THE TELLING OF ASTROPHEL
(Not from the same project as "ASTROPHEL: A NOVEL IN PROGRESS". Sorry for any confusion. This bit plays with similar themes, but not at all related, or the same. If anything, it is an example of what happens when I write a short story while under the influence of another concept, but short on names that inspire.)
Oh, ambition. So difficult for some, so easy for
others. Astrophel has loads of it. And had no
idea what to do with it. And like all protagonists,
needs to find a way to change himself and his
situation so that he might overcome his
distracted nature and learn to focus on
something long enough to make a real go of it.
Astrophel has a million ideas. He’s very creative.
And curious. He’s one of those folks who
rambles about from one idea to the next,
switching from one experiment or obsession to
another, though never long enough to actually
get anywhere with it. He fills his head with every
manner of trivia, fantasizing grand schemes and
planning incredible adventures, embedding his
sense of purpose, style, politic with a panicked
frenzy of a lunatic savant, memorizing arbitrary
statistics, inspirations of grandeur frolicking
across his easily impressionable, though well
meaning, fool heart.
And, just as suddenly as the flick of a switch,
he’s off again chasing a new idea.
He’s chased many dreams. Planned out many
schemes.
He’s been a ballroom dancer. Still has the shoes.
He can tap-dance and tango and salsa and
waltz, and often confuses them with each other.
He’s dabbled in photography, having saved up
enough to purchase a halfway decent camera,
then somehow happened into a full darkroom
setup, managed to stumble into extraordinary
commissions in the fashion industry, earning
awards far beyond anyone’s expectations, and
still, his most famous work is the fuzzy
unfocussed double exposure of a butterfly.
He’s been a rock star, writing such unknown
hits as “Baby, Do The Band” and “Rocky
Squirrel Super Hero”. He spent a few hours
inventing the “Electric Kazoo” by soldering the
insides of a microphone into the modified corpse
of a broken plastic toy trumpet. During their
first public performance, he accidentally
electrocuted his lead guitarist with the strange
instrument, whilst attempting a jump kick
crowd surf combo into the sparse eight person
audience occupying a late night coffee shop
they’d unceremoniously invaded as an intended
flash-mob style inaugural concert. A few
minutes later, he was wheeled out, handcuffed
to a gurney by an ambulance attendant and a
police officer reading him his rights. He was
eventually sued for trashing the place in a
hotelroomesque display of, “A little of the ole’
rock and roll Ultraviolence”. The event made the
national news, he was briefly heckled on a late
night talk show monologue, and then forgotten
just as quickly. The rights to the songs were
picked up as jingles for an after-midnight cable
channel info-mercial, and the royalties forfeited
by court order to the coffee shop owner as the
only asset he owned capable of paying for the
damages. The coffee shop owner retired young
when the info-mercial product became a
national franchise.
He’d learned to speak Pandarin fluently, a rare
and virtually unheard of Chinese dialect, and
self-published the first ever phrase book for
American tourists. It was somehow made
required reading for any American Military Staff
visiting China. The book won an International
award for best linguistics based comedy, as
Pandarin is Mandarin translated in the style of
Pig-Latin. As a consequence, he is famous in the
Shenzhen Province of China (EnShayEnZhey,
InaChay). He briefly earned some notoriety as a
spokesmodel for Air China.
Astrophel wished for some sort of meaningful
occupation, though. As much as he felt that he
had experienced interesting things, what he
really wanted to be was a WIZARD. Not a stage
magician playing with rabbits and hats and card
tricks at children’s parties, but someone
committed to figuring out what is worth figuring
out. Writing books on what’s important. The
kind illustrated with a staff and robe and pointy
hat and room full of fancy old books and a
stuffed two headed raven and a big gold
medallion (No, not like a gangsta rapper. Well,
okay, KINDA like a gangsta rapper).
He was aware, though, that Wizards are not all
that common, and that two headed ravens
couldn’t just be acquired at just any pawn
broker shop or convenience store. (He did know
a couple of rappers that he might hit up for a big
gold medallion, but really, he’d settle for a room
full of books and the secrets of the universe). He
also realized that real life wizards didn’t wear big
robes and pointy hats. But they did have
bookshelves full of books, they know the secrets
of what activities give life Meaning and Purpose.
But where could he find the path that would give
him access to the esoteric secrets that are
known only to the Wizardly Adepts? Where do
they hang out? He checked the phone book. All
he could find was an advertisement for “Bill
Gizard, Septic Wizard. We’ll Hocus Pocus your
pipes and Abracadabra your toilets or your
Money Back!”
He called, and left a message on the answering
machine, asking if Mr. Gizard knew of any two
headed ravens for sale.
Next he tried the newspaper classifieds. He
found a Fortune Teller named Trixie who also
offered “relaxation massage”, “love potions for
lonely hearts” and “psychic tarot readings”.
He called and a rough sounding deep voiced
woman answered the phone. She’d sounded like
she made her living smoking cigarettes and
gargling with whiskey sours. He set an
appointment for later that evening. Even if she
couldn’t put him in touch with someone of the
Wizardish ilk, at least he’d get that knot in his
shoulders attended to, and maybe some lotto
numbers.
He stood outside of the door, having knocked on
the window. There was a sign in the heavily
draped window that glowed with a neon yellow
hand, three big yellow lines crossing its palm.
The door opened, and for a second, he hesitated
before entering. The warm air from the darkened
hallway beyond smelled of sweet spices and
incense.
Madame Trixie was unlike anyone Astrophel had
ever met before. Her face was much younger
than he’d expected from her voice on the phone.
She seemed in her early thirties, her hair
covered in long blond messy hair, blue eyes, and
freckles absolutely everywhere. Even her fingers.
No makeup, but large bright peacock feather
ear-rings. She was voluptuous, and curvy, but
tall and smiling. Again, he was kind of surprised
to see that she had all of her teeth, and that they
were pearly white. Her breath smelled like Juicy
Fruit, not cigarette smoke. Or whiskey sours.
The next thing he noticed was her colorful
paisley dress which couldn’t seem to keep from
slipping off of her shoulder, revealing no bra
strap, and much of where the bra might have
existed, had it existed at all. Every second or
three she’d readjust the overly wide collar from
slipping loosely down her shoulder. Astrophel
couldn’t help but be ashamed for noticing that
the adjustment only served to reveal the mass of
freckles between her breasts. But he went on
noticing anyway. She had large, gaudy silver
rings on every finger, her nails short, the french
style manicure tipping each finger with a bright
white crescent moon. Her wrists jangled with a
collection of bangles. As she adjusted the dress
again, he saw the astrological symbol for
Sagittarius on her shoulder, a kind of bow and
arrow motif. He recognized it from the horoscope
in the newspaper.
She reached for his hand, turned it face up and
inspected the palm, her hands soft, her gaze
firm as she traced the lines and wiggled the
fingers, testing flexibility, and squeezing the
raised mounts and fingertips. And freckles. And
crazy amounts of gaudy jewelry. She didn’t
speak.
Not letting go of his hand, she led him into a
room down the hall. The door closed behind
him. He noted that the walls were covered in
framed paintings and photographs. They crossed
into the room. The far wall was heavily draped,
but he could see a slight luminescence of the
yellow neon light through the fabric. The table
occupying the middle of the room was draped
with a burgundy cloth, and at its centre, a glass
globe on a gold stand. The room was dimly lit, a
few candles flickered from a side table, and a
shelf crammed full of books and a variety of
ornaments.
She pulled out a chair from the table for him,
and then pulled another from the opposite side
of the table right next to his. She sat, again
adjusting the dress which was still slipping
down her freckled arm, nearly too far down her
front. The tattoo somehow looked at home in the
dim light.
“So.” She spoke, clearly, a mid-western
American accent, not grizzled nor deep, but still
smelling of Juicy Fruit. “Mister Astrophel. Cool
name. I like it. Ever had a reading before?”
“Uh, no.” He glanced around the room, suddenly
aware that his mouth was dry, and was very
aware of her proximity, her knee just barely
resting against his thigh. He looked back and
her eyes caught his. Not all blue. Some specks of
green and a bit of brown at the edges. The spicy
incense wafted by, he swallowed to moisten his
lips, and found that he had no idea how to
approach the topic on his mind. She fascinated
him. He was overwhelmed with tension.
“Okay”, she stood up, turning towards the
bookcase, the dress slipping off of her shoulder
again, as she grabbed a small bundle, wrapped
up in a navy blue silk kerchief. She sat again
and untied the knot, revealing a deck of cards,
larger than playing cards, and the images like
old colorful woodcuts. She handed him the
deck,”This is going to be fun. We’re gonna take a
deep dive into what makes you tick, alright?
Just shuffle. Go ahead.” He took the cards, and
began shuffling, slowly at first, then faster as his
hands adjusted to their weight and size. “Okay,
now, when you think they’re shuffled enough,
cut them into three piles. With your left hand.”
He did as he was told, and she took the three
stacks and placed them one on top of the other,
right, then left, then the centre. She squared up
the pile, looked up at his face, which seemed a
little nervous.
“Okay, here we go. She flipped over the first
card, laying it on he table between them. “This
card reveals what is troubling you.” The image
was a dancing baboon, wearing checkered
motley, crowned by a donkey eared hat. In one
hand was a chicken headed scepter, and the
other was reaching out to grab at a butterfly.
The dancing baboon was accompanied by a little
white dog, nipping at the monkey’s tail. The
butterfly was leading the distracted baboon over
a cliff’s edge towards certain death.
“Ooh, you’re off on an adventure, but you have
no idea where you’re going, how you’re going to
get there, and what you’re going to do once you
arrive. Thing is, you are distracted by foolish
things, and pay no attention to what is actually
important. You don’t appreciate that which you
should be grateful for, those things that you are
already good at, or the trusted companions who
already want your attention. You go off making
fair weather friends, whose names you can’t
even pronounce properly.
She paused, looking up at him. He could see
himself in the monkey’s face. The little dog, his
ignored little companion. And the cliff. Certain
death. Meaningless death. Purposeless life.
“Geeze”, he announced, “Pretty much sums it
up. I guess.”
“It’s not all bad. Look, you are not paying
attention to the things you already have, the
people that love you, the stuff you’ve done. You
keep fucking up because you keep chasing
dreams that won’t fulfill you. You need to get
grounded and start paying attention. Stop trying
to do all of the things, and settle down and enjoy
what you have. If you don’t someday you’ll find
that it has all passed you by and you’re out of
time. Start committing to what’s right in front of
you.” She held his gaze. Then flipped another
card.
‘The second card is your solution. It’s what will
inspire you to right your wrongs, to become a
better person. It will ground you, give you
purpose, keep you focussed instead of obsessing
over unimportant details, keep you on task. It
will root you, and keep you from wandering,
because it is all you have ever wanted, but never
realized until you were willing to seek help.”
The card showed a woman, full bodied, relaxed,
elegantly occupying a throne, wearing a
revealing dress which flowed around her like
water. She was surrounded by symbols of
majesty. Her foot rested upon a large white
crescent moon. To her right, leaning against her
throne was a hunting bow and a quiver full of
arrows. At an angle, resting against the other
side of the throne was a heraldic shield, its
surface painted with a double headed eagle. Her
blond hair held a crown of stars, a male peacock
with its tail in full mating display spread behind
her throne.
“All powerful patriarchs through history had a
partner, an insightful, wise, strong woman as
their companion. The Empress was a Muse, not
only his, but the Mother of their people, loved,
cherished, honored. She was the decadent
symbol of abundance, fertility, inspiration,
honor, and love. Where the patriarch tended to
be a violent, active, and powerful, she was
passive, peaceful, reasoning. She is the purpose
worth fighting for. The Pax Romana, the Peace of
Rome. Peace Enforcing Violence. Violence
Enforcing Peace. The Double Headed Eagle of
Empire was the symbol of that ability to exist in
both worlds, to Rule and to Serve. The Bow and
Arrows show that she is capable of violence as
well. She is a hunter, a provider, a soldier, and a
protector. She does not rest when others work.
She is a mother, and all mothers are life givers.
All mothers are givers of life. Not only through
the womb, but also through the milk of her
breast, the meat from her bow, the education
from her mind, the affection from her heart,
generational wisdom from her lips, and the
ageless source of culture, which surpasses
empires and cultures. She is the Mother whose
name is Goddess.”
“So, I need a Mother?” He queried, focused on
the double headed black eagle. There it is. His
two headed crow. Only not a crow. Still. Same
diff.
“No, Astrophel. You need a partner who will set
you straight and give you a sense of purpose. An
equal. A Muse. Someone to think about other
than yourself. Maybe someone who is a mother,
she is a symbol of motherhood and all that gives
life and nurtures. But she is also a Muse. An
inspiration. A reason to do what you do, and it is
her counsel, leadership, guidance and wisdom
that provides what you are missing. You need
someone who is a role model, someone to
challenge you. The Empress is a person who can
hold your attention, whose Word you treat as
Law. Nothing else could hold your focus like
someone that you want to please, that you
would do anything for, because you Love that
person more than you love yourself.” She
paused, holding his eyes with hers again, “You
need love. You need to find your heart. Whatever
it is that has kept you from experiencing your
family and friends as those who give you
purpose, that is what you are missing.”
Friends. Family. Meaning. Purpose. Other than
himself. She held his gaze. He was dizzied by her
scent, her presence, her proximity, her freckles.
He was dizzied by her. Everything that he
wanted he could sense in her. That power of
universal intelligence. That Library of secrets.
Wisdom. Meaning. Love. He fell into her gaze. At
that moment, for once in his aimless life, he
understood what it was that he was missing.
She looked down at the deck, a blush crossing
her cheeks. “Now, your outcome. But, before we
see what it is that the Fates have in store for
you, I have to ask you to cross my hand with
silver, as that is the ancient way. Please.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his
wallet. Past generations have practiced this rite
of transformation and acceptance of
responsibility. The price paid is a token,
exchanged as a form of reinforcement,
demanding that one choose to give their desires
form, manifesting that wish into physical form,
solidified by perceived value. Were Astrophel an
ancient seeker after the light, this exchange
might have been made with a purse of coins and
gems. Were he his grandfather, a blank cheque,
bonified and guaranteed, Paid To The Order of
TRIXIE THE GODDESS MUSE EMPRESS AND
PRIMORDIAL MOTHER TO THE AGES. If he
were his Father, he would hand over a members
only credit card, exclusive and held only by
those with a certain breed of fiscal aptitude. But,
he was Astrophel, who had a heart of gold and a
only the smallest pittance upon which to
represent his value to society, little of
significance, but enough to beg a momentary
credit with familiar bartenders. He pulled out a
wallet containing $83.35. He counted out $80.
Then put back $20, and handed her $60. She
glanced at the three bills, and tucked them
under her left breast, held in place by sweat and
gravity and the ancient blessings of all
Goddesses whose bosoms packed away trinkets
and cash alike.
She plucked the final card from the top of the
pile and laid it on top of the last two, it’s spirit
as awe inspiring and effective as those which
came before it. She described it, her voice curt,
tight, and with a depth of certainty that he
couldn’t ignore, since it was the voice of the
Fates, and it held him in thrall. He could feel
something beneath his feet shift, his heart
moved, and his mind quaked.
“The Wheel, reversed. There are those capable of
seeing past the hazy veils of time and space,
having studied history which shows the patterns
of mankind’s unwavering vanity and vice. There
are those who have not the fortitude for drawing
themselves past the walls of unfortunate
certainty, whose morality is as skewed as their
wish filled prayers, petitioning the Gods with
empty promises and swollen vows and wanton
vinegar, “Give me Wine and I will Plant for your
Grapes!” and when the wine is poured, they offer
the Gods of the Earth only piss and vomit. There
are those who spite Fortuna’s favor on a
desperate cast, stripped of mangy dignity, for
slow, but certain calculated investment is
beyond the whim and woe of their patience.
The wheel promises certainty to none, even they
who have practicable and assured knowing, they
who dare to calculate all paths through failure
and success, they who commit themselves with
indominable willingness towards ensured
outcomes, and to keep silent their methods,
giving no opportunity for excuse nor the keys for
their own undoing, since silence is its own
proverbial reward, and by a loose tongue are
certain rewards for spies, thieves and devils.”
Astrophel, leaving the hazy room, found that his
head cleared once he reached the foyer, and
exited the door towards the street. It cleared to
sharp focus as he trod the pavement towards the
nearest pub, one which he had frequented often.
The clarity remained until his lips touched the
pint glass, and was forgotten by the time the
final drips reached his throat.
Esoteric favor may find us all, in those moments
between here and there. For the common mind,
it will remain hidden, layered in lyrics and
fantasy. For the committed few, it will become
the secrets of wisdom, passionately sought after,
meditated upon, penetrated and given form by
the light of experience. For the sceptic,
enlightenment becomes a hollow thing,
purposeless and stagnant. And for those
occasional few, wisdom comes upon them, so
suddenly impactful that they pass beyond the
veil, their lives no longer beholden to the wheel
of incarnation. Stranded in the liminal, and
incapable of grasping much more than freckles
and Juicy Fruit, Astrophel continued his search
for significance. Sixty dollars wasn’t too much of
a price for a lesson ignored. Not everyone is
meant to rise above their current state of being.
