventional planes. It was more like “fly-boats”. Some sorts of hybrid ships made to fly with huge wings transparent and shiny like those of flies.

— “I hope they have crunchy coleslaw for meal, I’m starving” a contented and tired Dory said, when she collapsed into the comfortable seats.

— Were are we Anu? , the mother asked her young daughter trotting in front of her. My, it’s awfully dark in there… Are you sure we’ll find the others here?
— Yes Mum. Anu answered in a soft voice.
— Don’t be so anxious, Lily dear; trust our little girl; after all, she did so bravely well on her own after that plane crash.
— You’re right Aaron, but this place is so… I don’t know, it gives me the creeps. It’s like… I couldn’t tell why, but it’s like we’re not remotely close to the Miami… or even the Sarcastic Sea where we’re supposed to be stranded…
— It’s because we’re not, muttered Anita, more to herself than to her mother. But we’ll be soon enough, she added.
— Sometimes I wonder how can Anu know so well were we are when we’re so lost, her mother mumbled…

Balbina was following the little group as it was heading to the cave where one of the portal’s entrances was located. She could see the entrance clearly, glowing and sending ripples of energy coils, but that was only because she was travelling in her dream-body. While Anita, who was quite tuned into those things, wasn’t appearing to be lost, the parents seemed more than a little in the dark, and not only figuratively speaking…

Balbina turned to the rabbit who was keeping her company.
— And do you know were they’re going to?
— And do you like the things that life is showing you? giggled Yuki. Well, more seriously, it depends on what they’re choosing. And it could lead them to a place much more different than the one they expect to go to.

A funny idea crossed the mind of Balbina, so much so that the elderly lady, who was looking rather youngish in her dreamlike appearance couldn’t help but express it.

— Could they come to my place? They seem so charming people, and they seem to come from the same time as I do…
— I thought you would never ask, Yuki smiled at her mischievously.
— Oh, why?
— Don’t you think it’s a funny coincidence that you are to meet them here and now?
— Well… It’s just a dream, isn’t it?
— And what if you could make that dream reality? Prove to yourself that it’s as real as anything else…
— That sounds exciting indeed.

“Here!” Anita was pointing a strange shaped bush of brambles.

Rafaela was standing next to the bushes with Armelle on a tree nearby. “I’ve thought it would be more practical for them than the rock pool”
“Good thinking dear” Yuki answered the goat.

— And now? Balbina asked
— I think it’s up to you and Anita, said Yuki.

“And where are we going from there?” asked Lily to her daughter.
“Not far from here, to a friend’s home, in Venezuela .” answered Anita with a wink which seemed lost to her parents, but not to the beaming Balbina.

Oh, he thought, at least Tina’s coming another 8 closer (then immediately thinking he was now changing it to another start of a cycle — another convenient way of saying he’d just blown this new magic occurrence of “858”, but wasn’t it how changes were supposed to be made?).

Now, what the cloud had in store for him, he wondered…

“elikozoe sync closer especially dear ask soon suddenly began known difficult step”

OK, Al thought, now that’s interesting… this was no coincidence that “Elikozoe”, his nom de plume (he was born Albert (Al) Yokoso, from a father of Japanese descent and a mother of Cajun descent) would appear like that out of the blue…
As for “dear”, who else than “Dear” Tina

New Venice, March 2034

After so many “haven’t been on my honeymoon yet!” ( ¹ – ² ) , Becky was relieved to see that she had fast-forwarded time so nicely that, finally, in a few hours of time now, they would depart for Sri Lanka.

Of course, the last events with her wavering in different probabilities, and manifesting more of what she had tried —almost by reflex— to avoid were still on her mind. She had felt a bit sorry for Sean, but she knew all along that the choices were hers, and worrying unduly about others, even if that was about her dear spouse, wouldn’t be efficient at all, needless to say not even slightly helpful.
She had to concentrate more on the way she wanted to express herself. That way, she knew she would draw to her the perfectly appropriate situations —while the less than appealing stuff would recede in the background under a good dose of acceptance fairy dust.

Though still a bit weary of her unexpected pregnancy from a future traveler who hadn’t even had the tact to propose her to elope with him, her minds were fresh and excited as ever at the thought of hopping like a daft goat on the Lion’s Rock in Sigiriya. And her good mood seemed to have an infectious effect on Sean who hadn’t even inquired of what local liquor there would be on the island. Perhaps the aura of the spiritual region had already blessed Sean with some renewed optimism.

As she was fondly stuffing her skimpy honeymoon outfit in the already ready to burst piece of luggage, she smiled blissfully, remembering all of a sudden how she had forgotten to be gentle with herself these past few days, and how nice it was to treat herself with shiny and twinkling shards of spicy new adventures.
She could indeed feel the excitement of doing some psychic archeology (as her step-mother used to call that) on these spots full of collective energies that she hadn’t had the taste of in many months.

Looking again at the leo-parts he just found in the digital archives of the play, Al was now amazed at how the Becky he had had glimpses of in her tarty nunfit had looked similar to her step-mother Dory in her youth…
Fascinating…