More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (20. Lessons to be Learned.)

THE STAR. Hope, unexpected help, clarity of vision, spiritual insight.

More High Arcana. Loads of higher powers floating around me. I spent most of today giving Christa a horn lesson. She had to play on my Alex, and I’ve come to the conclusion that she needs a new instrument. She sounded a hundred pounds … times better than on her own instrument. I don’t know where she will get the mountain … err, money from, but it made a huge difference. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest it before … that is, if she decides to continue in music. It takes a lot to be a single mother, and with Tom’s death there is a lot on her plate. She needs a job, and she needs it now.

Today, I woke up feeling a new woman … ack! … like a new woman, and now I feel … (Stop it!) … even better after Jem completed the ritual. Strangely, the henna was Christa’s idea, although she refused to take credit for it. She touched me up … touched me … touched … um, touched up the painting before Jem arrived at sunset. Christa has a natural gift, and I wish she had Jem back in London to nurture it, maybe even spend a month together at the Whorehouse. I’m not sure it is still standing, but that was long ago, and I think Christa needs to find her own mentor and her own “Whorehouse.”

Me? That was her suggestion. (She’s watching over my shoulder as I write.) I don’t think I’m the right person. I have too many issues, not to mention conflicting beliefs. Besides, I’m only have half of the gift. I’m incomplete. I’m not sensitive to certain things, although Jem thinks I have more latent talent.

Christa just agreed. How would she know? She says she’s sensitive. I already knew that, but I didn’t think it was that kind of sensitive. She’s young and still learning, but Jem thinks that she was primarily responsible for my recovery – the henna, the symbols, arriving when she did – apparently, she also spent a night in bed with me warding off evil. That was her idea, too. Naked? Now she’s rubbing it in. I bet she copped a good feel. (She hasn’t denied it, but I’m old enough to be her mother!)

In any case, I can help her out until she finds the right one. (She just said she already has.) I don’t know what to teach her. How to read the Tarot? No, she doesn’t need that. I’m just a half-witch, and she needs the whole thing to get started. I can’t be the one.

(She insists.)

For now maybe, but I’ll be so far away.

I can’t really describe what happened during the spell. Jem burned some funny incense, and that made me feel strange. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. Before I knew it, there were more strange symbols on my thigh. They look like little kisses. (Christa!) I don’t remember her painting them there.

All I can say is that they have to stay on at least until the next full moon, which should be around Christmas. Christa is going to stay an extra week and touch them up (Don’t even think it!) before she leaves. In the meantime Marcel, who I won’t see until tomorrow, is going to find me someone who can maintain them. I’ve already grown attached to them, and Jem thinks that the longer I wear them, the better. I’m also not allow to sleep with any men until after the next full moon either.

By the way, my girl on X-factor seems to have got her mojo back, but sparkles have replaced her bodypaint. She probably should have gone home last night, but she survived on the strength of her best performance yet. Incidentally, I think they saved wrong person. The bloke is scary, but I think he is unusual, whereas the girl is just one of many with a nice R&B voice. Good, but … eh.

Right now, Christa is my star, and I had better get to bed, since Marcel (my attending “physician”), will be here early in the morning. (Sorry, there was a slip there, but Christa made me correct it. Marcel might not have taken it the right way, and Allen certainly wouldn’t have liked it.)

She’s no fun!

(That was me, by the way, not some evil influence adding lewd suggestions.)


The Gift of the Many

[1] She comes from the Temple’s spleen
born of the darkest night to the fire of sacrifice,
The gift of the Sholoch to the King

The gift of the many

[2] For Cyrus decreed that the King
Would wed one of their number
In each year of his reign.

The gift of the power

[3] For in marriage to the one child
Cyrus gained dominion over hell
Striking through Hahn’s heart

The gift of the one

[4] From the many she is exposed
For the world of man to desire
For the King to hold

The gift of sight

From The Book of Cyrus, Songs of the Sholoch, ch. 1, verses 1-4

The Rite of Spring

The nightingale calls,
wakes the chosen,
bride of the harvest god
in her first spring of womanhood

The flutes sings,
she drinks the draught.
The other girls, jealous of her fortune,
preen her, prepare her for her nuptials.

The pyre lit,
the women paint her, robe her.
The potion burns,
fuels her desire.


The drum sounds a slow pulse,
a low growl, a heartbeat,
the dance begins.

She makes her first choice,
dispatches her robe, circles him, touches him
He reaches out to her.
With her hand, she slaps him,
for no mortal man may know her.

beat, beat, beat

The drum throbs ever quicker,
entrances the circle,
emboldens the men.

A second succumbs to her lewd entreaty.
She strokes his brow, tastes his flesh.
He takes her hand.
With a switch, she flogs him,
for no man born of woman may touch her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

Its mesmeric thump surges on,
women push their beaus forward
to feast the chosen.

Her bawdy dance claims a third.
She burns his cloak, bites his chest.
He kisses her.
With a whip, she lashes him,
for no man who has suckled at his mother’s breasts may love her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

The tempo races,
men, women all under its spell
caught by the drug.

The fourth, a prisoner of her lascivious tease,
she takes his sword, licks his lance.
He embraces her.
With a blade, she smites him,
for no man who is not a god may possess her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

Touched by first light, she shrieks,
stalks the fire in blind rapture.
The Earth trembles in relentless oscillation.

The god of the harvest, her willing slave, there, in the flame.
Her womb awaits her hungry groom.
He will provide, the harvest will be her child.

The circle closes around her, the crowd aglow in carnal ecstasy.
The chosen plunges herself into the bosom of her lover,
surrenders herself for the health of her tribe.

They will eat well this year.