Into The Mine…

Years ago I heard a story about a woman who checked into a somewhat upscale hotel without any luggage. She didn’t even have her purse or any I.D- somehow it had been left behind.

This was back in the early 1950’s and I’m guessing they let her do this because people were more trusting back then- that and from all accounts the woman was well dressed, well spoken and by appearances seemed like a  real lady.

At any rate, it was on it’s way she told the Hotel Clerk- in fact it was going to be showing up any minute so could she just check into her room- it had been a long day.

The Clerk let her check in and the next morning when the maid went into the room they found the woman dead, sitting in a chair facing the window.

They authorities would only ever learn one thing about the woman- she was dead from cyanide poisoning- an odd thing to use to kill yourself,  but that was the cause of death and that’s what was reflected on the death certificate.

The woman’s luggage never did show up, and no one ever came forward to I.D Jane Doe- and somewhere in Seattle under a little grey stone with numbers on it- probably overgrown with grass now is a woman who according to some never existed.

So I wonder.

Can a person who never existed-

Truly Ever Die?

No surface mining allowed!

I really do not like dark places, I prefer to walk in illumination, upright, and free to find my way around by some other means than crawling through the muck, and having my miner’s light beam its narrow pathway into the darkness. But I have heard that there is company awaiting me, and nuggets of real value to be mined from behind this door. So I gather courage, and insist that it be friends with fear.

They shake hands, at first reluctantly, eye each other suspiciously, and then agree, in the interest of what is best for me, that they will lay aside their petty differences and go together into the mine.

So it is, with courage holding one hand, and fear sweatily squeezing the other, that I push open the door to a place of mystery, an underground bed of discovery.

It is odd that all of the world’s most precious and highly valued commodities come from beneath the earth: diamonds, rubies, emeralds,oil, coal, and oh,I almost forgot… taters. Perhaps, I shall emerge more valuable for this deep mining effort, or at least better prepared for what is next.

So I shut my eyes, inhale deeply, and give the door to the mine a hearty shove….. and step across the threshold that symbolizes my entrance into a world of wonder, and all the while courage is kissing fear, and I believe they will become very good friends indeed.

Frogita

Angels and Demons at the Gate

Maria woke with a start - still under the influence of the dream - it always seems so real - moving with stealth through the night - every sense alert. The dreams come almost every night now. For years, she had held them at bay - but each night brings more details and more reality. Maria finds that the dreams are getting harder and harder to explain away as “just dreams.” But now - the sun is up, she smells - YES! garlic and tomatoes! Oh that Darlene knows how to cook like a Domestic Goddess. Bruschetta for breakfast - again - her favorite!

She smiles as she remembers the great fun of the previous evening. Darlene regaling her with stories of the happy times when the hot sulfur springs were open and the mines brought men and women in small groups travelling on camels.

These visitors came to stay at small B&Bs called Caravanserai. They worked hard in the mines - but they were not obessed. The coffee houses overflowed with Troubadours and Cantadoras. Herbalists practiced openly on the streets. An Oracle hung out a sign and soon people flocked to her tent to learn the art of Tarot and self-divination. Instead of saloons there were salons - oh what a difference a vowel makes - Darlene chuckled!

It is rumored - if you knew the right people - there was a medicine woman - some whispered that she was a shaman of sorts - who created custom Chakra Balancing Sessions. But this was before the troubles, before the fires came through and destroyed the town of Leaning Birches.

Last night was great fun, but today, she must leave Darlene and her hospitality behind. That darn mule is pestering her to go for a ride! So after breakfast they are going for a leisurely stroll in the countryside.

~*~*~*~*~*~^**^~*~*~*~*~*~

Darlene held Maria close, and whispered in her ear. Maria pulled back and looked deep into Darlene’s eyes - feeling a flash of fear in her stomach - but Darlene’s gaze was steady and strong. She saddled up her supplies on the mule’s back and set off on foot. Several hours later, hot and thirsty, she begged the mule to take a break. This mule however, had other ideas - in fact she was a bit stubborn and kept plodding on, farther and farther away from the town until they came around an outcrop and stopped suddenly at a solid rock wall.

Maria stared at it for a bit and then her eyes began to pick out some details. There was a handprint. Curious, she walked over and placed her hand on the cool stone. A perfect fit. Before she could give it another thought, there was a deep rumbling and the rocks opened to reveal….

 

 

 

On to the Cosmic Egg and The Mandala of Creation

Breath of Fresh Air

I press my hand into the handprint which has appeared right in front of me at shoulder height.  The handprint wasn’t there a moment ago, but it was this same door which only moments ago, welcomed my Sloughing Stone and turned it into a sparkling gem to go along with the others decorating the door.   This same door which was made out of the strange wood which seemed prevalent in this part of the world.  I wondered whether I’d be able to take a sample back with me when I returned home.  I swallowed a gulp of air as I watched the wood move around my hand, shifting, pushing, molding to its shape.  I resisted the urge to pull my hand away fast but made the decision to try to be brave instead.  I also wanted to close my eyes but made them wider instead.  I was determined to break out of my old patterns of living as I didn’t see any other way to survive the journey ahead.

The wooden door had finished it’s molding and was holding tight to my hand.  I wondered whether my hand would ever be the same again and turned my head to look behind me.  I hoped that Annie might have come back and followed me down the tunnel to keep an eye on me but it seems I really was on my own.

The door began to warm around my hand and I stifled a whimper as I also tried to keep still.  The wood around my hand was glowing a strange yellow colour and my hand felt like it was immersed in almost too hot water.  Shivers and warmth ran up and down my arm but still I didn’t move.  Then suddenly everything abruptly stopped.  The heat went away as did the glowing and my hand fell away to my side.  I anxiously inspected it expected to at least see some evidence of what it had been through but my hand was fine.  In fact the skin seemed smoother and softer.  As I drew a sigh of relief, I heard several loud clicks and the large door in front of me swung inwards.  Unexpectedly the air that rushed into my face was as fresh as a meadow of daisies.  I frowned in puzzlement and pushed the door further open.

Spread before me was a large cavern dominated by a shallow pool of clear water.  On the far side of the cavern beside a doorway, was a small fountain trickling the same cool water down a smooth curved stone which then deposited the water into the pool.  I couldn’t see why the water in the pool wasn’t overflowing but there must have been a tiny drain somewhere keeping the water level steady.

The sound of the trickling water, instantly soothed my nerves and I stepped into the cavern.  I willed my feet to keep moving as I looked around.  The cavern wasn’t that big and had a path the wound around the edges of the pool towards the doorway on the other side.  As I neared the pool I could hear voices.  They were sweet and melodic and I realised that they were singing a strange kind of song using words I didn’t recognise as any of this world.  The sound of the singing and the trickling of the water made my body feel completely relaxed even as my mind wanted to shout caution.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the pool but after a while I  heard quiet clicks behind me.  I looked around and noticed that the door that allowed me to enter the Alluvial Mine had closed and there was now no going back.  I returned my gaze to the pool and for the first time noticed a scooped out stone perched at the edge of the pool.  It drew me and invited me to sit down.  The voices still sang and the trickling was still constant but my mind was now as peaceful as my body.

by Soultide

mining

At the entrance to the mine there is an ancient tree with gnarled bark. Looking at the patterns and images she allows the memories to unravel, seeing connections and meanings appear where there were none before. peacedove

Unburdening & Mine Particulars

 

Orlando and I continued along the roads, coming to the honeycomb of mines inside the foot of the Olympic Mountains.  After his spontaneous sleep under the Wise Oak, many things had changed.  I had also changed, witnessing the burned out wood on my walk.  Yet still, the critical voice remained, taunting us in the form of a mischievous grey ghost, hovering near our shoulders and rustling the dead leaves in the trees, and putting sticks and stones in our path.  On the horizon we could see Spring had changed the landscape around the foot of the mountains.  We could also see the other seasons beyond the mountains, in our imagination.  This was but one more trace of winter to be left behind.  We had to be mindful of following the instructions Maude had told us, and I could see her bold jewels flashing by way of Mnemosyne, in my mind.  If something would go wrong in those Olympic Mountains, the grey ghost would be of no use.  And what would Maude think of Orlando, and what would he think of himself?  “We ought to make our way easier,” I said.  “What do you mean?” he said, kicking at the stones in his path, “I don’t think that’s possible.  Struggle is part of life.”  “I want to let go of it,” I said, stopping just as spring sent blossoms winging across the path.  “I want to go with the new.”  Orlando looked at me as if I had lost my mind.  “Struggle is the only worthy thing,” he said, forging ahead.  The entrance to the cave was guarded by a mysterious creature, dressed in red and holding a skull in her hand, waiting.  A man was making his way across the path, as if out of nowhere, calling, “Unburden thyselves!  Unburden thyselves!  This is the only true way, the only true way.”  He hauled easily a cart filled with every possible load imaginable, people’s woes and fears, anguish and heartaches, and there were a number of grey ghosts hanging off the back, which looked suspiciously like ours.   And so it was that I tricked the ghost, into joining again with it’s own…as like attracted like…with Orlando powerless to stop me.  Like a magnet it stuck, hauled to the back of the cart as it moved away, and clung to its likeness.  “I’ll be back…” it said, as the cart moved away and the man’s cries diminished into the distance.  Spring sent white petals around us and a quickening wind that made us hurry along the path toward the cave entrance.  “You know it’ll be back,” said Orlando, biting into a rosy apple he’d got out of his pocket.  “Perhaps, but it won’t ever be the same again…” I said, quickening my steps to the mine ahead of him.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)

Crone Soup

Every one is ready for a mining adventure except Cronelogical, who being logical as well as closterphobic, has decided to stay at the entrance and cook up some soup for the lunch. She has found a pinch of the limerick, a few over-ripe sonnets, six short stories all with surprise endings, a novelette, a gothic revival spell, a couple of hymns to the morning sun, twenty-two twentieth century neo nursery rhymes and a spy story and mixed them all into a hearty dish to feed the weary searchers when they come out of the dark place below ground. Please be advised to cool Crone’s mixture before tasting.

Duende

by Lori Gloyd

Inspired By The Alluvial Mine Project– Duende

*****

Duende:  A dark, creative force experienced by many creative persons but most especially by Flamenco entertainers; also a type of imp or magical spirit.

*****

Marta whipped her red Mustang around the corner and slipped into a parking space behind the Café Andaluz.  Resting her pounding head on the steering wheel, she listened to the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and tried to calm her nerves.

She jumped as her cell phone trilled.  She grabbed it from her bag and flipped it open.

“What?!……I’m here, Bryan!  Just chill, will you?”   She ended the call with a loud snap and crammed the phone back into her bag. 

Marta scrambled out of her car, scanning the dimly lit lot behind the Café.   As she headed towards the backstage door, she heard a rustling noise from the dumpster in the corner of the lot.  She stopped and stared.   A figure of a man stood next to the dumpster.  His eyes glowed red.

“Go away and leave me alone!”, Marta shouted.  She sprinted through the stage door and nearly collided with Bryan, the stage manager and director.

“It’s about time you showed up.  Your call was two hours ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry.  I got held up.”

“’Sorry’ doesn’t cut it sweetie.  Esteban wanted a dress rehearsal of your number.  You do remember, don’t you, that the dance reviewer from the Weekly is coming tonight?  Esteban is having a royal hissy because of you.  I swear, that man is gonna break a string if he keeps strumming his picados so hard.”

Marta had stopped listening to Bryan and stared at his face.  For a moment, his face seemed to transform from his fair boyish looks to something darker, more sinister.  The image vanished as quickly as it came.

“Marta!  What is wrong with you?  You’ve got 25 minutes until the curtain goes up.  You’re the fourth number, right after Luz and Maria’s cante chico.  Get into costume now, puhleeze, and, omigawd, tell me that’s not how you’re going to wear your hair tonight?”

Marta ignored Bryan’s last remark as she headed down the hall to the dressing room.  When she entered, she met Lupe, the wardrobe mistress, who glared at her.

“You are late….again.”

“Sorry.”  Marta slipped off her sweat pants and t-shirt and began putting on her costume, a flaming orange gown over layers of white lace underskirts.

“You need a manton for your routine,” Lupe flatly stated.  “Which one do you want?”

“The long black one, please.  Thank you.”

Lupe waddled down the hall to the wardrobe closet to fetch the fringed shawl that would be an integral part of Marta’s dance.    Marta was pleased to have the dressing room to herself for a few minutes.  The other flamencas were already dressed, waiting in the wings for the curtain to go up.   Marta buried her face in her hands.  Every evening, the same thing—he comes—the dark one—to whisper in her ears.

The visits began about six months earlier right after she had auditioned to dance at the Café.  Hector de Borromeo, the owner of the Café Andaluz, had muttered over and over as he watched her audition:  “Eso es! Asi se baila!—That’s it; that’s dancing!  Duende!  She has it!”  Senor de Borromeo hired her on the spot.

Then it started.  Every afternoon on the days she danced at the Café, as she tried to get a few hours of sleep before going to work, he would show up.  At first, it was only his voice, penetrating her dreams as she tried to sleep, then later, while she was awake.  Lately, he had been manifesting in physical form, moving in and out of the dark recesses of her apartment, only for a moment, but long enough to cast his red eyes upon her.  Always he would say, “you are mine—remember me when you dance.”

Then the headaches began—blinding migraines that slowed her down and made her late for work almost every night.  She was afraid to say anything about the migraines for fear they wouldn’t let her dance.  She certainly did not mention the voices or manifestations, for obvious reasons.

Marta began assembling her makeup and hair accessories. She looked up at the mirror and began to apply her foundation.  Her eyes widened in horror.  He was here, behind her, his face unseen.  He had never followed her into the Café before.

She swung around.  “Get out!”

“No, you need me,” he softly replied.

“No, I do not.  I don’t even know who…or what you are.”

“I am Duende.”

Marta snorted.  “Fairy tales.  There’s no such thing.”

“If I am a fairy tale, then for certain you are mad.”

Marta had already considered this—a number of times.

“Come to me….”  He reached out his hand to her.

Just then the door opened.  Lupe, holding a folded shawl, entered, looking around the room.  “Who are you talking with?”

“No one”.  Marta turned back to the mirror and began brushing and tying back her hair.  Lupe raised an eyebrow and put the shawl on the dressing table “Bryan says hurry up.”  

Marta quickly applied the rest of her make-up, slipped on her dance shoes and smoothed her hair.  She heard the sound of applause and knew that the show had started.   Marta made her way to the wings and waited for her turn.  She scanned the corners and rafters of the backstage looking for the dark man. 

Luz and Maria finished singing their cante.  The curtain fell and Bryan cued Marta to find her mark on the stage.   Marta positioned herself, placing one hand on her hip and arching her back.   She lifted the other arm high above her head, twisting her wrist into a graceful curve.  The curtain rose and the spotlight fell on her.

Esteban began an aggressive strumming of his guitar.  Luz and Maria clapped in rhythm with Esteban as Marta began rapid-fire tapping of her feet.  Esteban’s deep voice boomed across the stage in a somber, resonating canto jondo.

As his singing became more passionate and the music rose in intensity, Marta became less and less aware of her surroundings.  Esteban and the dancers faded from her sight as did the audience. It was just Marta and the music.

Suddenly, unseen hands gripped Marta’s shoulders, and she could no longer move.  She was frozen in the darkness.  She felt a hand release one shoulder and begin to caress her cheek.  She lifted her eyes.  A light fell across his face and she could saw him.  He was swarthy with angular features and full lips.  Gone were the awful red eyes, but though they were now dark brown, they still bore straight through to the deepest part of her being.

Marta opened her mouth to say something, but he put a finger to her lips to silence her.  She felt a tingle grow in her stomach.  A terror gripped her, yet she could not pull away from the man.  Still gazing in her eyes, he slid his hand from her mouth, tracing with the barest brush her form all the way to her waist.  He then slipped his arm around her to the small of her back and pulled her to him.  

With his other hand, he lifted her face to his and pressed his lips to hers.   Marta felt as if she were falling into the darkness, her soul merging with the duende.

Suddenly, her awareness was thrown back to the stage.  Her routine had reached a climax, Esteban strumming furiously as Marta’s feet tapped in rhythm  to the music.  With a great flourish of her arms, Marta froze at the sound of the last down stroke of the guitar.  The audience erupted into vigorous applause and shouts of  “Jaleo!  Jaleo!  Brava!”

A photographer leaned over the edge of the stage and flashed a picture.  Another man rapidly scribbled in his notebook.   Marta smiled and with a graceful sweep, she took her bows.

Duende!  It had rocked her to her foundations.  She had submitted to it.  She savored the terror and pleasure of the encounter, as she had before and would again.  Tomorrow, he would visit and their terrifying courtship would begin all over again.

Image and story:  Lori Gloyd © 2006.

The Bee Hunter

By Anita Marie Moscoso

I really wanted to write one of my ” Strange Tales ” about how I found the entrance to the Alluvial Mine…but hands down the truth was far better then anything I could have made up.

So here it is…

Anita Marie

 

When I was about six years old we used to drive by this building that looked exactly like the Post Office across town.

It was square and boxy and it had a ramp leading up to a set of double glass doors with a metal railing running along side of it. There were gold letters to the left of the door and gravel stuck to the face of the building, which looked pretty awful.

It reminded me of kitty litter.

One day we were driving by the Post Office’s Doppelganger and as the fates would have it the traffic light turned red and we came to a stop.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I’d only been quiet about it because for the past year it seemed like any question I asked just got me into trouble…so I stopped asking them.

The ” post office” and the property it was on…it was too much for me to ignore anymore.

This question had finally burned a path from my brain to my mouth and the result was an explosion. I was sitting behind my Dad and I remember laughing so hard I choked on my own saliva.

I remember him looking into his rear view mirror and his green eyes were on fire, ” Anita what is your problem? “

” Dad, ” I choked ” why is there a post office in a graveyard?”

Well, it was true…to a point.

This was a cemetery we drove by and the building out in front of if that I’m referring to looked exactly like a post office.

My poor Parents. Probably like a lot of people they just ask the heavens to give them a healthy, happy child.

Like a lot of people though I’ll bet you never think to ask for your child to be sane.

My Dad just rolled his eyes to the heavens and told me because he had no intention of continuing the conversation” It’s a Columbarium. “

Now, all I heard was something that sounded like ” Barnum ” so I ask ” is that like a Circus? “

” Jesus Wept ” my Dad said and he shook his head and tried to ignore me for the next 30 years.

But as the light turned from red to green and my Dad was about to drive away I saw a group of people dressed in black walking in this little huddle and they were sort of hobbling up the ramp and through the doors of the…well, you know circus and I thought…

” I want in.”

I’m sorry to say I got my wish.

My Great Grandmother passed away a few months later and I found myself walking up that ramp towards the door surrounded by my family who were all dressed in black.

And then the doors swung open.

I can remember the little glass cases and the little brass urns inside of them. I remember the cool air and the quiet and the shiny marble floors and the way all of the sudden every single adult in my life looked small.

Yes sir, small and intimidated and scared.

I wish I could say I didn’t enjoy seeing that. I wish I could say I was a sensitive, thoughtful little girl and hated to see pain and suffering in the world around me.

I wasn’t like that.

I was the type of kid who use to go on ‘bee hunts’ I mean that, Bee Hunts. I use to take a paper bag, drop a piece of chocolate ho-ho into it and go around and collect bees.

If you have little fingers and patience you can pick those little monsters up and not get stung.

That’s the voice of experience talking.

Anyway, I’d get my little bag of bees and walk around with them all afternoon in the hopes that someone would ask ‘what’s in the bag?’

When someone finally asked I remember feeling all warm and happy inside and then I’d open the bag.

Ha, ha, ha.

So back to the Funeral…I asked someone what was in the ‘jars’ and some well meaning adult who thought I was normal learned down and took my chin into their hand and said quiet and solemn, ” those are people who have passed away Anita.”

I remember the tears came and I remember being given a nice clean hanky so I could dry my eyes. I covered my face with that starchy cloth and I remember my chest and shoulders heaved so hard it hurt.

Someone called my Mom and she managed to pull the handkerchief away from my face.

When she did that I was able to refill my lungs with enough air so that I could send my voice bouncing off those marble walls.

My little voice was amplified to concert level proportions so that everyone in the building could hear me as I laughed  ” Mommy, how’d they get those big people into those little tiny jars?”

The only person who smiled was the Funeral Director, he sort of winked at me and I shut up and I was good for the rest of the Service.

The thought came from nowhere and buried itself in my brain. ” I want to work here,” I remember thinking to myself.

Life is a funny thing; 26 years later I actually worked in that Columbarium.

So that day in the Columbarium was the day I found the entrance way to my ‘Alluvial Mine’ and it was a six year old who found it.

And then one day she decided to start writing…but that’s another story.So far she’s made some pretty good calls…

I do believe I’ll keep listening.

Going It Alone

Guess I’ll just have to enter alone,
seeing that everyone is hidden,
or shivering silent in the dark …

I muse a bit as I prepare.

papa
……………………………………………………

A Settle Lean

If one is possessed to enter a hole in the ground – deep that is, where ‘bowels of the earth’ is a phrase that burrows in your soul, then you may as well do it right. Not spelunking in spandex shorts with crevasse defying, blinding lamps. Not scrambling beneath sewered city streets with fearsome brands of branches wrapped in pitchy rags. Never again a fingernail creep through war blown trenches with hope your only light. Nay, my friend – we’re going to explore an ancient mine, and I’ll show you how it’s done.

What you have in your hands is a miner’s hat with an acetylene lamp built right in. Select a couple of rock chips from the can – use tweezers not your fingers – and drop them in the tray – screw on the lid. Now fill the drip-can half full from your canteen and wipe up your clumsiness. Check the flint and thumb wheel – a single spark will do. Fine! Open that stop-cock just a might – when you hear a hiss, count three and thumb the wheel. We have two hours – let’s go.

The tiny yellow flame is just enough – not more – to keep you safe; a reflected cone of eerie light guided by practice sweep of head and transfixed eye. Feel you way with toe and finger – the light is only to let you know you haven’t turned to stone.

Consider how you deal with others – seeking knowledge, that is. You can lead or follow or just keep out of the way – mostly fumble by wits alone in caves of mystery, no matter what you’ve been told. You always have a lantern to guide your way, though – at least allowing others to get a sense of who you are. Just allow a little of your spirit to drip, measure by measure, onto the solid pebbles of your principles and flecks of knowing. A golden glow! Keep a low profile and be wary of pits of fear and shaky shorings of other’s beliefs. Just settle for sharing the lean glow of inner light with a friend – and allow their light to guide you to where you’ve never been. Don’t look for treasure – just try and get out alive.

While Waiting

I’m standing around awaiting my ‘mine guide’,
but understand she is reviewing art — OK by me.
but I am not good at idling about.

Some would doodle, perhaps — but I write,
and find myself playing with words –
a couple mangled in former posts.

papa
…………………………………………………………………………..

Wheen a vexum lass smeets a tempatious lad
surneath a resplendish oakly treen,
then givain attendtude aslide,
theart hormoans may interseed
and contwain afflection
begong explectations.

Beward and toke warnought!
Youngly childran pretan tob adsults
whilt dangerts awhail thert ignoraints.

Embroidery of the Underground Sea of the Goddess

On stepping over the threshold leading into the main entrance of the Lemurian Alluvial Mine I noticed that the walls of the cavern were almost completely covered with a host of images, some signed, many left anonymous. And so it was that I pulled an embroidery that I had been working on of late and turning to dear Annie Marshall asked her if I could place it up there alongside all the other tokens left behind by a multitude of pilgrims. She smiled her assent. Then she requested the meaning of the piece, telling me that intention is everything (words I was long to ponder over) and I responded by describing my deep love of the Goddess and the Sea, and how it seems to me that the waters of the world, especially those that run subterraneously, are like the waters of the womb of Mother Earth, and they hold deep within the hidden secrets and ultimate meaning of life.

‘’And what do you think is the meaning of life’’, she asked.

‘’I believe it is Love, although I have yet to learn and understand the full force of its message. It seems to me that it is pain and loss that tears open your heart so that the raw wound of your inner being is left exposed, and in this exposition of the holy sacrament of pain, is to be found the true meaning of life and love, which is beyond all understandings. And so it is that I believe that we live in a paradox. We seek answers to questions we cannot even ask. We can only feel the murmurings of the vaguest suggestions of an idea shimmer luminously within our souls. And if we think that we have at last discovered the answer, then it is time to admit that we have taken a wrong turn and go back and beg on our hands and knees to be taken and pointed in another direction. Those who do this for us are our true friends and anam charas. In this life there is no rest, nor can we ever hope for any.’’