Down the rabbit-hole?
Down the rabbit-hole, honey, isn't all that far from where I live. Especially right now.
I'm sitting by the fire at the witching hour, deep bass and that sweet smoke of a voice rolling out of the walls. This little chicken-foot cottage of mine, with its odd population of myths and symbols, the shy proud buck through the forest-window, out in the tiger-lilies, the harried owl in the corner keeping a skittish eye on my haughty little griffin perched up on the bookcase among the candles and the bowls made of gourds or perhaps very old skullcaps...this is a fine place for me, this is where I come back to. I'm sitting in my shifting, changing, wavering way by the fire, and in a bowl by my feet the dough is rising for the cake with which we celebrate the sacrificial king, with which we crown with joy the next year's queen. Huzzah!
When the title's passed on properly, there'll be a little cleaning and sweeping to do, the last little bits of putting things in order. And then it'll be time for me to go on out the door, see what's become of the world while I wasn't looking.
Coyote's coming with me, I think; it's her country we'll be going into, and she and I keep good company. (She never can pass up this kind of ride, either, rolling out into the horizon laughing, leaning way out the window with her tongue hanging out, grinning like anything.) Waltzing Matilda said she's getting on in the years, that the rain's been making her feel her age, creaky and rust-jointed, but at the mention of the highways in among the mesas, the twisty slinking mountain roads, she gives me that steady oh-hell-yeah look, and I could swear the little silver-winged woman out in front winked and flipped her feather-tips at me. So Matilda's coming along, stretching and purring, and we'll run the sunrise-shot all the way across, play a chase-dance with spring on the northbound road, and then follow the sunset back to home and the ocean again. We'll have our wildness and the world's, old friends and new, sweet spots to sit by a fire and watch the stars; we'll have canyons and wide rolling rivers, angels and badlands and strange souvenirs. Between the three of us, well, it's bound to be interesting travels indeed, and I have a feeling that waistcoats and pocket-watches won't have much to do with it.
I'm sitting by the fire at the witching hour, deep bass and that sweet smoke of a voice rolling out of the walls. This little chicken-foot cottage of mine, with its odd population of myths and symbols, the shy proud buck through the forest-window, out in the tiger-lilies, the harried owl in the corner keeping a skittish eye on my haughty little griffin perched up on the bookcase among the candles and the bowls made of gourds or perhaps very old skullcaps...this is a fine place for me, this is where I come back to. I'm sitting in my shifting, changing, wavering way by the fire, and in a bowl by my feet the dough is rising for the cake with which we celebrate the sacrificial king, with which we crown with joy the next year's queen. Huzzah!
When the title's passed on properly, there'll be a little cleaning and sweeping to do, the last little bits of putting things in order. And then it'll be time for me to go on out the door, see what's become of the world while I wasn't looking.
Coyote's coming with me, I think; it's her country we'll be going into, and she and I keep good company. (She never can pass up this kind of ride, either, rolling out into the horizon laughing, leaning way out the window with her tongue hanging out, grinning like anything.) Waltzing Matilda said she's getting on in the years, that the rain's been making her feel her age, creaky and rust-jointed, but at the mention of the highways in among the mesas, the twisty slinking mountain roads, she gives me that steady oh-hell-yeah look, and I could swear the little silver-winged woman out in front winked and flipped her feather-tips at me. So Matilda's coming along, stretching and purring, and we'll run the sunrise-shot all the way across, play a chase-dance with spring on the northbound road, and then follow the sunset back to home and the ocean again. We'll have our wildness and the world's, old friends and new, sweet spots to sit by a fire and watch the stars; we'll have canyons and wide rolling rivers, angels and badlands and strange souvenirs. Between the three of us, well, it's bound to be interesting travels indeed, and I have a feeling that waistcoats and pocket-watches won't have much to do with it.