hecate

Caravan

In a tiny castle on wheels, that is built for a Queen, a little but special space that is filled with luxury. Gentle, purified water is drawn into the bath in the clawfoot tub, herbs and oils to use for a rub, flowers on the sill and “flonceah” (thrown about gently), reflections tell a tale, the warmth on the feet, immersed, the Gods surround me.

The light through the large window creates rainbows, I wrap the elegant crystal chandelier with bubble wrap when it is time to hit the road. Brocades and velvets galore are strewn, and hand-carved doors, an upper deck to view the moon. The light pours through the stained-glass windows. I travel in the evening by moonlight, during the light hours I paint the sky, I draw the mountains and the plains, I photograph the ocean and all the beautiful things I find. Around a fire pit I dance, a fireplace by the bedside, luxury linen sheets and embroidered drapery complete the bed, where I rest, not sleep. Nature art is created in the forests, mandalas made of pinecones and leaves, artwork strung between the trees, made from vines and flowers and leaves, woven, molded into clay. I play all day. The world is mine, there is not time, I have nowhere to go, I just go, I flow, I float. Meditate on the mountainside, feel the cool breeze, say hello to the air as she flows by, she can deliver a message to the “flonshay opheir” (beautiful gentle Gods), the waves roll over my feet, the sun warms my skin. Take photos, collect specimens from nature, paint, draw, in a handmade journal a collection of experiences, of sounds, of tastes. I never speak, I communicate through the breeze, there are no words that can describe the feeling of being alive, in another place and time.

Ride a bike through a trail, talk to the ancient trees, take a morning stroll, manifest energy from the core, heal the forest, build a fairy fort, sing with the littles, collect sparkly little things, fairy booty to leave by the trees, that my tiny friends can find when they play hide and seek. Blast music, the breeze knots my hair, singing at the top of my lungs, songs that have no meaning, they are gentle energy now, because nobody remembers what they are about. Just for fun not-profit, make art on a machine, to be printed and placed on a wall at the “playsheen tateen” (art museum).