TRANSCRIPT - Episode 140: Innermost

April 14th, 2021

Kristen Zaza

[Eerie theme music plays]

Hello, my friends.

Welcome, always, and welcome, all.

I hope you have been well this week.

I have been well this week.

There has still been that smell, that burning, in my woods, and I have noticed my webs disappearing here and there. I'm not sure why but I am at peace with it, maybe because I think part of their beauty is their impermanence.

But I will tell you right now that I am not going to address this phenomenon today, because it is not hurting me, and it is not time.

Until then, I want to tell you about something that happened to me.

It was strange.

I was moving through my forest...climbing through the trees through my great silver spiderwebs, and because of my incredible vision and because of that little light now in my forest - fireflies? Candles? A small fire, perhaps? Who knows - I saw someone just ahead of me, climbing in my web, just as I climb.

I was not afraid, for whatever reason. I reached towards them, and I could swear that they reached back towards me.

Only when our fingertips touched did I realize that it was my shadow.

How silly.

How strange.

Maybe it was a trick of the eyes from the warm, yellow light that I refuse to acknowledge this episode.

For a moment, I thought I was reaching someone,

But it was myself.

Isn't that odd?

Maybe I needed that.

It did make me feel less lonesome here, even knowing the truth.

Because I'm pretty great company.

Maybe it was a dream.

A lovely dream.

Or maybe I needed to see myself

Obscured

And growing closer and closer to some destination

To my own reality

Far away

Somewhere.

Here.

Nowhere.

Forgive me. In a way, I never really left that Hibernating Dream.

I still carry it with me, behind my eyes, and have been seeing the world through it. It helps me make sense of everything, and so I do not deny its existence.

Have you had enough of my selfish musings?

Ahh, no, I must be gentle with myself, too, as well as you.

My hands have stopped spinning webs.

Now they  are free to reach behind my head and entwine their fingers together,

clasping around the back of my skull

So that I can lie back in this web

and relax a little.

Even if the smell of smoke stings my eyes a bit.

Oh, I almost forgot - how unlike me!

I asked my cards a question this week.

I have been avoiding the topic, so of course I forgot.

But I did ask my cards: "What is burning in my Forest?"

Ah, we cannot deny these things for long, can we? They will always see the light of day.

I shuffled my cards slowly and lazily

And I drew The Lovers.

We've seen it reversed. Let's see it upright, now.

It means Love, harmony, Relationship.

It also indicates Choice.

Sometimes, it represents the need to accept one's own dual nature.

And sometimes it means romance, of course.

A wonderful connection, based on honesty, and with a healthy sense of communication.

We can have those things with ourselves, can we not? Honest, Healthy conversation and connection. A harmonious relationship with one's self. Love. Pure and unconditional love.

Perhaps only once we have those within ourselves, can we try our hand at truly understanding them outside of ourselves.

Perhaps.

Allow me to tell you a little myth. A little myth all of my own; a myth of the people of this wood, which is just me and anyone else who stumbles here and decides to stay for any length of time. A story, a little thing perhaps a little deeper than a story for it comes from deep within us, I think, as you'll see, but like  a story, for just me and anyone who wants to be the people of this wood. Anyone can be if they linger here and can get lost in a story, even if only for a small time.

I have told you before that my myths - and I've told you a few of them now - take place in a time that is not-time, for I believe that all time is not-time, so do not mind if some things are a little strange and confusing. That is just the feeling of you shaking off time's clutches, letting the scraps of time fall away from you so that you can see more clearly the bigger picture.

[Three layers of voices in harmony sing a distant song with a fun rhythm and a mischievous melody]

Once upon a time, there was a young man.

Once upon a time, there was only this young man.

Do not misunderstand, there were of course trees and dirt and grass and birds and beasts and clouds and rain and lightning and spirits and demons and magic everywhere.

But as for people? There was only this young man.

And he lived in a lovely green place, just like this one, though it was very perilous, but this did not frighten him for he was strong and he was good.

He could defend himself from any beast who would attack him.

He could discern, with his clever nose, which berries were poison and which were healing.

He could follow his gut to clean water each and every day without difficulty.

He knew how to live in the world as we all once did, deep down, deep, hidden now, away from us, deep within there. Feel that part of you that remembers how to do this. That was this young man, through and through.

Was he lonely?

Yes, he was lonely. That goes without saying.

But one can be lonely and not entirely unhappy.

And so he was. Happy, that is. Even by himself in this great, big world that was all one forest, one great garden, one wild and yet perfectly ordered place.

That is, except for those spirits and demons I mentioned before.

For even in a world with only one person in it, there are things. Other things. Strange things made of air and soul only that buzz around us, that whisper in our ears, that help us when we're in need or tease us when we're low, depending on how they feel towards us. That is why it is important to listen carefully to the voice within yourself; not the ones that buzz buzz buzz busily in your ear or your mind, no, not those voices in and around your head - but the quiet little voice within your chest, hidden deep in there, the one that you can only hear when everything is quiet and you breathe slowly and you truly listen. It is important to listen to that voice, because the other ones - the ones that buzz and bicker and gossip all the time - well, my friend, those ones sometimes like to tell lies.

This young man had no one to tell him this.

And so one day, alone in this vast world, he was going about his way, and he came across a wolf.

A sick wolf, made bold and desperate by hunger, alone and confused. But most importantly, starving.

And it attacked him.

He was a strong young man, so he fended it off, not without losing a finger to the hungry wolf, however.

He did not blame the wolf. He did not even hate the wolf. He only defended himself against the wolf, wrapped up his finger, and kept walking.

"What a pitiful display," a voice buzzed around his ear. A strange voice, one he'd never heard of before. "You must be a weak little animal indeed, to not be able to kill even a sick old wolf."

Another voice chimed in, giggling and hovering around his other ear: "Weak little thing, aren't you? Too gentle to kill a wolf. Too soft, to rather lose a finger than finish off a foe. How embarrassing."

And the laughter of these voices in his ear hurt him.

This was worse than loneliness.

And so he found a quiet little grove, tucked away in the woods. He found an old, strong tree, and with only his fingernails, he peeled at the bark and the dying wood and opened it up until he could reach right into it, right into its heart.

He looked into the meat of the wood, moist and green and growing in places and dry and brittle and dying in others. Sap ran down it like dark blood, but it did not stop flowing.

And with expert skill, he reached into himself and found that pity that had allowed him to let that wolf go.

It was small and it was pink and it was trembling. There was even the sound of a soft little sigh, when he touched it.

[A soft little sigh]

He took it out from just behind his heart, and pulled it out using his thumb and forefinger. Very carefully, though he grimaced at the sight of the weak and shaking little organ, he tucked it deep into the heart of the tree.

He covered it up with the wood and the bark and moss he'd torn away, and he left.

And life was a little easier for a bit. Wolves thought twice before approaching him, even if they were going to him in friendship or looking for help.

And the invisible demons buzzing about him took a little holiday.

But at night, he couldn't help but hear, on the wind,

A soft little sigh...

[A soft little sigh]

One day, he woke up, and a tiny little rabbit was sniffing at his nose.

It was the sweetest thing! With soft, lovely ears and bright pink eyes.

He kissed it, he laughed with it, he held it gently in his hands.

And he let it go on its way.

Despite the hunger in his belly.

And soon, there came the buzzing once more.

"Silly man,"  one demon chirped at him. "Wasting your time on little things like that. It wasn't even big enough to eat. What is the use of loving and cuddling little insignificant creatures that are no use to you?"

"Indeed," another voice clucked at him in his other ear. "Shouldn't you be hunting instead? Shouldn't you be building a house? Shouldn't you be chopping down trees? What a waste of time!"

And they laughed and teased and scolded him once more.

So, he went back to the tree that was both dying and yet very much alive, the Bleeding Tree, and he revealed its heart once more.

And heart indeed it seemed to be, for the little pink organ had grown and began to throb and pulse from within the trunk.

He paid little mind to this, as there was much in this world he didn't understand. He instead reached into himself, deep in his belly, where that hunger had been blocked by something else - something silly that loved things like little baby rabbits and playing in the sun. He grabbed it in his fist with one hand, and pulled it from his body. Another little organ, it seemed. Pink and jiggling in his hand. Almost dancing in his hand. It seemed to be making a small sound - almost like laughter, like giggling, itself. He paid this little mind.

[The sound of laughter, like giggling]

He looked at it with disgust, and he placed it in the trunk of the Bleeding Tree, which he covered up again and left.

Life was easy, again. He did not let himself be distracted by things like baby rabbits, squirrels playing, fish jumping, butterflies flying. And so he was a better hunter, a better builder, a better survivor.

And the invisible demons buzzing about him took another little holiday.

But at night...

[The sound of both a soft little sigh and laughter, like giggling]

One day, he woke up and he felt that loneliness he always felt, but it burned in him brighter and deeper and more acutely than ever before. It hurt. He hurt. It is normal to hurt sometimes. It is natural for loneliness to burn you a little. That is normal and it is all right. And because he knew it to be a familiar feeling that he did not fear, he expressed it in a great loud cry. He shouted his raging loneliness to the heavens, he wept and he screamed in fury and he cried like a child until the feeling passed. When it passed, the sun was bright again and the birds chirped again and he felt much better for having cried out his anger and sorrow to the world - for he knew that the world would bear it kindly and comfort him when he was finished. And so he went on his merry way.

"What on earth was that?" One of the demons said mockingly in his ear. "What a scene you made! You disturbed all of the creatures in the forest, for what? For your decadent and indulgent feelings?"

"My goodness! How humiliating," another demon said in his other ear. "You must learn to control that, you know.  It will not do to announce your pain to the world. The world does not care!"

And they laughed and teased and scolded him once more.

So back to the tree he went, where he reached deep into his belly, just at the place where his spine met his pelvis, and he found a strange little organ there, too, and he ripped it out this time, no precision needed, no skill. He found the part of himself that felt lonely. He pulled it out and saw it in his hand, and it made a little sound of weeping, and it shook with sobs.

[The sound of weeping]

Pink and soft, like the others. He shoved it into the tree, which was now overflowing with red sap, staining his hands, but he did it nonetheless. He covered it up, and again, he left.

Life was a little easier, again, for a time, having forgotten his sorrow. But forgotten does not mean banished. It was still there, only he was afraid to give it over to the earth - the earth, who eats our sorrows for breakfast and digests them and then turns them into wonder. And now he was not so great a hunter or a builder or a survivor, because he had a little heaviness in him, a pain that he did not know how to ease. But life was a little easier since the invisible demons buzzing about him took a little holiday, again.

But, at night...

[The sound of a soft little sigh, laughter - like giggling, and weeping, all at once]

How many times did this happen?

Oh, very many, my friends.

One time, it was his love of beauty. He stared a little too long at a red rose, he held it to his nose to smell its sweetness, he brushed the petals against his lips to feel how soft it was, he brought it right up to his eyes so he could understand its exact shade and shape all the better. The demons laughed at him for admiring it so, and so he took the little pink piece of himself that loved red roses from deep inside his skull and put it in the tree.

Another time, it was his imagination. He had carved a tree branch into a sharp point and found a patch of fresh dirt, fragrant and black and rich with nutrients, and he began to draw the most beautiful images into it. He spent a whole day creating elaborate, spiraling patterns - admiring the drawings that came from only within himself, but also enjoying the process of working with wood and dirt and his own mind. The demons laughed at him for spending precious time getting his hands dirty, just to create something that would be washed away with the next rain. And so he took the little pink piece of himself that felt the urge to share the images in his mind with the world from deep inside his sternum, and put it in the tree.

And yet another time, it was his courage. He came across a baby bear dangling from the edge of a cliff, and its mother nearby, roaring her anguish and helplessness. Despite his better judgment, his instinct told him to help, and so he did. He braved the great height of the cliff and the nearby she-bear's roars, and he saved the cub. He had to run quickly as mother bear ran over towards them, acting on her own instinct to protect, but he was fine and his courage made him proud. Of course, the Demons laughed at him for listening to his heart and not his head and putting himself at risk to help another, even though he knew reward was unlikely. And so he took the little pink piece of himself that compelled him towards bravery from deep within his core, right in the middle of his spine, and put it in the tree.

Oh, when night fell, can you imagine? Can you imagine the cacophonous symphony he heard ever night, coming from the Bleeding Tree?

[A cacophonous symphony of weeping, raging, crying, giggling, dreaming, admiring, braving]

And the demons left him alone.

Not because they'd won.

And not because he had obeyed them.

But because they were bored of him.

He had nothing left to notice. Nothing left to pick at. Nothing left to mock. Nothing left to rebuke.

He had nothing left.

Just hunting, building, surviving.

But that cacophony grew louder, and louder, and louder still, and he could not sleep.

He could not hunt. Be could not build. He could not survive.

So loud, so painful, so present, were those sounds.

But, what could he do about it?

He was too afraid to do anything about it, really, because he'd hidden his bravery away.

He was too ambivalent to try, too, because he'd hidden his passion away.

He'd hidden everything away, and so he had nothing to fight for.

And so the demons came back.

"You must do something about that horrible wailing!" they said, ironically, very upset and emotional and pitiful themselves in their agony. "We cannot bear it! We cannot sleep, we cannot eat, we cannot walk this earth as long as it is ringing out everywhere! You must stop it!"

The young man merely shrugged. "What can I do? I have done everything I can. I cannot fix this now."

"You must!" they cried, tearing at their hair and wringing their hands. "You must stop it! It is your fault!"

Now, the young man was beginning to grow a little perturbed, and finally - though it was perhaps very, very latecoming - a little skeptical of these demons buzzing about his ears. How could it be his fault? He was doing what he was told. He did everything he was told to do. He followed every instruction, he did everything the incorporeal voices had told him to do, but he found himself more alone than ever.

And though his bravery was hidden away, and his passion was hidden away, and his emotion was hidden away, and his creativity was hidden away...he had still that part of him, that part that is full of knowledge, deep, deep down, that knows how to survive - TRULY survive - in this world.

And that intelligence is what told him to  take up a torch in his hand, say: "Very well," to the demons, and take a long walk in the middle of the night

back to

The Bleeding Tree.

Now, the entire trunk was covered in sticky, red sap.

And the whole of it was throbbing, beating, like a living heart.

"Burn it! Burn it down!" the voices cried, for they'd followed him to this place.

From its branches grew little red flowers now, raining soft and lovely petals down -

And he knew that, impossibly, the petals were rose petals.

"Wow," he said.

For he'd forgotten how much he'd loved red roses.

"Burn it already! Why do you hesitate?" The voices carried on.

With one hand, he set down his torch, ignoring those voices. He was busy. As rose petals fell on his head and grazed his cheek and his hands, he felt their softness and it touched his heart. He smelled their sweetness and it brought tears to his eyes. Though he'd hidden away his bravery, that deep part of him that could never die or be hidden away or touched by mockery or pain took over, and he threw the torch into the river.

Everything went black, and only the screaming of demons whirred all around him, now.

And for the first time, he saw them. Only shadows with glowing eyes of every colour of the rainbow, but they were terrifying to see. Shadows great and small, with claws and fangs and thin, lean arms that reached at him, threatening.

The fear was so great that it almost overtook him.

He fell to the ground and clasped his hands over his ears.

He rocked back and forth as tears fell from his eyes.

Though they could not actually reach him with their long, hungry arms, the demons laughed, screamed, raged, all the things that they do when they are disobeyed, as they must always be.

Then suddenly, silence.

The throng of bodiless things that loved to taunt the only person on earth hushed itself, gasping, shaking, at the sight of

A woman

Who had emerged from the tree.

She was covered in sap - in the tree's blood.

And it pooled at her feet and spread around her like a long, trailing skirt.

Red and Vicious and Strong and Gentle all at once.

It fell down her head like long, black-red hair, slick and wet and lovely.

Her eyes were first pink, like those of a baby rabbit.

She squeezed them shut, as if they hurt from seeing moonlight for the first time, and when she opened them again, they were red and accustomed to that light now.

They were

How do I put this?

Alive.

Fully.

Awake.

Aware.

Watching.

Observing.

She saw something that the young man could no longer see, since he had hidden away his curiosity and his love for discovery.

She saw the demons.

More than shadows.

Snarling, snapping, bleeding hearts themselves, only long ago embittered, so that they were almost withering husks now.

But when they charged at her and she stopped them by clasping them around the throat with hands that looked like they wore long, elegant gloves (but were really only thickly coated in the tree's blood), and she stared them in the eye, their hearts began to turn to flesh and blood, just a little, and beat a little bit faster. She looked at them with curiosity and concern, as their mouths said things to her their brains didn't even understand or anticipate, just talking talking talking, buzzing with disapproval and opprobrium. "You're hideous," "You're unnatural," "You're overreacting," "You're so sensitive," "You're awful," "You're stupid, silly, vicious, emotional, whining, mewling, terrible..."

And she saw through the buzzing and the words and the gossip to those tender little hearts of theirs, beating and beating and beating so rapidly.

And it made her smile her very first smile.

She cried out an angry, sad, horrified, victorious, joyful, grateful, sorrowful, lonely cry

And they all went flying away to somewhere that was not here.

(Great displays of emotion often do that, in case you wanted to know.)

And what was left now, in this little secretive glade where the bleeding tree lay split open,

Were two people.

A young man,

And the young lady

Who was born from the parts of himself

That he was deceived into hating.

He was afraid. I cannot say whether he was right to be or not.

As she approached him, her steps were a little hesitant. But they gained confidence as he saw a glint in her red eyes that was volatile and unknowable. Something that moved from anger, to fear, to love, to suspicion, to curiosity. Which feeling would she land on? He had poured so many of them into the tree. She walked, slowly, her footsteps heavy as her feet stuck to the ground with her gown of tree resin, sap, and perhaps blood, yes, likely some blood as well. He tried not to tremble, but he still did.

She stopped in front of him, breathing heavily, and her eyes seemed full of tears suddenly, and he felt ashamed for how lonely she must have been, in that tree there. He even thought to take that shame out and put it in the tree, and then he shamed at the instinct, too.

[Music again; the same melody with the voices from before, but now with a jaunty piano and accordion accompaniment]

But then her eyes caught the sight of a rose petal, falling to the ground from the heights of the tree, though that made no sense. She looked up and let a few of them fall, some even landing and sticking in her beautiful, viscous mane of hair. She smiled at the smell of them, and his heart skipped a beat.She giggled when one fell on her nose, and when one fell in her mouth she spat in alarm, and outright laughed. The wind blew, and she sighed at how pleasant it felt on her skin. And just then, she noticed that He had a little cut on his forehead from his journey through the woods that bled a little. She reached a hand up and touched it, and the sap from her fingertips healed him. She let her fingers linger at his temple, and they were gentle as a baby rabbit.

"Hello," He said to her.

"Hello," She said to him.

"I feel as though I've known you my whole life," He said to her.

"I feel as though I understand you perfectly," She told him.

He opened his arms wide

And she went into them, placing her hands against his chest

Where their elixir of blood, sap, resin and rose spread,

and she nestled in there,

Sighing at the the warmth

And as his arms wrapped around her, he pulled her in tight.

He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered over and over,

"I'm sorry. I love you."

And she, still smiling, closed her eyes, and went home.

And he loved her from that day forth,

As she lived in those little hidden places inside of him that he once hated but loved all the more dearly now.

And sometimes, when he was lost and if the demons were excessively persistent or annoying and he was ignoring his heart, or his imagination, or his empathy, or his instinct,

Or just, overall, betraying the beautiful, helpful and hidden person tucked away inside of him,

He'd feel a little tug at his rib,

Reminding him that she was there.

That she loved him, too,

And that they knew the right way to go. 

That is my story about The Lovers.

Next time, we'll investigate. We'll take some kind of action forward. I promise, I'll have a look around and we will find the source of the light and the smoke.

But tonight...

Let's just dream. 

Dream of The Lovers within you, tonight, my friends. 

Goodnight. 

[Eerie theme music]

(Host speaks as Kristen:)

Hello, dear listener, dear friend, and welcome to Episode 140 of On a Dark, Cold Night. Speaking with you now and always is Kristen Zaza, the writer, host, narrator, podcaster, composer, etcetera. I hope your April is treating you kindly.

First off, I'd like to send a big thank-you to my newest patron: Thanks so much to Sharon Duke for pledging a monthly amount through Patreon.com to support the show! I'm so grateful, Sharon, thanks so much for listening and helping out the show, it means a lot. If you're interested in becoming a Patreon Patron of On a Dark, Cold Night too, you can learn more at patreon.com/darkcoldnight  - all patrons as a perk receive access to my ever-growing soundtrack for the podcast, among a few other bonus things. So again, that's patreon.com/darkcoldnight. And another big thank-you this week goes out to Dustin, who supported us through Ko-fi.com and left a very nice message there too;  Thank you so much for your kindness and support, Dustin, I really appreciate it! If you'd like to help out like Dustin, through a one-time donation of metaphorical coffees without the soundtrack perk, head on over to ko-fi.com/darkcoldnight to learn more. Also, we have On a Dark, Cold Night t-shirts and hoodies available through bonfire.com/on-a-dark-cold-night, if you're looking for some wearable merch.

I'd also like to send thanks this week to WilliamQuill, my first review from Ireland, who left us a very nice five-star review on iTunes - thanks so much, WilliamQuill! Speaking of which, if you'd like to support the show in a free way that is always a huge help to podcasters, you can also feel free to leave us a rating and a review on iTunes, or on my Facebook page, or anywhere else you like. And I'd love it if you followed me on social media; I'm on Twitter @ADarkColdNight, instagram at darkcoldnightpodcast, or on my Facebook or Youtube pages, just called On a Dark, Cold Night.

Thanks so much for listening in this week again, my friends. As always, I've really enjoyed our chat, and I hope you liked my little story/myth this week. Not so little, perhaps, perhaps longer than usual, but maybe I was feeling a little solitary this week and wanted to spend a little more time in my forest with you all tonight. So there.

Be well, my friends. Until next time.

[Eerie theme music]

This podcast has been brought to you by the Sonar Network.