Frequency Bed
By Tantra Bensko
The wheelbarrow full of occupants on many levels of reality, frequencies and concepts, bumps over the mole hill, the columbine flowers tied on to decorate the handles nearly falling off, which would be a shame as they mimic the shapes in the abstract mural along the sides of the barrow.
Sweat is pouring out of my arms as I reach down to rearrange the personae. The weather is spiking, and it’s time to plant the different personae around the breezeway in the old log house. The people who live here are vacationing this week. Space in the breezeway is more meaningful and real than around the house. Conceptually. And these personae thrive on concept. (Sometimes in newer places, we plant them in large forts made by children in the back yard. But usually only after the children move on.)
The multi-dimensional folks like these wheelbarrow occupants have been fighting for space on the other realms, which is getting sparse, and they are growing too thin there, too choked out. So, they’re moving down to the earthly dimension in larger numbers these days, and thus my job takes too much out of me. Some are “looking” at me with a twinge of blame, and that, coming from higher dimensions, hurts in a complex way.
I dump them out in the breezeway. They get grumpy harrumphy. Especially the higher dimensional ones used to a lot of hoity toity. I work fast, as they are getting attached to the area and sinking into it willy nilly. I weed and organize them at equal distances from each other, make little hills, for the two most powerful ones. They get feisty.
Their different levels argue among themselves without words. The astral bands getting sloppily colorful at each other, sloshing their rounded edges into each other. The etheric layers getting paranoid and nitpicky about details and sharp, too precise to merge well when they start overlapping. The higher frequencies forgetting boundaries and expanding too far, getting too bright and blinding some of the others on more mundane paths. Once I get them planted, though, they’ll thrive.
And I will put my hammock up. Lie in it, and sing ballads to them, opening up their astral pores with the sounds and images, feelings and characters, similar to the way bird songs open up stomata on plants so they can exchange gases through the holes. For a week they’ll learn the ways of the world through the intonations, learn gently how to interpret stories, how to feel about them.
And one day, the people who live at the house will see ghostly imprints in the breezeway, growing more substantial as the month go on. And the mysterious, questioning, intensely whispered stories about them will begin, around the house. Which will become all their lives.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
By Tantra Bensko
The wheelbarrow full of occupants on many levels of reality, frequencies and concepts, bumps over the mole hill, the columbine flowers tied on to decorate the handles nearly falling off, which would be a shame as they mimic the shapes in the abstract mural along the sides of the barrow.
Sweat is pouring out of my arms as I reach down to rearrange the personae. The weather is spiking, and it’s time to plant the different personae around the breezeway in the old log house. The people who live here are vacationing this week. Space in the breezeway is more meaningful and real than around the house. Conceptually. And these personae thrive on concept. (Sometimes in newer places, we plant them in large forts made by children in the back yard. But usually only after the children move on.)
The multi-dimensional folks like these wheelbarrow occupants have been fighting for space on the other realms, which is getting sparse, and they are growing too thin there, too choked out. So, they’re moving down to the earthly dimension in larger numbers these days, and thus my job takes too much out of me. Some are “looking” at me with a twinge of blame, and that, coming from higher dimensions, hurts in a complex way.
I dump them out in the breezeway. They get grumpy harrumphy. Especially the higher dimensional ones used to a lot of hoity toity. I work fast, as they are getting attached to the area and sinking into it willy nilly. I weed and organize them at equal distances from each other, make little hills, for the two most powerful ones. They get feisty.
Their different levels argue among themselves without words. The astral bands getting sloppily colorful at each other, sloshing their rounded edges into each other. The etheric layers getting paranoid and nitpicky about details and sharp, too precise to merge well when they start overlapping. The higher frequencies forgetting boundaries and expanding too far, getting too bright and blinding some of the others on more mundane paths. Once I get them planted, though, they’ll thrive.
And I will put my hammock up. Lie in it, and sing ballads to them, opening up their astral pores with the sounds and images, feelings and characters, similar to the way bird songs open up stomata on plants so they can exchange gases through the holes. For a week they’ll learn the ways of the world through the intonations, learn gently how to interpret stories, how to feel about them.
And one day, the people who live at the house will see ghostly imprints in the breezeway, growing more substantial as the month go on. And the mysterious, questioning, intensely whispered stories about them will begin, around the house. Which will become all their lives.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
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