The Luniferous Gazette #7: I'll take a dash of cream with my delusions, thanks

 “Why be succinct when you can be a sesquipedalian?”

 -Seraphina Sapphira Says, Allegedly

The Scene:

S.E. Page was enjoying a quiet Sunday brunch with her husband at a local café when a minor gravitational disturbance occurred. The tiny creamer pitcher—already an object of intense coveting as its precious contents required precise division with said beloved—spilled three drops of heavy cream across the table.

Page considered unfolding her napkin and obliterating this tragedy in three dairy dots, but her hand was stayed as her eyes drank in a most delicious scene:

  

Flat pearls like a mermaid’s tears? Maybe. Or was this perfectly aligned triad a secret pictograph for a spy thriller? No, perhaps these selenite dots fell from the last vessel holding the elixir of eternal life!

Oh dear. Her consternation grew with each new ridiculuscious scenario, and she hadn’t even had her second coffee yet.

She shooed her darling’s hands off the table so that she could freely photograph—er, capture the essence of this dilemma for future creative digestion.

For writers must consume every moment twice, thrice, forever ravening for scrumptious bites of symbolism even in the most mundane accidents of fate.

The ReVision:

Seraphina Sapphira, the obscenely wealthy and flippant princess persona of writer S.E. Page, has gone on an indefinite sabbatical from modern society. She has reportedly donated a sizable portion of her fortune to charity. She leaves behind thirteen mansions, one rumored herd of miniature unicorns, and an art vault deep in the heart of an impenetrable mountain. Unless you have access to her subterranean gondola system, that is.

We sent Reporter Val Query there to investigate what treasures the quixotic princess left behind. Surprisingly, Ms. Query focused her editorial entirely on one piece of artwork. It was given its own private room in the vault, complete with overstuffed ottomans where viewers might comfortably contemplate a most mysterious trio of dots—

 

Reporter Val Query interviewed several experts to hopefully elucidate the mystery of the Tri-Dot Canvas.

The Interviewees

The Art Critic: The dots are pointless. Just cunning alabaster distractions. It’s the negative space around them that demands the viewer’s full attention!

Can’t you feel the subtle scratches of darkness encroaching upon the outer edges? The canvas is just a mirror for the soul’s dual nature. A rumination on the Italian technique of ‘chiaroscuro,’ which is the vivid tonal contrast between light and dark.

The Biographer: Nonsense! It’s quite obvious why the princess treasured this particular piece when you analyze the viscosity and velvety texture of the cream. It’s far too fine to be from common dairy milk, it could only have spilled from a silver pitcher in the Upper Fae Café of Carolai.

Seraphina Sapphira bid her fiancé Sterling Daremore farewell there in her early twenties. They famously shared a late-night cup of hot chocolate before Daremore vanished during an interportal expedition to Atlantis. These flyaway drops memorialize the lost jewels of her youth and true love. Tragic, really.

The Philosopher: I would argue that a meta-analysis of the tri-dot structure points to a more profound reflection on human nature. The three spheres clearly represent the quest to maintain one’s inner balance.

Without a strong sense of self, external forces or orbiting ‘satellites’ of discontent can dislodge you from the copacetic center of your confidence and power. The simplicity of this concept is as evident as it is effective.

The Poet: Hold my quill—

I meant to drink you . . .

A thimble’s worth of spilled dreams

My mind sips instead. 

 

 

Word on the Street: (Transcript)

Reporter: “This is Val Query with a question for the Peoples! The Tri-Dot Canvas is currently valued at thirteen million dollars. Do you think that is a fair estimate of its worth considering it was owned by Princess—”

Random Person: “Wait, so wall bananas weren’t enough of a joke, now we’re calling table slop ‘High Art?’ That’s it! I’m going home. I’m going to throw macaroni noodles on my driveway until I crack the code.”

Conclusion:

Perhaps we will never really know what Her Royal Highness found so intensely fascinating about this magical mishap in three dairy dots. 

 

However, as the Primary Penholder, I would like to note that Substack is an extraordinary multimodal space to preen in the ink over even the smallest absurdity. Sometimes the most minute detail in our lives deserves celebration, too.

Wait, did you actually read all the way to the end of this prickmedainty newsletter? I wonder how many seconds I spirited away from your life with three errant drops of cream . . . .

 

 ~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette #6: I want my own Beach Episode

I didn’t start getting into anime until my late twenties. I quickly noticed that no matter the genre or style of anime, there was often a beach episode. The characters all take a break from their regular routine of mayhem and magic to chill at a beach together.

This excellent Screen Rant article by Joy Huddleston explains that these beach episodes don’t just serve as filler fluff, but rather offer an ideal setting “for the characters to explore their personalities and relationships in a new light.”

I want my own beach episode.  

 

I desperately want to take a break from the trajectory of our world. The hate, the hurt, the hurtling tsunami of impending doom that often seems to swallow humanity’s best intentions—and I want a break from me.

All the expectations, the failures, the relentless routines, let these crumble like sandcastles in sea foam. Let’s go to the beach and play mermaid queens and kings for a day! We’ll take turns scrawling our names in the sand before the waves wash them away.  

 

*Fun fact: my little sister taught me how to make this mermaid crown with a pie tin and hot glue.

I currently live in a landlocked state, but I’m very lucky to have wet my toes in many corners of the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean. I’ve played with the smooth stone gems of Pebble Beach, California, strolled among the pink saltspray roses of Misquamicut Beach, Massachusetts, basked in the sugar white sands of Sarasota, Florida, marveled at the ancient volcanic beaches of Hawaii, ridden a train beside the lapping waves of Japan’s shores, and trembled at the lethal loveliness of Iceland’s breaking crests.

These waters all make a hollow seashell of my skull, echoing my name without syllables. Calling something deeper and more primordial from inside me—

 

Waterborne

I can forget anything when I am swimming, even myself, from the tips of my arched toes to the ends of my widespread fingers sieving gallons of glory. Water sweeps away cumbersome angles and gives back what consciousness erases: connection. The deep blue link, deeper than veins pumping blood through our flesh, always lapping at the edge of our mind, murmuring what once we were, we may be again—one elemental body.

Nothing is too grand for my beach episode, so let’s share an impossible feast together!

I’ll spread a large towel with paper plates and break out the star dish from a cooler: a gluten-stuffed Angel food cake and fresh strawberries, bright as summer-ripened rubies. I won’t get hives from these illusory viands. Of course, there’s copious cream to slather on this cake and drown the berries in chilled clouds. We’ll scarf it all down and not leave a crumb for the greedy hovering seagulls as the ocean breeze whips our hair into our faces and makes a hot, sandy mess of us.

I’m grateful I can still imagine the salty sting filling up my sinuses. When I caught Covid 19 in 2021, I lost most of my sense of smell. It was a very unsettling experience to walk with my sisters on the shores of Hammonasset in Connecticut and smell NOTHING, catching only the barest tingling trace on my tongue with each deep and desperate breath. My sense of smell has largely returned now, but I will never forget wandering along the shore with a void I couldn’t escape.

In some form, we all carry such voids in our life, don’t we? Perhaps it’s simply the way of life, kind of like how every pearl carries a secret wound at its core.

Now that we’ve finished our feast, it’s time to swim. I won’t wait for you. Clumsy and free, I’ll splash into the shallow depths and let the waters buoy me as I dissolve into sea foam like an Andersen mermaid.

What I love best about the ocean is its loud constancy. I can’t think. My brain can’t spiral into anxiety when I stray into the zone of this vast liquid script. My mind rolls into reading the ever-turning pages of nature’s oldest story as the waves crash by my feet.

When I finally return from the water and leave my imaginary beach behind, my wounds and voids still go with me. That hasn’t changed. Yet I feel like maybe I’ve gained another layer of nacre from this brief mental respite. May we all find our own beach episode!

 

  ~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette #5: Planning My Afterlife as an Ash Diamond

Welcome to my Prismatic Paradise 

From the day I was born, my destiny was already sorted like pearls knotted evenly on a string. My birth religion was the main branch of Mormonism, after all. “The Plan of Salvation” told me everything essential about the before time and afterglow of my existence. I truly cherished it and many of my ancestors died believing in the plan with “every fiber of their being,” as the old saying goes.

I broke out some fancy marbles from my sewing chest hoard to illustrate this schedule in simplified terms:  

I was taught that every person will earn entrance into one of these heavenly levels or three degrees of glory (*outer darkness is surprisingly hard to get into). However, when I left my birth religion at age 33, I abruptly traded my identity as a divine spirit child for the ignominy of mortal speckhood. Worse, I found myself grieving my late mother’s sudden passing as if she’d suffered a second, more violent death. But this time, her loss felt irreparable.

The luminous certainty drilled into my skull about heavenly tiers and paradisiacal futures had utterly evaporated from my faithless fibers. My mother used to joke about getting “twinkled” (a religious expression that refers to a mortal body changing into an immortal one in the “twinkling of an eye”). Yet I was no longer so sure whether she had a soul, or even a gossamer scrap of a ghost in this universe—any traces at all besides a container of leftover dust sitting on my desk!

I agonized over wondered whether my own brief corporealization mattered, or if my human existence was all just a dash of chance and a smidge of dead star DNA. Many of the poems in Tangible Creatures alternate between pleading with this question or stubbornly defying it. This is one of my favorites . . . 

Luster

Some say “soul” like one syllable

Can outlast eternity, or carve

A monument from meaning that

No wind could grind down to grit—

A single grit, perfect and worldly,

Entire as heart of priceless pearl.

There is none such pearl in me—

No hiding space for soul where organ,

Blood and breath beat a hot symphony

In the now. Even now ultimate cold inches

Deeper inside, my matter graying to dust

As sun cools and galaxies pull apart,

Dear universe winking out lights in spent dark.

Why fear the fate of all starlit creatures,

Imagine some endless on, some sky with different

Stars than those that forged me today?

Keep hollow soul stuff away from me—

I must glory in this day, treasure those I am

Always losing, grow my heavens here because

This meager luster of time . . . is only mine.

 *“Luster” (2019). Fresh Ink. 50, 40.

These days, I consider myself more of an optimistic nihilist. While I make no claim on the verity of heavens or hells, I get a peculiar satisfaction in outlining the details of my own afterlife. More specifically, in planning a scintillating afterdeath for my mortal husk. Both of my little sisters have informed me that they prefer green burials in a forest on the East Coast. Very admirable and eco-conscious, I applaud them. They’ll make some mushrooms very happy.

Me? Ash diamond. Take my carcass and carbonize it!

I’ve already picked out a promising company. Ever Dear offers a thrilling array of cremation diamonds, with faceted options ranging from a daring trillion or hexagon cut to classics like heart and brilliant. Oh, not to mention seven of the “most desirable diamond colors.” There was never any doubt as to my chosen color—PINK. Rosacea already tints my cheeks, and groves of cherry blossoms bloom in the happiest corners of my mind.

It only seems fitting that I achieve an alternate route to getting twinkled by ensuring my tiny shiny status as a pink diamond. It’s relatively affordable compared to a casket burial. The average direct cremation cost is $1000 to $1500 dollars, and turning a portion of my cremains into a modest .40 to .49 carat diamond would be a $2200 add-on. I’m not yet sure if I want to be immortalized in a pear cut like a frozen tear, or maybe a marquise like a precious seed from Eve’s apple, or perhaps a heart like a secret wish—

Whatever my final facet, I do hope I’m not stuffed in a posh velvet box. Set me on a windowsill to glitter fiercely in my eternal aura.

Perhaps these post-life contemplations seem ridiculous, but with every breath I take in our burning, drowning, grief-torn world, I can already taste the ash staining my soul. And even with my diamond plans in play, there’s no guarantee that some natural or manmade disaster won’t prevent me from achieving the pink clarity of perfection. Sometimes, tragedy strikes and wills and wishes are discarded and lost by cruel circumstances. But a girl can dream, right? Welcome to my prismatic paradise.

As I don’t have children, I like to imagine that one day my diamondiferous sliver might end up in an estate sale or a secondhand store, my human identity and name utterly forgotten by time. Perhaps I could become someone’s unexpected thrift score?

Now that would tickle me pink! 

*Rest in sparkle.

Faerie INK 

 "Dear Voracia" is a magical phenomenon! The mysterious dragon columnist has been dispensing her wise admonitions and lethal stratagems for over a millennium now. Not sure if you should buy a cursed needle or a poison apple to hex your enemies? Arguing with your significant other over whether to add armored newts or battle guppies to your castle moat? Wondering if a pair of glass slippers is a fair trade for your soul? Ask Madame V.

Correspondence #5

Dear Voracia,

I am the eldest twin by a mere sixty seconds. My birth was supposed to fulfill a glorious prophecy heralding me as "the Chosen One." I was actually destined to be a supreme sorceress! But my fairy godmother Goldelia Nitwing got mixed up at the christening and blessed my younger twin sister instead of me with all the magical powers.

My parents tried to cover up the scandalous mishap by switching our names and making my younger sister the heiress to everything in the kingdom. Unfortunately, she's grown up to be a rather cruel and spoiled ruler with a whim for charmed destruction. No one can stop her with all those fey powers, least of all me.

But enchantress or not, I know that I am the true Crown Princess. What can I do to stop her rampage and reclaim the magic that was meant to be mine?

Sincerely,

De-Chosen One  

RE:

Dear De-Chosen One,

Alas, nothing but mayhem and mischief ever comes from anointing wee babes to a destiny they never had the chance to refuse!

However, in your case, might I suggest trying a Soul-Switch Spell to rectify the imbalance in fate? It wouldn't be difficult since you are already twins, and she has taken your true birth name.

But beware, should you trade bodies to reclaim your magical birthright, you could find yourself tempted by the very same wild passions that will lead to your own undoing.

Serendipitous wishes,

Voracia

 ~*~

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