Alan Murray

Lovely, lilting Lerilanders,

Many of your posts have had at least some element of dreamlike fancy included, this is a mythos after all. This will be a mundane, litteral account of how i live. I've tried to live out my internal processes for some years now, i guess i've succeded more than i realized.

One human walks a path carpeted with leaves on this foggy spring morning "en La Florida". White pear blossoms flurry down in sympathy with storms farther north. Cattle are lowing in anticipation of this mornings hay delivery. Their pasture, my garden of funny fungi, awaits warm rainy nights to sprout it's mystical crop. The path turns under an arch of Silver Maple trees where hangs an owl carved in Redwood as watcher of the way. To left there is a sky blue tent to shelter the body of the dream traveler. Coming to a clearing one sees the black dome of Inipi Popotka, the sweat lodge of the little owl. In the fire circle lie smoldering four logs kept banked so that each one lasts more than 48 hours. About the alter stone is scattered mementos of happy lodges past, a little glass dragon, an obsidian arrowhead, Debbie's bracelet of polished pebbles and the alluminum dipper which Flying Owl had broken in a frenzy of drumming praise to the Creator. The alter stone, a little bigger than a half gallon milk carton, is of polished black granite. Graven in its surface is a lightening bolt, a cloud shedding rain, the crescent moon, the all seeing eye. Below that; homage to the creatures, images of a bird, a snake, a spider. Then there is a symbol for the growing crops and below it all a man sits humbly in lotus, arms raised in thanks to the creation. Coming out from the alter stone toward the fire pit two cow skulls lead the parade of animal spirits. Behind them is a racoon skull resting on the lower jaw of a wild bore, a jaw much too big for the coon making him look like a monster from a midieval bestiary. Little stones ring the fire and alter. Entering the lodge itself there is a sweet earthy scent and a hint of the copal, cedar, sweetgrass and sage that have burned here for more than two years. The Womb of the Earth Mother is empty between ceremonies save for the rocks from last lodge.

As you move around the clearing there is my "kitchen" as yet to me named. A palm frond bedecked table overhung by canvas it is equiped with everything for baking my well loved bread or cooking for lodges.

Much happiness has generated in these surounds when folks have come. Sadly though there is no other person here to share it all with. Aside from monthly lodges visitors are few. The barn red house is empty now but for the life masks of its past three residents and this silicon tool.

Oyate nimkte wacin yelo (i want the people to live),

one human (alan Murray)

Continue onward... Albert/Xero

Return to: The Leri Mythos