Permittez-moi the indulgence, of engaging in a bit of Seiðr even though I am neither qualified nor sanctioned by blessing to do so.

The prophecy states that eight weeks hence, I will be nominally cast out of the Temple.

The reason given will be, according to Actualhuman Resources, ‘Custodian’ is a non-exempt position, and as such, if I don’t use my large accumulated vacation benefit, I will lose it–because the new fiscal year is set to begin on March 21 at 4:25 AM local time, which is the exact moment of the Spring Equinox.

So off north into the sandy rocks will I go with a recalcitrant growl.

Events both eerie and poignant, disconcerting and unforeseen, will delay my return for more weeks than I have vacation time to cover. Their sweep will take me far to the Eastern Ocean like a flooding river, and back all the way to my natural Mangas home like a Dorothy tornado. It can’t, I mean it won’t be able to, be helpt.

When at last I do click my ruby slippers and return … the Temple will have transported itself two-tenths of a mile south to the other side of this hill. The tiny shift in geo-location will not be the only change, or even the most incomprehensibly magical.

The seiðr foretells that when I get back, I will not just be the custodian, but the actual Owner of the Temple. I know it’s hard to understand what that could possibly mean. Who among mere mortals can own a Temple?

I rub my eyes. I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. Hung. Over.

Perhaps unlicensed Seiðr was not my brightest idea. Did I never learn anything from The Sorceror’s Apprentice? (It’s a rhetorical question. I did not. Don’t take your life lessons from fucking Disney products.)

Upon receiving the keys to the magic kingdom and taking putative possession of the relocated Shrine–and this may be the weirdest part of all–I will live happily ever after.

I am dosing myself with two Naproxen now. I am making the coffee in the same old French Press I got in the post-Flatiron days. It’s metal. It’s sturdy. Probably it will outlive me. I hope and pray so, anyway. If you are young and bright and deserving and addicted to caffeine like you’re supposed to be, I may leave it to you in my will.

This is what old land-owning men do. They leverage their assets against posterity and count on the greed of generations to come to build them a legacy. Don’t fall for it, kid, not from me or anybody. You’re better than that. Be better than me if the world isn’t as fried as my liver by the time you reach this ripened age.

There’s a character arc in there somewhere.