Dayplanners, and the onset of spring

Once upon a time, I was involved with a bard. It was a long-distance love affair: we'd gotten hot and heady over email, tossing Crowley references about and arguing philosophical minutiae. By the time we met at my first Pantheacon in '96, we agreed to make a trickster's bet and I was aiming to lose so we could sleep together.

All went to plan, and that began a completely whirlwind year. The bard and I saw each other in person only a very few times that year, but they were deeply meaningful to me. We called and wrote as often as we could. On one whirlwind trip, I met one of his other sweeties and her partner, who later became my lovers. The bard floated through life, living large as tricksters do, loving and eating and cracking bad jokes and playing heart-breakingly beautiful songs. I got to play muse and foil, and also stood up to him more than I think most folks did. It was a hell of a year.

It was the bard that gave me my first dayplanner. He was stunned I could live without one, and as I got to know him better I understood why. Not only was he touring the country to give classes and concerts, but he seemed to have a string of sweeties in each town. (It's good to be the bard.) You're going to keep a social calendar like that, you need a day planner.

These days, I am convinced that the day planner is the poly person's very best friend and confidant, tracking dates with gentle precision.

In our Brigid ritual the other day, I taught a song I learned from the bard, with the line: "I want to be merrily courted in spring." I warned folks up front: sing it like you mean it, or don't, but it's a spell. In the less than two days since the ritual, I've been suddenly flooded with new connections, two renewed offers for rope bottoms, and a fervent modelling request from a photographer who kisses rather well.

At the moment, I'm sitting with all of these lovely potentials and eyeing my calendar. Oh, bard, why didn't I get my dayplanner in order before the ritual? I know better.