What I want to know is, will Alex Ovechkin marry me? Ha ha ha ha! Let’s get into what I would never ask the Runes . . . ridiculousness. It’s not proper to ask things you know have no way of occurring, or things you’re not serious about, or making up questions. Like, if no one asks a question, I invent a fake one from a friend. Not good. Can’t lie to the Runes; they’ll punish you. They may get confused, lie to you. Like any good relationship, it’s all about the trust. So although I’ve been saturating myself with Ovi these past few days (and Arty Party loves him too now, it’s all so wrong) like someone gouging on Christmas cookies before the New Year, I will clear my head to ask a serious question. And it is this: will one of my short stories get published in a literary magazine before my move to Tampa? My Rune is Laguz, the Rune of Flow. Oh, I like this one. Let’s see what it means:
Laguz is the Rune of Flow, Water (yay! Love water!), that which conducts. Drawing it signifies that unseen powers are active here, powers that connect and are conducive to something taking shape. It fulfills your desire to immerse yourself in the experience of living without stopping to ask questions or understand why what is happening is happening: it just is. Laguz signifies the satisfaction of emotional, spiritual and intellectual needs. It also calls for a time of deep cleansing, of reevaluation and reprioritizing, of readying the self for a deep transformation. Success now lies in your relationship with yourself, in contacting your instincts and listening to them without fear or judgment. This Rune signifies a covenant, a sacred marriage. In fairy tales, it is the epitome of happily ever after.
Damn. Why didn’t I stick with that Ovechkin question? Fool. Anyway . . .
What I am getting out of this is a big YES if I write the kinds of stories that are a stripping down of sorts. Real feelings, based on my own emotions, rather than a channelling of what ifs. There can be no what if it really happened, if I really felt it. A blending of fiction and non; me, but not me. A marriage of me and what if. I’ve already begun to get more personal in some of these stories; I just haven’t finished them, or gone beyond one paragraph. The truth hurts, and never moreso than when you’re writing it down for others to look at. Standing naked in front of a crowd is what it is. Without your skin. Heart on view, veins, arteries, intestines, all the vulnerable parts. But who would want to study you otherwise? If dancers leave it all on the floor, then hockey players leave it all on the rink. And writers leave it all on the page.