(no subject)
Once again, Dawson's Creek comes to mind during a crisis.
Jennifer notices her Grams is starting to pray for her Grandfather's health.
"What are you doing that for? You're not going to change God!", she says angrily.
Grams replies, "I don't pray to change God, dear, I pray to change me."
I'm more relaxed but still in need of some changing. So here goes. Scroll past this if you're the type to sneer at prayer.
Eris, I don't know you, but please hear me. Your daughter and her consort romp at my side. I know nothing of you but the incident with the Golden Apples, and the means by which your daughter was born. I have met many of your modern children, and they have told me many conflicting bits of information on how to serve you, what you want of them, what you provide for them. Some have told me that chain-smoking is pleasing to you. Others, vegetarianism broken by an annual hot dog. Others, wild raves and drunken orgies. Some describe you as a Trickster. Others, the ultimate hedonist. Others blame all tribulations on you. I don't know if any of this is right: as I said, I don't know you.
One of your children is in possible danger, tonight and Sunday night. He is journeying by a means strictly guarded by men with weapons, but I am not sure that it is safe, now that Ares is dancing again . . . Ares must appreciate the short commute from Mt. Olympus. Anyway, this child I speak of . . . he built you an altar on the web. I can't find it now, but I know he loves you.
I am a bit of a Trickster, in the hide-and-deceive fashion of your daughter. I have a little magic I have learned to weave, a little skill with words and images and song, a little sense of a world whose name I do not know. I am not sure what I can give in return for your child's safety: I am not sure what you'd ask. I love him, and I've barely gotten to learn his smell. Please look over him, as he flies to the other side of this land and back. Please protect my lover.
Jennifer notices her Grams is starting to pray for her Grandfather's health.
"What are you doing that for? You're not going to change God!", she says angrily.
Grams replies, "I don't pray to change God, dear, I pray to change me."
I'm more relaxed but still in need of some changing. So here goes. Scroll past this if you're the type to sneer at prayer.
Eris, I don't know you, but please hear me. Your daughter and her consort romp at my side. I know nothing of you but the incident with the Golden Apples, and the means by which your daughter was born. I have met many of your modern children, and they have told me many conflicting bits of information on how to serve you, what you want of them, what you provide for them. Some have told me that chain-smoking is pleasing to you. Others, vegetarianism broken by an annual hot dog. Others, wild raves and drunken orgies. Some describe you as a Trickster. Others, the ultimate hedonist. Others blame all tribulations on you. I don't know if any of this is right: as I said, I don't know you.
One of your children is in possible danger, tonight and Sunday night. He is journeying by a means strictly guarded by men with weapons, but I am not sure that it is safe, now that Ares is dancing again . . . Ares must appreciate the short commute from Mt. Olympus. Anyway, this child I speak of . . . he built you an altar on the web. I can't find it now, but I know he loves you.
I am a bit of a Trickster, in the hide-and-deceive fashion of your daughter. I have a little magic I have learned to weave, a little skill with words and images and song, a little sense of a world whose name I do not know. I am not sure what I can give in return for your child's safety: I am not sure what you'd ask. I love him, and I've barely gotten to learn his smell. Please look over him, as he flies to the other side of this land and back. Please protect my lover.