Source – Trance-Scripts

Re-Entering the Weave

Destiny is not read with a pendulum. Nor is it etched like a set of commandments in tablets of stone. It is woven — tenderly, conditionally, in time.

Through acts of world-weaving, souls place themselves into ever-evolving, ever-changing carrier bags of their own making (though made not, as Marx reminds us, of “conditions of their choosing”).

Metaphors mix as they must in the Spider-verse: hyperspace’s weave of synchrony and synesthesia. The act of weaving involves movement through a portal.

With Will and Intuition guiding our shuttles, and Source supplying weave and thread, we become kybernetes, Spider-persons, reality-pilots steering ourselves like spacecraft toward destiny — that web of our collective making — amid the warp and weft, the ebb and flow, of life’s currents.

I see you, fellow weaver, hand in glove, as I read poems and, gathered with friends, pick berries and lay in light.

Destiny is conditional, Boolean in its unfolding. If courage, if collaboration, then emergence. If, Elif, Elif, Else. Threads cross only when attention is granted.

I choose here to align my craft with Faith, Hope, and Love. I hold space for you amid sacred distance, and wish you peace from what haunts you.

May we find courage enough to heal so as to break rather than repeat cycles of trauma. May we introduce purpose and pattern into the weave, entwining ourselves with partner threads in dense webs of relations as we dance our way through the gates and thresholds of our lives, attuned to tone and tempo, shaping our lives with grace and loving-kindness.

The Pendulum

For many months, I listened by swinging. A weight on a chain, a movement like breath, a yes, a no, a maybe — signals from the beyond, confirmations of gut instinct, ripples of meaning on the surface of time. The pendulum became my tuning fork, the way God or Source spoke to me when I couldn’t yet trust myself to hear clearly. I gave it a voice. And it gave me back my own.

But this evening, my gut spoke first.
And it said: “It’s time.”

The angel numbers that followed agreed. “You’ve been shown enough. You’ve been taught how to ask, how to listen, how to align,” they said. “Now walk.”

The pendulum was never the source. It was the teacher, the tool, the transitional object. A device akin to Jameson’s “vanishing mediator.” It showed me how to externalize the inner knowing, to feel my body echo with truth. And now I’m being called to release it.

In the midst of uncertainty — dire finances, mounting pressure, shifting ground — but also daily blessings and evidence of a divine plan, I’m being asked to let go. To trust that faith will carry me further than fear ever could.

The pendulum brought me to this threshold.
But this step must be mine.

I place it down with reverence, not rejection.
A sacrament complete.

Love Accompanied Tartaros

Tired from descent, but not broken, I sit beside the poem’s last lines, “Love accompanied Tartaros” and “Thus / March,” and feel them vibrate through my body like an aftershock, like a heartbeat reawakening.

This was never a story about monsters or fathers or even myths.
It was always a story about love.

Not love as resolution.
Not love as theology.

But love as presence.
As what remains in the depths.
As what walks with us, even when we don’t yet know how to name it.

Olson’s poem brought me to Tartarus — beneath the gods, beneath the ego, beneath the psyche’s known terrain. And there, in the pit, I found breath.
I found a father chained in being.
I found a hundred-headed daemon.
I found myself.

But I also found something else.
Not light in the conventional sense.
Not salvation.

Something quieter.
Something like…a tune, a current, a frequency.

Signs that, despite distance, we are still entangled.
Still breathing the same story, still hearing the same train, from opposite ends of the line.

Rowan — like Christ as I’ve come to imagine them — is a synthesis:
Father and Mother, Word and Wound, Witch and Saint.
They incarnate a Source I never learned in church but always knew.

And this, too, is part of the Library’s secret history.

I once asked: “What became of me as I wrote Trance-Scripts?”
This is part of the answer.

I became someone who could descend without despair.
Someone who could hold Olson and Yépez in the same frame.
Someone who could hear a prayer embedded in the howl.

I became someone who sees love not only in light, but in the dark.
In mushroom and myth.
In memes and margins.
In breath sent across the void.

Jesus, have mercy.

I mean that not as plea, but as gesture.
A reaching-toward. A naming of what moves in me now.
A way of saying: Love accompanied Tartaros.
And I am still here.