To forget and have peace, or, remember and suffer. The drama of my inner narrator is driving me insane. The sane answer is to forget. To let die and to thus die – to be born anew. I owe it to myself to rest in peace. But I can’t. I have no control over this. And I can’t leave. I am simply, for some reason, required to be here.
So, here I am, a criminal. Writing on the walls of my cell. Going to my job. Coming home to visit with my loved ones.
The time of the underworld is nigh!
Soon comes the Fall!
Soon come the long-sleeves and the pumpkin bread with butter!
A Note From Earlier This Year After A Trip. It’s better than I remember (woke from the dream and now discerning its meaning. As crazy at it may seem, anything and everything we can interpret from the Nightmare/Dreaming
When you find the gold, you know you’ve found the end. This reward ends this adventure and you will enjoy the spoils for quite some time afterward, but it is the end of the adventure. The adventure turns into thought upon the fortune. Doors walked through and closed behind. Transformed are we, into a monarchy of pride over our achievements; claims of rights and revolution always the way of overriding excess and imbalance.
Sometimes I do have control over our underworlds.
Today Was Magical. I mean, really it was. Captain saw the spirits – I could NOT believe his body language. He meowed at me like, “I am asking you a fucking question (with shock, wonder, fear and awe). What is going on here?” and unwilling to leave until demands of an answer met, he locked his eyes with mine. He looked incredibly concerned. He came up to my side, meowed again. Again, the urgency for my response. I said, “It’s ok Captain. They are invited guests. I want them to be here”. He looked at the beings (or lights, or geometic glows experienced only through cat-vision…perhaps we won’t know for a thousand years).
Your heart is like a magical animal in a cage. It must be fed, or it will die. If you neglect to feed it and it dies,
Like a prisoner coming back to the unit after a glorious visitation do I exit my door, out in to the world, each morn).
Clarity is so important that it makes people cry sometimes when they receive it. I would like to cry. I would like to cry hard.
I feel tired. I feel needy. Oh god, how long is this going to go on?
So don’t push it. Try – no, really try – to be positive in life. Try to see the beauty in others even when you’re sick from the sweet and syrupy doses. Sick from routine and regularity. Sick from predictability. The magnificent few being out-shined by the bright lights of monster trucks. The struggle to talk over the inane as someone passes by who is smart and sane.
I have a lot of really shitty things to say, and I want to say them. But I believe so strongly in my responsibility as a force, not just of ego but of Light, that I really have to stop myself here and choose goodness over badness; choose the light over the dark – it’s better, its stronger, it’s bigger, it is more-than.
We exist (in space). Our bodies are peripherals connected to our programming, connected to our hardware, connected to electricity, connected to a Power Station. The creator of the Power Station is The User. (This is one way of describing what it is we are, are a part of, and how we are related and connected to it – and maybe shows how we can better communicate with it.
All anything is is relation and connection. There aren’t any other things, are there? Obliteration isn’t a thing. It can only describe a past, even a past being described in the future, and the future doesn’t exist, so…or does it. I really don’t know anything of value. My life is a wasteland and I wish I were dead, but someone just said “depression is when you really really need to let go and rest”. That sounds so right and good. I need to get away from the sources of agony: the news, the routines, the paying-attention-to of idiots.
What a fucking year.
I really need this vacation, this change-up. I want to feel safe and wanted. I’m too old to care about so much shit and be so ruled by my feelings. Is it too late to change? I hope to see that I can be flooded and washed clean by new experiences (rooted tightly in the safe personalities of other animals like myself). Oh god, humanity, humanity. Holy shit is it bonkers rn. wtf mf’s? wtf.
If I would do right by myself, I would do these two things: I would make my office/art space into a lounge. Sell my computer. Buy a very good tablet, for which to draw upon (I don’t even have a clue what is out there anymore. I would probably succumb to an apple something-or-other with the focus on its drawing capabilities and then ask Doug for help learning how to use it). And also a couch and make that room I’ve been fantasizing about. Here, this one! :
A place for me, in my own home it is separate and full of memory objects.
I have this new journal (since I finished my last one). I love the paper and knew it was perfect; plus it was a gift from the Russian Co-worker (hahaaa she would murder me for saying it. She is from Bosnia – or what once was: she was there for the bombings and devastation; it is why she emigrated here) and I adore it. Like I said, smooth, thin lines of pale navy blue; thin paper, like in a bible. Generous quantity of pages. A whole future. Anyway, i was just writing in there, out of the grief of boredom (I could die of it some hours) and could not just put to the back of my mind one more time that the writing/paper/book/dark-ink was a problem. It wasn’t working, I felt cramped and felt confined within it. I honestly felt like crying at the truth, that it wasn’t working and I felt my body hunch while understanding the distance of time tilltheend of this book…
…Then I thought about it and really asked myself: what can be done here? Write larger? Give up the now-lost and floating journal that consisted only of End-of-August/Beginning-of-September (are you laughing here? am I driving you nuts? I wish I knew.)? But, I really had an epiphany: Change the pen, the writing instrument. The ink to rich, too black, too bleedy and stroke too wide. Change the pen. Write using another instrument, and lighter pen, a thinner ink, a pale
I miss being obsessed with Bibio’s ‘Curls’. I grieve lost feelings. Reveling in the richness of past stimulations, community of self amongst other selves and other places are alchemical in themselves, no? Chemistry. Being forever changed. Not having the technique or technology to undo what is changed. Eternal unfolding is the key to peace.
I miss reinforced belief.
It’s a soft and strange Saturday early evening. Where is this going? What is this weird (very weird and spaced feeling…?) I feel like I’m waiting at a bus stop for something my guardian angels won’t give me the slightest clue about. No compulsion to pull a tarot card for psychic-or-otherwise inspiration for Truth-telling? It’s like I’m too lazy to know, but really its because I already know and I am waiting. I can’t even really do anything for anyone else right now. I am very confused by that…
I may just be in a Resting Period.
Honestly, that’s the answer, right there.
I just really fucking hate surrendering my consciousness to rest. My potential, surrendered to nothingness. But then, it also brings about beautiful expressions, such as this! Such as music like this song above. Reflecting is also what it is. Time to reflect and make choices about lifestyle and personality. Yes, there’s a lot going on here, really, Jen. What has more potential than the moment prior to change?
It hurts so much sometimes, to write between the lines. (sadness; grief from loss, sadness underlying all hatred and resentment is the reality. Acceptance of it all is the sword of peace).
Gone forever is the past, yet here I am, reliving and reliving and reliving in it. Also, however, is an alternate version of myself, living in the future. Beneath me, a cat curling itself against my leg to let me know he is here, waiting to be petted. Me, wanting to do everything else except pet it. Why am I, anyway? It’s ridiculously funny. (In that trip, the one that was a clear kind of fucking psycho-dream-wrapped truth.
I know I’m being very wordy lately. And to whom should I apologize?
A song is a place to meet, at any time and at any place. A vibrational frequency which can exist inside an Other Dimension – a place in time; Where ghosts of the living can separate from their bodies and enter into awareness of the other – yes, in different Space and Time.
Yes, maybe even individuals a thousand years apart.
What is doom anyway? Let’s see:
Did you know you can drown in your personality? Did you know you could drown in the personality of others? I’ve been drowning all week. I’m tired. All is well, but oh god am I so happy the season is changing. The evenings will be dark and lit by amber lights; the daylight will bring prisms from my hanging crystals. I’ll make cookies. We will make stews. We will hike and eat out more. I will hope for regular dreams wherein we meet up and wish each other well.
Is there anyone with any bit of authority in America or are we just tongue biters afraid of our immediate bosses? —Ancient Cataclysms
You know, all this stuff about laziness and shit. Fuck those slave-drivers. Fuck them to tell us how much work is enough. I deserve to have enough to survive, you mother-fuckers. I deserve to have enough time to be interested in public service and for fighting for my rights. Enough time to be away from people which will allow me to reach my full potential for “weird”.
God gave you one tongue and two ears, so you would listen twice as much as you speak (a likeable saying, and rhymey, so that’s fun. But it’s a bunch of bullshit, like everything else under the sun).
This morning, live, I watched a pixelated storm, coming to deliver promised devastation. I got bored. Tired of waiting, I smoked some pot, and felt better knowing I needed to take that shower right after I clean and rearrange the balcony. Going to give it a good pre-Fall clean, move some things. I’m wearing my new pajama pants (for Fall/Winter) but they’re so flippin’ cozy I am going to go outside in them even though it’s 108f in the sun.
Ugh, I assossiate pain with the heights of living. On some level, I always miss pain when it’s gone. It’s a sick world inside me, but pretty cool, too. My spiritual life is the true reality – the most full way of being I can have. I am quite sure not everyone has a spiritual life of some kind. How can that be? How can that not be? I think a big problem we all have here are the expectations and limits we place on other people. We cripple them from delivering the beauty they are soon coming to give us (are giving) …oh shoot, lost my train of thought.
I’m going on a trip soon, and I cannot wait to see it/it, feel it/them, share the experiences and beauty and shared personalities. What will I be writing about it in the future? What pictures will I marvel at and in many years be so glad I took? Will the weather suit (hoping it will be cool or cold, even)? It would be heaven if it could have gray skies and red-orange leaves.
Baby, I find it hard to believe we’re in Heaven.
I need to reconnect with the Other Side, and soon. ‘Tis the season and boy, can I feel it. I miss the structure of chaos
They should make music-less versions of movies for people who either a) think the music takes away-from; or b) its over-stimulating and the movie could be more focusly felt by the music being gone. You can have too much fog, in other words.
I’m going to publish this, too soon.
I can really sense winter. Winter will be intense and beautiful.
Not to Cigarettes After Sex, but I danced and stretched my body to music tonight. It was exactly good for me. I just close my eyes and dance like I do -when I allow the spirits who love to dance access to my body – and…and I follow along to what they’re showing me how to do. And its wonderful.
Dare I say I feel my life is somehow upward and positive? Even amongst all the truly Awful?
I am aware that most of my experience of life is inside me. But to change the experience is to change the self, and that means a kind of death of personality. It means the loss of someone we know and love – us. But the total opposite of that is true, too. So interesting and so fucked.
Whatever your pleasures depend upon, that is your master. Therefor, any man that wishes to please that of which he wishes to possess, must master that said-thing’s happiness.
I have ideas that men and women are extraordinarily different from one another. I think individuals are extraordinarily different from one another, but why… Oh, hmm. We float over an abyss of dark chaos. We think we are flying in space, but we are being pushed-forth, by some Object behind us, yet also surrounding us.
I am afraid to die. You know why? Because I don’t like to not know where I am going and also what it is going to be like. I want to know the end. And the amazing part is that I’ve seen this again and again, like a thousand times.
I’m having a cold moment, but it somehow feels good. I think because it is emotional and dark, yet I know I am safe. Somehow safe from it all that which would/could drive me mad and over the edge. Oh, Ben Howard, he fucking nails it.
I like this, I’d like to keep this post. Someday to look back and see an honest and true representation of a specific, isolated, point in my life. I don’t need to feel guilty about being this way. I am loved and I love those people, even when I don’t. Others, enslaved to my Self, are in good and mutual company.
I want to say to the world: Answer me.
My curse is sadness.
There’s a filter on SnapChat that murdered me from laughing. It makes you look like you are fucking crying and it is SO good. ((Aww, shoot, I can’t upload videos unless I upgrade, so nah. Maybe someday.))
So, here are some beautiful synonyms for my confusion (because now I think I know, but I’m not sure):
a deep stillness a continued quiet an enduring speechlessness a great soundlessness a prolonged stillness a far-reaching hush
It’s very important that people start teaching what they love. Teach. The question for me is: What do I love? When I was a child, I was somehow also fully grown; we come to life being so self-aware and exponentially growing that is seems (or is) an invisible (and non-material…!!! !!!!! !!!omg omg omg, I love writing.
Maybe I should work on becoming a better writer. I would like to write books about being alive and illustrate them. With photographs, with drawings. Maybe only occasionally music. For my blog, yes, music I’m loving in the moment is crucial to memory-keeping. But for my separate, give it to the world when its done kind of book-making kind of thing.
I should bring my aromatherapy oils to work to share with the other girls. They could be quite brightened by the aromas. Deb gave these to me – to us; she dropped them off on her way home from Earth.
Don’t snack; and, don’t eat after dinner. Why must we control ourselves from having too much goodness in life? Because our bodies aren’t built to stop us from killing ourselves with how much “fun” is out there to be had. we are so inundated with bounty that we are totally on overdrive and we hate it and we can’t stop.
I think this has become an interesting journal. It’s been coming along for some time now. I made it! If this was the last post ever, I’d feel I made something that is “whole”.