Open Letter to Brooks Long, on the prophecy moon of summer fruit.

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Catfish,

I was sitting on the floor in my hobbit house, on two plush pillows that are hand-me-downs from the upstairs neighbor who moved out.   I live in a hand-me-down house.

I was sitting in the hand-me-down hobbit house on hand-me-down pillows on the floor, on a hand-me-down rug from the woman who lived here before I did.

Piles of card stock and stickers and paper and ribbons–that’s the scene on the hand-me-down floor–and me.  Looking over my treasures the way I did the Sunday paper when I was a little girl and took the comic section from dad when we got home from church.  Advice columns and horoscopes, too.

Last night I went to a ritual for the full moon. It is the first time I have sat with these women. It was element-themed. When the guide got to mineral, my blocks made themselves known.  That’s when the moon entered me like a prism of blue-charged light. It brought the medicine I needed.

When I left the moon was across from me in the east sky and big as a neon plate, a holy hole in the cloth of space. The waves were crashing on a building at the bottom of the cliffs. I’d never seen the sea from that angle. The moonshine was full with the kind of quiet that was all you could hear.  IMG_3153

I came home and burnt white sage I harvested out of the canyon here.  It burnt a long while.  In my hamoc I made myself into a cozy ball and soaked in that special silence from the sky.  It occurred to me to come in and journal about the experience but the stillness was so full of such healing calm that I wasn’t able to leave its comfort.

It was a prophecy moon:  the full moon of the cycle that brings forth summer.  Under its light we see just exactly what it is our soul struggles to grow.

Back on my hand-me-down floor this afternoon, my lap full with the cut and paste prototype for Riot Wise, my grown-up riot grrrl zine, I was feeling the kinda cranky that’s creative.  Frustrated.  That dim-lit sludge funk wall that’ll hold me like a pit, unless I can name it for what it is.

I’d been feeling it most the day long:  at the coffee shop with books open on all the subjects I love to read, in front of the open screen.  A dready street kid came and sat down and that pissed me off.  That never happens.  I was pissed at him!  When a guitar street kid sits down next to me I always see that as sacred bohemian medicine and give thanks, start conversation.

But the momentum, the fucking momentum of peaked energy inside, the raw pre-manifest life force stuff of what I so badly, badly need to grow.  It was so complete and pressing at me that all day I’ve felt like I could crawl out of my skin.

That’s when Narnia came to call.  A demo song of you.  It’s on my iTunes, which I listen to when the passion is frustrated and wont seem to run smooth.  Bratmobile and the Pixies, Modest Mouse and Sonic Youth.  Your song, Brooks. I’m sitting there, my lap full of a zine I want to make, my yearning heart full of the work I so ache to do.  Your song started and I felt breath, had relief, just for a second.  Thought, what is this?

Your song, Brooks, A Lonely Prayer.  I didn’t even know it was on my Itunes. You sent it w the Flat Tire demo. It won’t upload here because I don’t have enough space on this blog. It made me cry.  It gave me pause.

I don’t feel any better.  But at least I remember now–Narnia is real.  Narnia is real!  The struggle is true.  The strength to get & create what I need comes from holding strong inside the wicked space made from not yet having it.

You’re playing 8×10 right now.  I’m sending my love.

I miss you,

Wye Fee

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