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Persephone's Descent [entries|friends|calendar]
The Spider Woman's Daughter

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[10 Apr 2008|09:12pm]
As though waking from dreams of drowning, I gasp air into my lungs, disoriented.

I can feel his attention on me, the ice crystals in the dirt molded to my chilled skin and an icy breeze that stiffens my nipples and caresses my thighs.

Then, I feel the gentle, rabbit-soft nuzzling of the sprouting seeds beneath me.

He seems so far away.
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[25 Apr 2006|11:35pm]
Assured that my season in the sun is upon me,

I bleed my fertility into the ground.
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[27 Mar 2006|09:51pm]
I never write about what it's like to come back to my mother.

There isn't much to tell, really.

One morning, I awaken to find not the satin sheets of spider silk, but the stubble of last year's grass under my cheek.

He never says goodbye.

My mother, once I find her, greets me with tears of joy and sorrow, mixed.
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That time of year again.. [15 Sep 2005|08:24pm]
Once again, I pre-pare to pare down my self, my life, my loves and move again.

Every time it changes.

Every time, it's the same.

Every time, it begins with the wind in the trees.

The pumpkins appeared as I blinked, it seemed. I hear Mother talking about how now, now it's not just "pumpkins" anymore. It's orange pumpkins and white pumpkins. And, though she doesn't know it, the plastic kind, I suppose, but we don't deal with them. Here.

The wind caresses the back of my neck. A gentle touch, to remind me that he's there, waiting. It's been a long time, for him. That hand made of wind grips stronger, teasing. Reminds me he's there, waiting. Such a long time. Though it seems like I barly blinked.

The summer rains haven't left yet. The heat is still here.

But so is he.

The energy flows north, strong. Yes, we will hold it, to be released by the laughing smiles of the jack 'o lanterns. We will hold it for you.....

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He is on his way. [13 Sep 2004|12:20am]
I always know.

Due to the nature of the space between, sometimes it's a day, sometimes it's a week, sometimes hours. But he's on his way.

Mother isn't ready for me to leave yet. The feast isn't for a few days.. hopefully, he'll hold off until then. She won't be ready then, either, but perhaps she'll be more accepting, afterwards. It's nice to let her say goodbye.

Of course, that's the thing about Pluto. He isn't about *nice*, and when you're near a force like his... there is a price to pay. He's shown up just before the climax of the feast before, and I believe he'll do it again, someday.

None of that changes anything. I taste death in the foods we eat, and so, I know it's time.

I hear him in the fields, his chariot makes the noise of a scythe though the grain.
I hear him in the woods, his noise is the sound of the arrow finding it's mark.
I hear him in the waves, where his horses hooves crash on the shore.
I hear him in the marsh, where the cattails sway and sigh with his caress.
I hear him in the fire, where the fat crackles like the path beneath him.
Most of all, I hear him in the beat of my heart.
"All who bleed, must die."
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[07 Jul 2004|08:44pm]
The strawberries are past their peak, and the corn is coming in. The tigerlilies are beautiful in the sun. My body feels healthy and strong, and my skin has a golden sheen.

My mother wears only gold during the summer... the silver is put away for her winter mourning.

Pluto tries to visit, in the lightning and the thunder, but my mother will have none of it. And even if she did, the decree was that we could not touch these months. That's his punishment.

Mine is to live between the worlds, constantly grieving over the loss of one or the other.
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Mid summer agian. [21 Jun 2004|01:44am]
[ mood | content ]

I feel like I've just gotten settled back in, and my time here is half over.

The crops have finally gotten off to a solid start. Mother is, of course, beginning to forget that I'll be leaving again, which is agonizing.

She surprised me with a new dress yesterday. She's always doing things like that.. making me clothes that I'll probably never wear.

Some days, I don't miss the underworld at all. The sun is on my skin, the smell of the field in my nose, the sound of my mother singing in the background, and most especially the feeling of having works a good solid day, knowing that I am strong and capable, that I can accomplish what I set out to do. These, not the dresses, are what brings me back here. It's the sweet taste of the grains I've raised myself that's so special about this place.

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[06 Nov 2003|02:20am]
This year, the year I finally decide to put in writing my descent, is of course the year that it is uneventful. The cattails, the drying grains, the deer, the migrating birds, the frogs... none whispered to me to return. I was just on the road to the underworld one day.

I traveled for a week and a half.

Then, on the last day of the living year, the lanterns born in pumpkins led my way. The ghosts of ancestors drifting to pay their respects to those still living, led my way. The wind, turning the dead-leafed trees (no longer red and gold, but brown) into rattles, led my way.

In the morning, the ghosts returned with me.
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The Change. [20 Oct 2003|06:12pm]
I never know when it will happen, exactly. Just, one day, I'm riding along a road in the Upperworld and suddenly I feel as though I'm home, again.

I look around and find myself in the Underworld.
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Time does not tick like a clock, it rolls in like ocean waves. [09 Oct 2003|03:27am]
The last few days here are so hard. I pack, my mother re-packs. I don't think she'll ever learn that the peaches and pinks of spring flowers just don't *work* in the Underworld. Over the years, I've learned to leave most of my winter wardrobe there... especially after the time my mother tried to "help" and clean the "dust" off of one gown.

It isn't like I wear those clothes around her.

Her helpers have learned to get along without her this time of year. She's either fretting over my luggage or shut up in her room. I wish she could understand. I don't want to hurt her! I don't want her to feel alone... And Gods, it isn't like she doesn't know when I'll return.

Sometimes I wonder about children. The Underworld is no place to raise a child. But I can't imagine any child of Pluto's being raised half the year by my mother!

Tonight, he's far away. My mother can tell, by watching me. It's harder to imagine leaving on nights like tonight... the pressing need is gone. I can focus more on what I need to do here, now.

My mother looks hopeful.
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On the wings of a windstorm.. [30 Sep 2003|08:56pm]
[ mood | relieved ]

He never was one to miss a dramatic entrance.

I wonder if he consciously knows about the effect he has on women? That if you wait until they're just pissed enough at you for not calling, and then you show up with roses and wine, they'll love you all the more? And that, no matter how much the woman knows that this happens, it'll work anyway?

So there I was, wondering if he'd even miss me if I didn't show up, turning herbs to dye. I only noticed the change in the light when some of the others started rushing around closing the windows. You know the sort of storm, no warning, then the rain's rushing in any crack you've given it?

And suddenly, he was back.

He didn't stop to talk to me. But I knew.

I went home and started packing.

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[23 Sep 2003|12:25am]
[ mood | anxious ]

It's probably just that he hasn't called yet.

Mother's getting ready for me to leave, though she pretends she isn't. Pretends to be busy, harvesting tomatoes, putting up the last of the canned foods, piling mulch over the delicate plants, but I see the glances she steals over her shoulder.

The first few years, and often still my first few days back, she won't let me do any *work*. I don't think she understands that even doing your dishes in the Underworld...sparkles? There aren't words for it. But Mother *should* understand. It's the same feeling as the feeling of the seeds growing in the Spring. Some sort of divine tickling/bliss/joy. Both places, it's the work that keeps me there.

A few years, she tried to keep me here by just working us both to exhaustion. She hoped I wouldn't notice his call. Or maybe that I'd be too tired to answer. But it doesn't matter.. none of it matters. I love both of them, but sometimes, well, maybe I just need a change.

Of course, I don't go until he calls. I worry... I worry that all of this metal and wire and plastic and fiber optics I'm surrounded with has muted his call. It mutes my Mother's call... maybe his, too? But it only mutes Mother's calls a bit, and if anyone could speak through plastics, it'd be him. Inorganic and unchanging, but some how a symbol, a harbinger of change, of what organic things can do.

It's not Mother's fault that she can't understand. But it is getting a bit frustrating.. she always seems to be around, and I don't want to seem to be straining to hear his call when she's there. I don't want her to feel rejected.

Well, at least no more rejected than she inevitably feels, there's nothing I can do about *that*.

If he doesn't call, should I just stay?

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[21 Sep 2003|11:15am]
Maybe this year, I just won't go back.
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Midsummer [22 Jun 2003|04:33am]
Midsummer... which is such a mis-nomer. "Summer" is just barely begun. Yes, the baby-dangers of spring and the frosts are past, but we are just creeping into warmth. The sun is longest tonight, though, and I enjoy the feel of it on my skin, the way it makes everything easier to see. Mid-summer is summerised by the illumination of the maple leaves, a faint crust of sweat on skin, a smell of tree bark and green-ness. These days, summer tastes like kool-aid, but I recall when it tasted of the sweetness of cool water. Mid-summer is the birds and bugs chirpping, the crack of a thunder storm.

Mother Demeter is happy this summer... the harvests are coming along nicely. Constantly, we ride in fields, in forest, in gardens. Yes, the plants are maturing nicely, yes, the people will have plenty when.... and then she looks away.

I hear she tells the world that it's rape. That I was forced into the underworld. She doesn't let herself see...she can't let herself see, I suppose. She could never believe that I could love them both...

Some days, I see them both. Riding with my Mother, and I can see the death waiting for the end of life... I can see the fates spinning, waiting. Or riding with my beloved Pluto, and I can see the life that was, the growth and the love, how the spirits that reside with us came to be the way they are. Neither of them will ever understand.

My mother was so hurt when I left her. I suppose I just didn't expect that. She was off collecting flowers, just exactly like we did every day. Without change. And here was Pluto.. everything I didn't know about, willing to tell me, to show me. Of course, he never did tell me that once I left with him, I wouldn't be able to return. But, in all fairness, that does overstate the case some...as long as I didn't eat anything, I could return.

When I found out, I was furious, but only momentarily. Pluto, as the courteous host, had offered me nither food nor drink. When I found it suspicious, I asked the Old Woman, the Spider Woman. She cackled at me, and told me of the law. By this point, I was missing my mother, and I swore I would neither eat nor drink, so that I might return to my mother.

Of course, I ate the pomegrante seeds because of her. I was just staring at them, a bowl full, all glossy and red. They reminded me of the perfect fruits of nature.
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[22 Jun 2003|04:31am]
Eventually, the darkness is more comforting than the light.
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