- Tina Rowley
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- Weekly Zephyr #121: Off-Planet Getaway
Weekly Zephyr #121: Off-Planet Getaway
If you’re expecting this Zephyr to take place on the plain old Earth of June 2022,
it’s going to be a no. We’re not, I’m not, it’s not…it’s—pass.
Furthermore, normally I like to put myself in a certain kind of welcoming, hostly position within the walls of this newsletter. I feel lightly responsible for the well-being of the people in here for this brief meeting. I like to take care a little, go slow, make sure that I’m making a space where all of you can get settled.
And I would do that. I would.
BUT I CAN’T, I’M ON THE RUN. I’M GETTING THE FUCK OUT OF THIS REALITY FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS. YOU’RE INVITED BUT I CAN’T PAUSE TO SEE IF YOU’RE WITH ME.
I was going to do a whole thing where I put a special box out for us all where we can put the responsibilities and pains of Earth, everything we’re needed for, and I was going to say “Put the troubles here, I’m locking the box, I promise we’ll come back and be with it,” and we’d have a moment to acknowledge things like the murders in Buffalo, the dead children of Texas, the shot-up hospital with—
It just now real-time thundered outside, that’s a hint, boat’s leaving
*running*
*out-of-breath talking*
We’re not doing all of that— sorry!
nobody corrects bad spacing on the run
You don’t need me to tell you it’s real, anyway, what’s happening to us out here
you know what you’re needed for, you have all that…
*running on sand now*
—there’s the “water”, okay
BOAT, imaginary boat
get in if you’re coming
<unmooring>
*YES, we’re on the waves*
I don’t even have a plan yet, we are just getting off-world.
We’re not going into Space-Space, to be clear. We’re not going to be literal in the material sense about “off-world”.
*sailing*
We just want a different one for a minute.
Remember when we were on Earth and there was that show, “Better Things”? Sam Fox, the mom, one episode, she’s going away for the weekend, and it’s a real all-of-the-sudden thing, this trip, and her kids are like “What the hell is happening, where are you going?” and she says, “Bitch, I’m going to the MOON” and that’s almost her whole answer. She was tired of parenting, mostly, and so our thing is a little different.
The flying gurnards up there, they get it. They’re trying to not get killed. Us, we’re kind of everywhere on that spectrum. We’re parenting the planet, ourselves, possibly some actual people. We’re also trying to not get killed.
Right, though, right. That’s regular Earth. We are no longer on that. We’re traveling.
Oh, god. That whole thing was.
Taking a moment to breathe here.
Air, right?
Underrated.
Sorry, I’m distracted, I’m looking to see if there’s a place we’re going to land or if we’re just cruising around.
….Atlantis…seems to be an option. It’s Earth, but not?
I’m down.
I don’t see any people on this island. I think it’s good. Let’s do it. It really doesn’t matter. It’s a place. It’s good.
Okay, let’s pile out. I docked or whatever. This is where we’re hanging.
Good. This is nice. Deserted.
Temperate.
I want to show you something. Now that we’re away. I just want to show you a really beautiful, special thing. I brought it with.
I remember telling you all how the novel I’m writing seemed like it was sailing away from me, and how frightening that was. And then how a new wind blew in and told me to dump the old book and start somewhere new.
I had this craving, when I was adjusting to the new idea. I wanted to be in a circle of older women. I was thinking writers, I was thinking real ones, but it was the feeling I was after more than the shape. I wanted people who knew things to hold up the blanket of a blanket fort for me, sort of, a cave. A dark cave. A womb? Not a place where I would be A Writer, Thinking about How to Handle Things. I didn’t want help with writing. I wanted protection about being alive and in the creative process. I wanted to be a girl, a maiden, younger than the people protecting me. I wanted old women who knew things tending a fire in the middle of the cave dome, making special soups and teas while I fainted on a furry bed, worrying, in labor.
I asked a question in an online forum, can’t even remember the question, and someone told me about a woman who does very nice oracle readings. I ordered an email reading for myself. A YouTube reading, actually. You could choose a video or text and I chose a video, but she did send a photo of my spread.
This kind of reading was one where you don’t ask a question. You just…see what happens. I said I didn’t really have a question anyway but I do have this story I’m always with.
Here was the spread from my reading. No big reason, just showing you.
The card in the middle, that’s from the Weavers’ Oracle. I won’t bother you with the text that accompanies the card, or even what the reading said. That’s all beside the point.
The point is.
This oracle. This woman, Carolyn Hillyer, who made the oracle.
The creation of this oracle deck took her thirty years. There are 52 paintings of these weavers. Each painting is life-sized.
Listen, listen, this is from the text in the guidebook. This is the beautiful thing I wanted to show you:
The Weavers’ Oracle has been developed over thirty years, from the anchoring of the first images into this spiraling sequence of paintings, to the completion of the council of shaman-weaving women who finally filled this oracle up to the brim. The women in these paintings arrived slowly and, being life-size or more, they took plenty of time to settle into their bodies. They always liked winters the best and generally declined to engage with the painting process in summer. Sometimes I sat for months on end, brush in hand, looking out for them across the moors, waiting keenly for the weather to grow cold. So I never envisaged, way back then, that there would eventually be enough weaver women to inhabit a whole set of oracle cards. But they kept on arriving, with their many diverse requirements that might involve me stitching magical skirts, learning loom work, tanning hides or collecting berries in the snow. Nearly everything painted into these images exists; each drum or bone or pouch or bowl. It was necessary for these ritual items to take physical form before they could enter the painting; they had to become real. Or else how would the weavers know that their own authenticity was being honoured? Sometimes this meant taking on far greater tasks: long journeys to tundra or desert or distant coasts, in order to bring back fragments of the songs that shape those lands so they might be mixed into the paint. And all through the nights and days I spent with the women as they emerged onto the paint boards—
That’s enough.
What I wanted you to know is that this exists!
A woman on Earth, in England, took thirty years to make something, not knowing how it would work out, or when the next bit would come, and she did all of what she said up there to make it real.
The patience. The skill. The devotion. The patience!
But also: who are these weavers? They’re not real in one respect but let me tell you, they are real. Entirely. The art is spectacular. The women float right off these matte black backgrounds, totally alive-feeling. When you have one of these weavers in your hand and you look into her eyes, the eyes are looking back at you. The weavers all feel different, in the way that different real people feel different. Each one makes you feel different. They’re not illustrations holding an idea. These are people, doing something. Some are happier to meet you than others. Some are unnerving. They’re all incredibly beautiful.
I wished for a cave with special older women in it and I got it.
On Earth, so: A good thing to remember for when we go back, is that tucked in among the madness, scattered everywhere between everything that makes us cry, are people working on secret projects. Some are coming to fruition very soon. Some already did and we don’t know what they are yet. Some are not ready yet but they will be. Who knows what people are devoted to? Some of it must be medicinal for what ails us, across all disciplines.
Maybe as we go back, if we want to go back—I feel more willing to go back, now, myself—as we sail, you can think about what you want, what you’re wishing for, what you’re working on. Something will help. Help is somewhere.
I almost pulled a card for us but no. We’re not all doing the same thing. That won’t work.
A minute more here.
Okay.