November 4, 2003
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Melody Rides Again!
Episode Nine of the Continuing Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir, Lady Shaperson to the Rich and Fatuous.
Episodes Four through Eight can be found HERE.
Editor’s note: In the last episode, Melody Andrewsdottir, Lady Shaman to the Rich and Famous, was preparing for a shamanic journey to acquire new power animals to supplement her present allies, Mink and Chinchilla. She has received final instructions from her Bushwa Indian mentor, Naomi Chortling Wolverine. Naomi has taken from her trusty and ubiquitous brown burlap Gucci bag a pencil and an empty Quaker Oats box, and started drumming. . . .
The monotonous “tup, tup, tup. . . .” of the pencil on the cereal box was strangely soothing, as I suddenly found myself far, far away. I was on the seventeenth green of the Beverly Hills country Club. Chevy Chase was attempting a chip shot out of a near-by bunker, and a gopher was laughing at him. Ignoring these distractions, I dived down into the cup, and kept going, tumbling head over heels.
The tunnel I was in gradually grew smaller in diameter so I was able to touch my hands to the sides and slow my descent. Reaching the bottom with a hearty thump, I gently rubbed my slightly bruised kudzu and looked around. I hadn’t expected ordinary or familiar surroundings, but this was weirder than weird. . . .and where was the cheese? Maybe I zigged when I should have zagged. There were three side tunnels, each of which had a sign over the entrance. Over the first, it said “Employees only.” Well, that one was out. The second one said “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” That one was definitely out of the question. The third one said “This way to the Egress.” Aha! That was more like it. I’m not a sucker, you know.
Without hesitation, I headed for it. With even less hesitation, I jumped back out of the way to avoid being run down by a portly white rabbit carrying a pocket watch and muttering something about being late. With only a little hesitation, I headed for it again.
This time I made a lot more progress, only to encounter a bunch of halflings bopping along singing, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“Goodness,” I thought. “I had no idea the Underworld would be so crowded.”
I continued onward in my quest, but saw no more signs of animals, friendly or otherwise. I saw a few minotaur bones, candy wrappers, and empty Bud Light cans, but that was to be expected. Then I stopped, my nose assailed by a strangely familiar odor–Georgio men’s cologne.
“Ciao, Toots,” said a strangely familiar voice.
I turned toward the sound of the voice. It was my old boyfriend, the one who gave me the idea for this shaman schtick in the first place.
“You animal!” I exclaimed.
“You got that right, babycakes. Power animal, that is, and I’m all yours.”
“But, but, but,” I said.
“Cool your jets, dude, you sound like a motor boat. You’re wondering what I’m doing here, right?
I nodded dumbly.
“Get that dumb look off your face and I’ll tell you. After I got that settlement check cashed, I invested it in large quantities of a certain controlled substance that shall be nameless, consumed beaucoup, and shuffled off the old mortal coil. And here I am, ready and willing to help you deal with old Mad Dog.”
“You know about Mad Dog?”
“Honey, read my lips. I am now your basic discarnate spirit. I know about everything. Now how about parking it over here and . . . let’s get metaphysical.”
This was something I had not bargained for. But,”What the hell,” I thought.
An hour or so later, tousled, totally confused, but happy, I headed back up the tunnel to tell Naomi about my journey.
Once my consciousness returned to my body, I sat up and blinked.
“You okay, kiddo?” Naomi asked. “Your eyes look like obsidian Frisbees.”
“Naomi, what in the Lowerworld happened down there?”
“You’re asking me? You were there, you tell me.”
So I recounted finding no Swiss cheese, but encountering instead, the strange rabbit with the pocket watch, the halflings, the minotaur bones, and finally, the appearance of my old boyfriend, who told me he was to be my power animal.
“Gorblimey!” Naomi ejaculated. Flicking an imaginary cigar and wiggling her eyebrows, she added, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever hoid.”
“Naomi, get serious. I’m having a life crisis here and you’re clowning around.”
She nodded sagely, and the air was suddenly filled with a pleasant herbal scent.
“My child, there is nothing so serious it cannot be laughed at; nothing so amusing it cannot be taken heavily; nothing so momentous it cannot be ignored; nothing so. . . .”
“Okay, okay, I get the idea. But what about this nutty anthropomorphic power animal I seem to have acquired, what about that, huh?”
Her face fell.
I helped her pick it up, and she continued.
“Beats me, Mel,” she said.
“Say what?”
“Beats. . . .me. . . Mel. That is, I dunno. To be more precise, I feel about as disoriented as Dubya.”
I was stunned, feeling like someone had suddenly applied the business end of a cattle prod to my kudzu.
“But if you can’t help me, who can?” I asked helplessly.
TO BE CONTINUED. . . .
(Greyfox’s note–the above originally appeared, in slightly different form, in Volume 4, Number 2, of The Shaman Papers. That issue also included “Getting Stoned with Rock Stars, Part II,” a look at some dichroic rocks and minerals used in shamanic work, and reviews of shamanic books and tapes.)
