Dear Universe,
Come with me. I will take you with me on a journey, the destination of which may be a surprise, indeed. We are headed north, and that is a spiritual journey the likes of which have been repeated beyond number. In a darker and earlier century of my birth country’s life, men kept other men as slaves. Hairless monkeys were kept in cruel captivity all their lives, beaten, raped, and treated to the worst indignities one monkey has ever shown another. Did not these hairless monkeys realize that they were in fact defining a hairless monkey as one who not only deserves such ignoble treatment, but one who is willing to enact them to those of his own kind? But, I digress; the world keeps turning, and eventually because of the countless acts of kindness and courage, the hairless monkey learns.
But, in that time, before the learning, many monkeys followed their fellows to the north toward freedom. And when there was no one to show them the way in the darkness, they followed the drinking gourd. We take such a journey. We need to, although most of the hairless monkeys about have not even stopped to think about it. Ironically, that’s just why we need it. We are trapped in the illusion. We run, like ratmonkeys through mazes, afraid to stick our head up to see what lies beyond. Heck, we can’t even stop long enough in our scurry to wonder if what awaits us at the end of the maze is even worth pursuing. We need freedom, freedom to choose real alternatives, to choose life over planetary destruction, to choose priorities that doesn’t cater to some imaginary market, made from imaginary currency, but deals with the current of life as it whisks us, prepared or panicked, toward the future.
So, my love, we will go north. The disc is the symbol for the north, for the disc is the world, our mother earth. Earth is the element, and there if we are careful and quiet, if we still the clamor of our neurotic egos for a moment, we just may feel the heartbeat of the great mother. The Earth is alive, and she is calling to her children to come back to her. The peoples of the north, the Primals are the first to proudly heed that call.
The Primals embody the spirit of our ancestors, the free souls who stood with their feet on the ground and their heads lifted in awe at the sky. They seek connection, with the world, with each other, living in clans, tribes and families that care for each other, look out for one another. To the Wildmen and the Mothers of the Primal Tribes, all things in the world are family. They welcome these relatives of bird, animal, plant and stone and thank them for taking their place among them. It is only when the Primals forget this connection to the earth, to each other, to the very spark inside of them, will disaster occur. Many have forgotten their very nature as spark-bearers, and this forgetting leads to a kind of fear that kills.
The Primals, as stewards of the north, must hold onto this understanding of their connection that has been taught to us by our Mother Earth. For now, I see that this journey north is a re-connection with our Primal being, connected to all things, the earth, the ancestors, and each other. It is a return to innocence, where love is the bind that brings forth life and protects it.
The Primals are alive, and want to touch, explore, and experience. They are the most sensual of the people of the wheel. They move through the world with a delight in the push and pull the physical world. They hoot their challenge to every mountain, and dive deepest into the world’s waters. You will know the Primals for their attitude. The Primals from times past used to proudly account for their years by pronouncing how many winters they had survived, and not just survived, but thrived in with a laugh set against the winds.
If the primals forget this great connection, which is love, which is you, my dear, they will be consigned to live in yesterday’s world of darkness and suffering. But, should they remember, they will go out and meet you with a proud wave. These free peoples will push the limit of what hairless monkeys were thought able to do. They will experience you with wide open eyes. Their wonder will wipe away any conflict, hardship or heartache.
The wildman will not stay. He will be a savage or the dignity of liberty will transform him into a free man. The mother will be celebrated and cherished as the source of all good things, or she will suffer and eventually be lost to us.
These Freemen and Freemothers will then take us with them to every nook and cranny of this world and show us and say, “See this, this is good, let us respect it.” They will teach, protect, and nurture us along the way. We will take what is harvested and honed from the wilderness of their own hearts, and we will know that it is good, for it is grown with love.
And, so, sweet universe, we have come full circle, and our little dance is done. Now, don’t pout, I have a treat in store for you. It is actually a gift.
Very soon, I shall tell you of all of the many types of Robots, Superstars, Aliens and Wildmen. We shall stroll hand in hand through the halls of the Empresses, the Princesses, the Witches, and the Mothers. But, know that I am not a psychologist. I’m an amateur mythologists; I study stories, but more than that, I am that peculiar type of mythologist called a writer. I make sense of my world through stories, those that I have cherished, and those that come spilling out of me, when I silence my self and set myself to the task of entertaining you, my dear.
Thus, I give this paradigm of peoples to you, so that other writer’s may use it. I hope that it might be even the slightest help to them in creating stories that I, my children, and my children’s children will enjoy. If any hairless monkey should find these letters and find themselves described in these very words therein, perhaps then they, too, will be all the better at telling the story that is their life.
What is their life, but the story of you and they? What is mine, but a love letter (so may it be) to (you) all that is.
Love,
Trav
T. L. Barrett 
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