Her water-glass nearly empty, amethyst and heavy at this time of night, she set it down to the cloth – like a clean, dry brush on a blank sheet of un-gessoed cotton paper. The altars of summer gone; swept away by suddenly-decided hands. Dried flecks of petals, shaken out. The summer plantings only yesterday being central, now sent into corners. The intensity of the flow is now gone underground.
Time for dreaming. Time for integrating the experiences of summer into the newness of life that is created during winter’s quiet and dim. Gently guided into reflection by the earth’s turning.
Healing-pain is the pain that comes from healing. Healing is the result of the pain of knitting together newly-created life to create overall newness and it taking part inside of a wholeness. It hurts to be born. It hurts to renew. Everything good hurts. Everything good hurts.
I doodled tonight whilst listening to tons of music. My mind was soooooo in the flow – not of making art any more than it was just about tripping through my mind because my mind was wandering. Crazy to get two powerful lessons this weekend so far. Intense.
What a good day. Simultaneously rested and got so much shit done. How? What a strange-good day!
If I had to pick the song of the day/evening/night, I cant. But this is the song the day began with and then the last song I listened to before saying “goodnight”:
“Kill yourself by reinventing yourself”. And I might add that I am scared to watch myself die. I know that everyone is afraid of their own death who don’t believe in Jesus – and maybe even then, some of them are.
A love song.
To send a letter, well-received, to be read in earnest by the other, no questions answered. I mean, no questions asked.
Yesterday was lovely, it really was. I left the family with Adam, saying “I had the best time”. And I meant it, I really left absolutely gifted by their words, their love (and their love for me, which I felt without any effort). “That girl’s positive energy is infectious”, said Brenda quoting a stranger’s comments about me from this time we bumped into each other at the grocery. It felt like being dunked in cold water, in the best, most peaceful way.
I went to the desert yesterday, because I was laying down, not feeling so well and envisioned myself in the golden sun sitting atop a blue mountain in a thick, fleece-lined hoodie. I parked at the edge of the reserve and walked on into the golden lands. I cried a little, I thought about those not here and those not there. I hurt for myself and I hurt for other people. It’s been a long while since I visited this spot. The place knows me and it accepts me – elementals, I suppose. The light was just perfectly beautiful. Golden, truly just gold and metal. Softened indigos and wing-blue. Cold earth, warm sun.
My mind began to wander, set free from the constraints of endless little foci, and attempts at problem-solving. Its very important to do things that allow my my mind to wander.
I met this tree I don’t think I ever visited or saw, or just don’t remember. How could I not remember this tree? So near the road – relatively. An area I know I’ve walk-in/near. A rare cottonwood in the fucking desert and I not know it? Anyway. Signs said to keep out; the concrete picnic table that looked like it hadn’t been used even once, was smashed in half near the hill where the tree lived. I slinked in via the dry creek bed. The reeds, the creekbed, made me understand this was the perfect place for my own murder and that I was foolish, in a way, to ever come out here alone. I’d taken my flimsy, purple work backpack, not my “I know how to take care of myself” backpack – the one that has my knife in it. Anyway, GOD DO I DIGRESS. I AM SO SORRY. Anyway…
I met this tree. It was a privilege to be there and be quiet with it in this special, god-filled place, unique on earth and in heaven.
I am cold in my house, and that means the next season, the season of Cold is upon us here on Earth. Here now, in the Golden Dawn of every Next and Now called The Beginning of Everything in time next to the Sun. (We aren’t under the sun only. We are next to the sun always, just the same as under. Think about it. What if we are above It and its light is just beaming up from below?) We’re only really positioned in space and time in such a way we can only understand…
I am a matured and interesting New Bird and Branch of Life. Always dividing (fractal).
I don’t indulge in more of what I could/should. I don’t understand one who anything about it, neither the how nor what or why of how this all works. I know better than to spend my time worrying about it (though I’m still working on that – which is the same practice as “letting go”. It’s ok to spend my life working on it, but if I could venture out more, it could be better. More fun. There is a difference, and that’s a good lesson to remember.
I still have the dead flowers on the table. I know how to admire what has passed since and is never gone. It’s true, the whole thing just sort of folds into itself; growing, evolving, changing, dying, morphing, then branching off into two points of wholeness, surrounded by consciousness. It’s a whole thing.
I have adored my table of late. The dead and the reviving. Nothing dying – only in between. I have very much enjoyed it and wish I could share it with more people – the feelings and the vignette of experience.
Flowers are dead at what point of being plucked off the vine?
We are innocent and wonderful. We are the innocent beasts, the pets of angels. Doomed to die, blessed to live, tormented by it all. You can not not affect reality. You, one, anyone, affect reality. You simply do so, just via your existence as you spring forward, like an arrow, through time. The reaction of the world is proof of your effective existence. Each person draws forward what they perceive to be the best choice. But, “the best” is always 100% subjective. Don’t ever stop. I don’t think we do ever stop.
I’m obsessed with the objects in my house and how light (both natural and artificial) plays on them. I take a ton of pictures of just these spaces, and these objects. Somehow it is as if my house is filled by…I don’t know…I think maybe anyone can see it? They are images that I think will always represent some particular space and time, including all complications.
I’m thinking I want to open a business being a back-scratcher. Like, back-scritchies. I’d be like a hooker, but no sex – only scritchies and scratching. I could get fake nails I would sterilize like tools after each session. The person could just watch a movie or just lay there or sit there or whatever and afterward I’d say “how was it” and he/she’d say “you nailed it” and we’d both laugh and I’d say “ok, that was good, here’s a free rim-job” and they’d say “I’m a cop and you’re under arrest” and I’d say “but it’s for free, I’m doing it as a good samaritan”, and they’d say “just kidding, I’m not a cop, and if I were, you’re too cute-icle to go to jail”. We’d both laugh and I’d say “See you next time, Pepe”. And he’d wink and say “until we meet again, Jen Crow”. And then to his/her shock, I’d turn into a crow and fly out the window, soaring above the power lines, wondering if sushi sounds good, listening to the whoosh of traffic – thinking about stuff like that.
I love how the table has changed. It was a delight to pay attention to, to focus on its changing beauty. It’s life and death.
I am an interesting person. This existence is beyond us.
We 100% have ourselves, some of the time and we don’t control when. Sometimes we have to do running jumps.
In art, there are different purposes for which it exists. Perhaps it exists to serve. To express the experiential nature from a unique version of some creation of the universe. It doesn’t necessarily try to invent but it does try to express – but shit, it isn’t an illustration of life. It isn’t meant to.
It is a beautiful thing, life. So much is seemingly wasted, but is it? Was it ever wasted? Is that even possible? We humans, ever so greedy for more when we are living in an experiential paradise! There’s more than enough time for everything.
A WARM FALL (so far). I am loving it. Cherishing it. So peaceful.
Oh, I’m thinking of making a zine! I wish I’d thought to do them as a teenager. Omg. I’m going to tuck away in soft and smart activities this winter.
I cannot express my experience as well as I’d like. It wouldn’t matter if it did not matter that I express it. It is painful not to sound out, in symbol, what it is that this all means to me or feels like.
For me, it is a complicated, scary, confusing thing with moments of incredible joy at connecting and something really helping people heal in a way that is magical and unbelievable, yet totally real and deeply, soulfully felt. But, like the stages of grief, none are ever really forever gone just through the experience of them. they come up in waves and throughout all seasons and all the years. Repeating both in joy and terror. That’s really what it feels like for me. Being alive and spiritually practicing is very hard for me. Pain really throws me off my game – and yet it is the game.
Look what I got for my (early) birthday present:
It is painful not to be heard or felt all the time. Overly connected to it all and a lot of that has to do with the interference of my thinking, my personal reasoning. “What’s the fun if you can’t share what you’ve found” (from some Low Roar song – can’t recall which one, which is so stupid to love something but to not be able to explain why because what is nameless having a name for its parts be unknown and requiring full invention to perform or convey). Confusing, I know. My heart absolutely aches, like a stroke victime whose visions have not betrayed him, but his mouth has.
It feels like a betrayal for me to just let this go. Like, it would be immoral to cut this part of me off and out. Like it is more than just me in here. And I know I suffer for it and shall continue to suffer from it. I purposely and with intention, hang on here. Maybe it is just because I don’t want to be somebody else just yet.
until then, I stay on these roads.
Sunday Edit: I dreamed we were playing a game with a group of friends (and loved ones). In a place that was familiar, but not “home” to me, yet I felt safe-enough. Anyhow, you were there, and in your presence, I just could not stop myself from my own tender feelings toward you. I leaned in and with such gentleness we kissed. I said softly, “I love you.” To my humble delight, you gently said, “I love you, too.”
Due to the game mechanics, a live-action type of thing, it could not be that I would ever be next to you. To my surprise you made it happen anyway, though it caused for a scary, dangerous drive where you had the wheel but not the brakes or gas. Somehow, through that magic that is your talent, we sailed with wicked speed down the highway crowded with traffic and construction, weaving in and out of the breakdown lane.
My whole day is colored with this dream, and I am convinced it has connected me to feeling more loved in this world.
Today is the day, coincidentally, that the Ashes are turning golden. I have a lot of peace as the doves circle above in a blue sky on a warm fall day; protected by a shroud of leaves, my cat and my man and I lazing about. But in this dream I have returned, profoundly moved and stirred as gently as I was when I was asleep and with you. Hoping it was a visitation and somehow a peaceful bridge has been crossed by us both, having mutual understanding and peace simultaneously.
A shared experience and mutual awareness. Lost treasure.
We should market pills. Sui-ci-dol. Placebos – candy, even. A gift of love one can give to themselves or to someone they may be concerned about.
How could I possibly ever kill myself? I’m too funny to die. The world needs me in it.
My dad wants to live to be 90 so he can be there for all of us. I never really believed he could, but it occured to me that he will – and I was shocked at knowing that. One of the strangest things to happen internally for me in a long while. It was a good shock. Imagine bad shocking news and now imagine good shocking news – it was like that.
I’ve learned it is not going to work out in favor for me if I continue to write things on drawings. Writing only goes with illustration; it does not go with higher fucking art you will ruin if you continue to fucking write on it.
I hate myself? Never. I only ever hate my personality. I’m a shit, a really shiny shit. A Fucking Bore who hates other people. I can do better.
She is loving and kind. She cries for people who need something extra in their life at that moment that will strengthen and encourage them and make them feel safe and important – because she knows these truths and one of her gifts is the ability to Give Lovingly. A wholesome embrace from a Good Woman. (Women are the gift that keeps on giving, after all). Ashamed of the tears when others see how much I care. I am an injured child who knows how to heal Others – most powerfully with strangers. Someone who can only be (someone else) when with strangers. Someone who lives from the inside-out (I wouldn’t change a thing).
My poetry is trash because my genius killed off all my worker bees, and all that’s left is a big pink triangle and some weird fucking shit from the 90’s.
Guys, let’s just skip to the fucking part where this shit-show stops and we go home to breakfast and laze-about in the freshness of the morning?
Put on the timer and sat down to draw, by force of will. I loved it. It must be a daily thing. The timer, the forced sit-down. I turned something that already existed into something better and it filled my body with delight. My hands feel good. The light is brighter. It was also important that I put on calming music (the spa/new-age type that really calms and invites light).
What was so good about the picturesque farm life is the balance of cozy structure compared to the outside wilderness; The handmade sweetness and depth – compared to, but including – the wondrously industrial and valuable.
It’s not a lot, this post. I know. But I want to put it out here and let it go.
PLEASE, PLEASE LISTEN TO THIS SONG:
Sweet songs bring me back to soft selves. Where our gazes met and we admired the same things. Whatever is in front of us, well, we are lead there – we follow. But as we go, we pink pick roses and yellow wildflowers, to carry with us for a while – as a symbol of beauty reflected by life and by living.
Glorious, glorious Fall weather. My spirit is so close to the Earth and light is so very crystal.
A surprise visit with Cam at what used to be her old house, now her daughter’s. The Record Room gone, but I accepted it immediately, though it is gone forever and shall never be again – like everything else.
It was a sacred, grey space. The dusky light giving all of it a fuzzy, dim, old television look. A very quite place with no music, no television, nothing but a big grey Pitbull named Frederick, and a tan and white cow-patched 6 month old Pitbull puppy named Rosie, who was barely keeping herself restrained from puppy-mania. Anyway, it was extremely simple, highly effective therapy. We shot the shit in a – how strange it was… 4 hours. She didn’t want anything but to talk. We talked and we talked.
***Put in the shroom book:
Solve for x.
Make a circle of beauty and light and invoke protections. Safe places. Bless the house.
We’re connected to the same consciousness.
It’s a strange time for me.
I’ll be back when I’m back. You know how I am. I’ll just suddenly appear, and you’ll be angry – when you’re the one who summoned me here.