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…radio silence since the year started, then all of a sudden, take a number and have a seat there’s such an awful lot of you!
This entry was supposed to be about how I woke up one morning and found a Faery Gold Arrowhead of Radiant Shame in the otherreal hanging over my bed in the corporeal, from a necklace that I tried to wear after but it made my chest feel clouded over because the faery gold arrowhead of radiant shame was the pendant. It radiated shame. When I figured its effects would be more difficult to keep track of unless it was on me, I knitted the laces into a glove that fit into my left hand. That way, I would always know where it was, but it wouldn’t put the whammy on me.
And then this entry was supposed to be about Marigold suddenly appearing in the grassy knoll I call Erstvale with an archery bow (Marigold had an archery bow, not the grassy knoll,) and showing me how to send a shard of the shard flying from the glove, and we argued. And I had my own interpretation of what all that was about, which was supposed to be humane and craftily written and poignant about the symbolism or something. Marigold suggested that I visualize my abusers in the field with us, and start shooting at them for practice. When I suggested scarecrows, instead, because I actually don’t like to think about my abusers or interact even with mock-ups of them, Marigold responded with a sternly-worded reminder that those scarecrows didn’t do anything to me. Frackking Fairylands.
Instead, I’m ramblogging about after the lesson, which lasted about a week in corporeal time and maybe four hours or so in Faery. I wandered from Erstvale into some random room with a clean, friendly-looking concierge desk and papers stacked on it. Two people sat behind the desk, who I knew well but never met before. One, let’s call him Vanilla, is one of the fathers of my fairy mother Vanda. He comes off as basically a very beige and distilled sort of…if the Prince Charming most twee had aged out and retired from adventuring without ever fully losing the twee. The other one was Marigold’s daughter, let’s call her Marjoram. She comes off more like the Goth girl who hates the world and always has a pen knife up her sleeve, but from what I gleaned of her story before I met her, she really aspires to be sheltered. Continue reading