Who are we?
Who are we? Who is anyone, really? Who are you? Are you sure you know? I’ll start with the name I am called by, that is, Veronica Speedwell. But that tells you practically nothing about me. I suppose it’s also part of my identity that I am a gardener, and that I live in a community, the Post Rock Limestone Caryatids, with other people who would be considered by many to be misfits, though, when we are together, we live a rich and purposeful life, as cohesive as any community.
And community is in short supply, in this time, which you would call the future. Yes, I inhabit a time which has yet to come to pass, and probably never will. But before you think, “Oh, she’s not real!” please note that in the mind of our author, we are very real. Not that she doesn’t know the difference between us and the physically embodied people of her mundane life; she has a firm grasp upon that concept. But perhaps to some people, the world of imagination, story, and archetype can be experienced as vividly as the material one. At the beginning of our story, Rachel thought she’d made us up, but later, she noticed she was more listening to, and transcribing, our words, than writing them; more watching our stories unfold, than shaping them to her will. And so, who we are, nobody knows yet; we’ll all have to watch, and read, to find out.
You’ll want to know more about Rachel, our author. Who is she? She’s 46, she’s a mother of two, married and living with her family on the premises of a 1950s-style motel in Strong City, Kansas. She’s been a massage therapist for more years than anyone bothers to count, though it doesn’t seem like so long ago since she was drifting, serving vegan pizza at a health food store in Chicago, playing violin on the streets of Eugene, Oregon, studying Women’s Studies and Sociology at Knox College, trying to figure out who she was, beyond her name, Rachel Creager Ireland.
Do you have a question for me, or Rachel, or do you want to be informed directly of our activities? By all means, yes.