Sometimes, I just watch shows on tv a bit randomly, like, the trailer seemed interesting, or it’s on a channel I watch with my family already. We’d been seeing trailers for From the Ashes a documentary on Nat Geo that looks at America’s relationship to coal, so we went ahead and gave it a shot tonight (9 – 10:30 pm with no commercials).
I wasn’t expecting this weird ache to set in. On the one hand, I definitely support efforts to reduce carbon emissions and not fuck over our planet. On the other hand, I can feel this sense of sadness. My dad’s side is from coal country in PA, and coal was pretty much the only job source in that town. It sucks that small, often rural towns that lost their peak job source years ago feel like they’re getting the short end of the stick. It hurts that townspeople get stuck with the shitty side effects of pollution and water contamination. Mostly, I don’t want Appalachia to get fucked over by the transition to renewable energy (thanks, Appalachian Regional Commission).
So, instead of just sitting through an informative documentary, I got hit with some ancestor feels and reminded of how gray this issue can be.
I can feel that I’m curled up in the fetal position on a wood floor. I’m not entirely sure why I’m waking up until I taste sherbert – my body remembers the harsh edge of vodka and how I pushed my body on survival; my muscles remember the ache in my torso as my body dutifully worked at expelling all of the poison I’d thrown at it. My eyes fly open – not unlike gaining consciousness in the ER bed with no control over my body’s activities – but it’s a muscle level flashback.
I’m alone and lying on a dark wood floor. Outside of arm’s reach, a broken bottle of Fireball whiskey that looks like it was never opened. I slowly crawl around the liquid and reach for the larger pieces of bottle very sure that I don’t want to just leave broken glass on the floor. My stomach muscles contract again (muscle level flashback), and I know that I’m not supposed to touch the bottle.
Pijača certainly made an impression as she left (I usually don’t get dreams that pull from my memories this vividly). I don’t feel like I’m in danger of repeating the questionable alcoholic overdose scenario from about a year ago (mentioned a while back, but definitely not new news here) right now, but my People want me to err on the side of caution for the foreseeable future. With Pijača gone, I don’t know if They’re uneasy at the lack of supervision or what. Just consistently getting a “come back after getting your mental illness ducks in a row” response.
Source. I’ve a small group of drafts I wanted to also share here dealing with head covering.
Possible names include: Flower, Corn Planting, Milk, and Hare Moon. Mani indicated that He would like me to use “Flower”, though I make no guarantee He’d want someone else to do the same. The following is a piece of sacred fiction.
. . .
“You smell that?”
Hati inhaled and glanced up at Mani, “Flowers?”
“Not just any flowers.”
While he noted that Mani was leaning out of the wain, Hati couldn’t bring himself to get overly concerned. After a few centuries of Mani pushing the limits on how far he could reach out of the wain, it had stopped fully registering on his radar.
“The moonflowers are opening up.”
Hati sniffed the air, a little puzzled, “That’s more than just moonflowers — ”
“They’re opening for the moon, so they are all moonflowers now. I don’t make the rules.”
Hati sighed and continued to keep pace with the wain. They’d hit that point in spring.