3 at a time. Johnson

First was the flap of the wings of a black solitary raven in the matching sky. She had traveled an empty space to spit the sun on first contact with something other than darkness. with in the wisdom of those eyes she flew with the 1st thought of sight on along a river of nothing until her claws were touched by welcoming dampness. marshes out of no where performed a welcoming mat for the bringer of light. immediately she spit out  the sun from her beak and cawed the first song  and moving her legs and chest to dance the first dance. the marches blessed the sun settled in what appeared to be the heavens. enough and not too much so as to keep the earth in warmth. welcome to the 1st day.

it was many years later when she raven wore her wings about her as a dress and walked barefooted, toes in the grass of the earth.

Certainly the light was spotted far off calling out the inquiring intelligences. They clamoured and they flew they materialized on the living mountain known as the first of land. watching the waters ,who knew it was blue. the seven muses in their robes sat by the rays of the burning flames and it was then that some began to notice they were not the same.


My daughters are not my own since i’ve buried them at the roots of an agar tree deep in the forest. they walked with me into the thick vines and high vegetation and they come to me now and then with their messages. I am man who could take a life and turn it to immortality. they wondered why i did not join them. why I changed my mind. how come I  would choose to sit at a table in a chair with common breakfast and watch the world change daily in an organic way. organic has carbon and certainly will want to break down one day succumbing to the subtle flame. I say nothing to this. But i listen. I watch their pictures and listen to their voices when they come to sit with me.

Eventually I am sure I will grow tired and death will hold the curtain for me. but for now I am too curious for life. I thrive on the living and although I have taught those who were my children to take time and lose it, to take time and bend it, ignore time and borrow it. I am too akin to seasons and rhythms and wish to live with the tides following the will of the moon. I do this by an act of participation, empathic to life, and the story of how one comes and goes. I go the the register alone and he does not ask me where are my children. So consider it an exchange, the two for one.

Live my children in a myriad of ways. open doors and close them. but live and don’t leave her till you have grown too curious about the realm on the other side. for this is your birth right. children of the black bird.


– Sabrina


Introduction to the Tools Master

Introduction to the Tools Master

The foolish covet his tools. The munchkins walk by his side. The dreamers admire his agility. He is not the jack but the master of tools.

Through out history and to this very day he has been a hoarder of names. The first step to being a master of tools is to be able to change tools at will with as much simplicity as a breath. You must be formless to be a master of tools. That chaotic organization, formlessness, is at heart what it means to be the master of tools.

He wears a suit of the finest of fabrics. He weaves it himself I’ve heard. It smells of the finest dark chocolate soil. His suit is a mirror for the spirits to use. His suit is a book of information.

I remember a girl named Jessica who unwittingly happened upon a tool of the Tools Master. It was in one of the places you least expect it to be. Laying at first in a section of her memories she hadn’t touched yet, there it was safe for a time. It was the ability to rally the spirits, I believe it was. It was the incantations, words, it was the very library for this type of art. The tools master is so well organized he utilized several other information holders such as gems and these hidden rooms in the memories of anything to store his libraries. But for Jessica it was different. Something in that selection touched her and awoke in her. It is not quite clear if the master of tools knew that he had done this. But I have heard that if you are able to access the tools he places in those hidden rooms in your psyche, you can keep the bounty. He made himself a pact that he will only take what you will not miss of his. I have faith in this. I want to believe this with all my heart.

I have been searching all of the hidden rooms in my psyche for a glimpse of a possible stored library. Although some of these opened doors have unleashed more than I thought would be there. For this I am grateful to him and his pact. I am grateful for the ways my body has begun to self procreate, creating multiple fluid bodies to join me on my search into the wonderland of my very mind. I appreciate that with this task I have become whole. Even though I can call forth the thunder, even though I can play wildly in the forests with the nesting spirits, even though I can dream and open my eyes without opening my eyes. I am sitting here in this park with my deck of cards secretly divining if I will find a library of his and become a magus of tools. Because for all of this to happen to me with just the intent to reach out for one library I can only imagine what it would be like to actually have one. And on the winds I spit these words that if I do find a library of his I will steward it like it was gold. I will care for it as if it was myself. I will nurture it as if it was a child. I will the will to play with this sacred selection of knowledge knowing that I cannot mention to you the rest of what I would be after. Hunters have their secrets and we are at war.

I haven’t seen Jessica since but I can feel something brewing. I think she has something to do with it. It’s like a warm hearty soup for the souls. I also heard she changed her name. Joined a team. The rest is a mystery. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to tell you what happened to her. I happened upon how to make myself a suit of the finest fabric. I wove it myself.

Introduction to the Tools Master by Sabrina Davidson Copyright 2012