Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Grace in the Dreaming

I have become a dreamer in this practice of Examen. The prayer steeped in gratitude and examination. It seems to make the mind a fertile ground of communication. Of late I have prayed for the bitter roots that have taken hold in my heart to be weeded out. Such thorns do not protect me but prevent me from a path of love. Trauma shouldn't keep the heart in retrograde, bleeding in fear.


In the cold tile of a bathroom, a tableau of small toys and found objects sat on the toilet lid. We were playing some game of storytelling. Me biting my lip as my mind grasped at the next beat to move the tale forward. He is smiling at me pulling the next scene out of the ether. Picking up a blue convertible that could fly invisibly and evade the dragon in pursuit.

That's absurd, I declared.

It always is. You prefer it that way.

They are going to have to brave the dragon eventually.

They aren't ready and will inevitably fail.

We aren't ready for any task we are meant to win. We should try anyway.

The porcelain table provided the next clue. A fabric rosette.

They find themselves in an enchanted garden full of fragrant roses; here they will revive their strength and steel their nerves. Tomorrow they will try again.

Roses are obvious.

We work with what we have; do you see a better choice?

The room filled with giggles as we looked at thumb tacks shaped like stars and a button whose harp shape hadn't provided any song.

The dream was starting to glimmer then. The foggy reality was spilling around the edges.

He turned and said: This is when we were beautiful.


Peaceful tears on the waking. A heart beats beauty.


On Getting Letter's by Owl