[filtered] Archetypes
Candles are lit in his bathroom-- thick amber pillars that glow with the diaphanous light of the setting sun. The bath is perfumed with violet and blackberry, the purple water shimmering with silver cellophane stars. His skin presses against mine, and I flush pink with warmth.
We are talking about archetypes-- Jungian, Tarot, those of ageless mythos from before the dawn of civilization. Ancient. Primal. The Trickster, the High Priestess, the Warrior, the Fool-- symbols all; personifications and roles that we all have the potential to play.
"Which am I?" he asks. The question feels like a test.
"That’s easy," I say. "You are the Storyteller." He is pleased.
"But why?" he wants to know.
"You’re the center of attention," I say. "You make yourself the center of attention."
He looks as though he’s never considered this. "How do you mean?"
"You bring the group-- whichever group you’re a part of-- together. You provide a focal point, a point of common interest. You do this through telling stories."
And it’s true. I have known Sky only for a few months, and already I’ve heard most of his reminiscences several times over. I imagine that this is triply so for those who have known him over the years. Still, they form tight-packed circles around him at every gathering, whether we are huddled around a diner table at 1 am or sitting on a boat dock at sunset. They are always rapt with attention as he recounts his tales. I should think that such a title as Storyteller would be natural for an actor.
He thinks on if for a moment, and then he smiles, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.
"And I?" I ask. "Who am I?"
He is silent, and I can almost feel the beating wings of his thoughts as he endeavors to select exactly the right term. He is painstakingly precise in choosing his words, as any good Storyteller should be.
"You are the Sorceress." He emphasizes the word as though it should be capitalized, or perhaps suspended in air, lofty and unreachable.
The word conjures an image of a beautiful yet austere woman, with alabaster skin and dark hair that glints in the light of a bonfire. She draws her cape about her, cloaking her regal form, a crow resting upon her shoulder. I am far from that-- not graceful, not commanding. I do not inspire awe.
"I don’t know quite the word,” he admits. It’s not ‘witch’ or ‘shaman,’ but it’s close. You’re… you’re like an umbrella," he finishes.
I am puzzled. He tries to explain.
"Sorceresses amass power-- they spread out their arms and draw power to themselves. They wear it like a cloak. But instead of keeping it to yourself or using it to manipulate others, you cast out your arms and use that power to shield those around you, like an umbrella. You enchant. Does that make sense?"
And it does, in a way. I have always been fiercely protective of my true friends. His explanation also reminds me of some aspects of modern Witchcraft.
I pull him to me, I rub his shoulders with an oil of cedar and sage. My fingers run though his dark hair as he rests against me.
"I think I’m in love with you," he says simply, after a time of silence. He meets my eyes. "I’m not sure that I feel it in every fiber of my being yet, but it’s there."
I can think of nothing to say. There are things that I want to say-- honeyed sweet words aching to spill forth, but it is to soon. There is more work to be done on my spirit, my heart-- work of healing and self-love.
"Please don’t take my silence as any sort of sign,” I reply, finally. “I probably won’t be able to say those words for some time to come, but please don’t think that my feelings for you are any less than beautiful."
He takes my answer sincerely, and he kisses my lips.
We are talking about archetypes-- Jungian, Tarot, those of ageless mythos from before the dawn of civilization. Ancient. Primal. The Trickster, the High Priestess, the Warrior, the Fool-- symbols all; personifications and roles that we all have the potential to play.
"Which am I?" he asks. The question feels like a test.
"That’s easy," I say. "You are the Storyteller." He is pleased.
"But why?" he wants to know.
"You’re the center of attention," I say. "You make yourself the center of attention."
He looks as though he’s never considered this. "How do you mean?"
"You bring the group-- whichever group you’re a part of-- together. You provide a focal point, a point of common interest. You do this through telling stories."
And it’s true. I have known Sky only for a few months, and already I’ve heard most of his reminiscences several times over. I imagine that this is triply so for those who have known him over the years. Still, they form tight-packed circles around him at every gathering, whether we are huddled around a diner table at 1 am or sitting on a boat dock at sunset. They are always rapt with attention as he recounts his tales. I should think that such a title as Storyteller would be natural for an actor.
He thinks on if for a moment, and then he smiles, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.
"And I?" I ask. "Who am I?"
He is silent, and I can almost feel the beating wings of his thoughts as he endeavors to select exactly the right term. He is painstakingly precise in choosing his words, as any good Storyteller should be.
"You are the Sorceress." He emphasizes the word as though it should be capitalized, or perhaps suspended in air, lofty and unreachable.
The word conjures an image of a beautiful yet austere woman, with alabaster skin and dark hair that glints in the light of a bonfire. She draws her cape about her, cloaking her regal form, a crow resting upon her shoulder. I am far from that-- not graceful, not commanding. I do not inspire awe.
"I don’t know quite the word,” he admits. It’s not ‘witch’ or ‘shaman,’ but it’s close. You’re… you’re like an umbrella," he finishes.
I am puzzled. He tries to explain.
"Sorceresses amass power-- they spread out their arms and draw power to themselves. They wear it like a cloak. But instead of keeping it to yourself or using it to manipulate others, you cast out your arms and use that power to shield those around you, like an umbrella. You enchant. Does that make sense?"
And it does, in a way. I have always been fiercely protective of my true friends. His explanation also reminds me of some aspects of modern Witchcraft.
I pull him to me, I rub his shoulders with an oil of cedar and sage. My fingers run though his dark hair as he rests against me.
"I think I’m in love with you," he says simply, after a time of silence. He meets my eyes. "I’m not sure that I feel it in every fiber of my being yet, but it’s there."
I can think of nothing to say. There are things that I want to say-- honeyed sweet words aching to spill forth, but it is to soon. There is more work to be done on my spirit, my heart-- work of healing and self-love.
"Please don’t take my silence as any sort of sign,” I reply, finally. “I probably won’t be able to say those words for some time to come, but please don’t think that my feelings for you are any less than beautiful."
He takes my answer sincerely, and he kisses my lips.