new job, dum diggity.

Okay. So I've managed to land myself a new job, after job hunting for almost eight months or so.

And it's a GOOD job. One which if I should happen to decide that I want to switch careers from my chosen path (mortuary science), I could do so with ease because I would already have my foot in the door. It's a career kind of job, albeit an entry level position.

( To be quite blunt, it's at an abortion clinic. )

[lwa dreams] birdbone skull

He came to me, unbidden as always, in a dim library I have dreamt of before on several occasions. Sunlight bravely slanted through half closed draperies to drift in dusty puddles against the wooden floor. I am sitting at a long, low table with my head in my hands and propped over a book of saints. Its pages are full of bloody and colourful illustrations, my mind is full of incongruous questions. He leaned against the table, all graceful lines and sharp angles, with one leg propped elegantly against a chair. I peered up at him warily as he smiled down on my face.

"Poppet," he said. "You won't find the answers you're seeking in that dry, old tome." Leaning over, he tapped his two fingers against brittle paper pages, his index finger covering the impossibly serene face of St. Lucy. "You'll find them in here." His fingers rose to lightly brush the delicate skin of my forehead. "Work for it and they will come to you."

I scowled and pulled away from his touch. "Sir, it would be improper of me to begin spewing profanity at you in this place, though I feel an immense urge to. Therefore I will just say, quite plainly, that I have indeed been working for it and it eludes me still. Your insinuations of my famed laziness are annoying, at best."

He puffed a long breath of exasperation at me, the ever suffering teacher to the dunder headed pupil! He dropped his hand, which had remained in the air at my eyes' level, back to the book and began flipping back through the pages. The pages sang softly of his irritation.

Finally, he stopped their song and placed one finger directly under the entry he was looking for. "There," he said. "That is what you wish to know, though it pains me immeasurably that one of my ti fey could be so very thick-headed at times." He moved his hand from the book and slid it into an inner pocket of his suit, removing a folded over length of dark linen and laid it over the open pages.

I unrolled it to find finely made instruments, glinting sharply in the failing light. "The enterotome," he whispered. "The scissored hemostat. A long handled scalpel. All of these things and more can be found in her sword." He reached across the table to where a copy of Gray's Anatomy sat, long ago cast aside by some other furrow browed and frowning occupant of the library. Sliding it next to the displayed tools, he said "This book can be found in her bible." He stood from the his place at the table and walked behind me. Silence filled the room for such a length of time, that I imagined him gone. Then his voice swam against my ear, a smooth shadow. "And the calla may be found in her cloverleaf. Oh, my poor girl. I know you have been having a rough time of it, but your brain needs to wake itself again."

A small touch to my flaming cheek and he was gone again, as quietly as he had come.

I closed my eyes and impatiently shoved aside florid embarrassment, opening them again when I was sufficiently calm enough to read what he had so graciously pointed out. I scanned it once quickly, then again at a more leisurely pace. And a large grin began to spread across my face.

Some questions had indeed been answered and clarity was now shed on so many other notions that had once been previously and painfully obscured.