Under the Influence @perstephonebartusisyphus - Tumblr Blog

A part apart.

am a time where a reflection of a turned off light fixture in a window masquerades as a dim golden firefly in an oak tree. Where the farts of yesterday have become rancid from not resting. From discovering and feeling the scouring pad of a full moon brush the folded recesses of the psyche and turning it out in the multiflora of the gut.

Somethings not quite attuned at the moment, say the dimensional languaging of the higher-self prospect. 4.33 am allowing, oh pardon, granting permission to the automatic formatting of this word program somewhat guide how this piece of dredged out fartery is going to turn out, format-wise, and 4.33 am keen to the curiosity of where this will lead, so the aimless typing is coming along so there's no directed portal of consciousness to align with to direct the attention in the cauldron of words, bubbling under the fire of some distant creation emerging like old starlight onto the skies of the mind.

Now is moth-minute, fluttering around the secluded monastery that has been made for a previously dissociated sense of registering a self that can be described with words. Looking at the contents of the current structures in the moment of coagulating together to gather up what has previously fomented into some ingredients to get cooking, combining,creating, stirring, again. Shaking some things up in a corridor that had become dusty, right the woo-woo core-i-door of a part apart has recently renimated, bursting through the fluttering heart of the moth pacing. It's pretty neat a moth can pace with its wings beating flutters electromagnetic frequency to electromagnetic frequency.

What's on the floor, some soil sodden clothing that don't make it to the laundry cause their current comfort is in the wearing and building of the sunshine and the soil and the rain into their fabrics, acyrlic how in the moth brain does one spell acrylic what the fuck does that even mean other than in this associative bin oh “plastic” pitched together from old plastic bottles manufactures and rewoven together in some... maybe say structure or building, but is likely a post-modern nightmare of manufacturing and labor of the hands and hearts of people far away, churning out bottles into tshirts and of all ironies putting print of a planet on it Earth Now!

And some sticks poking out next to the clothes that were originally undertaken as an intuitve meditation, picked from the trash after a house was being turned to be flipped and that usually means the previous tenant or homeowner or deed holder or whatever this beuracracy shuffles in its papers to say something dedicated, also means turning over the previous human spending time in that space over some period of time on this planet likely has some plants and relationship with those plants, and in the case of these plants, unfortunate forsythias who had been let loose to bloom got shaped into those flat cube like orderliness that seems so peculiar in nature. Box forsythias haha, so I picked up the trash that were more like twigs and got them in a cart and walked them to the earth I has dug out to build raised beds and laid the branches into the depressions I dug to build up the mounds because I didn't have much dirt because it was all grass. Shaking the soil off the grass onto the branches, and the mound raised pretty quickly but there was lots of leftover green branches because the plants got pruned right before they burst so there is now wonderfully amusing forsythia coming up out of the mound amidst the intentional plantings. So I imagined I'd make some baskets with what didn't get used for building beds, but now I mostly use the sticks to prop up houseplants.

On the couch there is a drop spindle that is currently in the process of spinning some wool from a class. There are many yards of this wool left to spin, and have ben finding my focus is best for about 9 yards at a time, just in time to get into a flow, but then tired or distracted by any number of the common creeping anxieties that sometimes come up in the process of cooking.

An unmade bed that's easy to make becasuse all that needs to happen is to take the blanket and put it in a basket right by the bed, and before tussing it out for some sleep or if not sleep, some shut eye or a little walk in the park behind the close of the eyes, putting out the blanket and spritzing it with some water and rosemary. On the armstand of the couch, a baking tray and a glass plate of drying linden tree flowers awaiting to be jarred up. Remembering the bath from the two days previous of steeping in bathwater witth a tea made from the flowersand coming out of the water feeling like a little green leafed tongue, sensistive and excited about the night to come. A dream journal filled with nightly adventures from 2013 on, and upon opening and reentering the dreamscapes, checking out the murmurs to which the spirit unfurls its dimensions and tasks to complete. Sometimes feeling like a video game and sometimes feeling too much realer than what happens day to day but perhaps that's escapist, but being in a monastery for the past year or so it feels a if the dimensional texture to the experience of life has shifted to the type of space where dreaming and waking blend to such a degree that there's very little distinction between which is when or how to know. Except that what broughtupon this sleeplessness was actually a dream, and the birds are coming, how sweet their rising and incentive to begin before the sun changes the tune of the energetic harmonica of the hours to come. The dream was about being around lots of carrots, and day before conversations about old dog beginning to crave fruit through discovering a curious pattern of her literally harvesting single carrots to snack on. Somehow pulling up single carrots from a planting to enjoy. And the carrots in the dream were planted all around angelica and queen anne's lace so they could blend in. it's usually miraculous, or at the very least, to refrain from hyperbole, joyous to witness the way some plants growing together take on each other's leaf shape's and textures. At first I smugly surmised it could be because they didn't want to be weeded or pulled by a human, but the more I spend time with the plants the more I'm finding that they just like to learn and share with each other. The coolest leaf blendings/form/shape shifting planting that I visit is with some vinca vine and milkweed. Some of the vinca vine stands erect like the milkweed, and some of the leaves of a couple of the milkweed plants have the similar hues and patterns as the vinca vine. In another dream, there were cherry blossoms that people kept saying were crabapples, and in another that passionflower was mullein, and who was I to contest? So when the milkweed-vinca, and the vinca-milkweed are sharing light, shade density, nutrients, and rainfall, and are obviously letting each other in the known of their ways of being, I lose particularly all interest in trying to describe to anyone what these plants are “useful for” because I feel like I've only just begun feeling the way the light becomes the morning and which flower where sparkles from the inside in the bursting of a particular moment of light with them enough for it to come through me to ask them what they want to be called.

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Birthday Wavelengths Explored

don’t know how to describe what the character the perceptive field of reality takes around my birthday, but there are many impressions, feelings, and nameless associations that when translated into words attempting to communicate broadly, but crystallize inaccurately, come out like a slug turd slowly sliming its shitty trail from the sphincter of existential crisis in capitalism’s peculiar tendency towards isolation into the ether of existence: I SUCK and EVERYTHING SUCKS. But that’s only like a fleck of dust at the zenith of the glimmering cold Aquarian iceberg. That kind of phrase is kind of desperate. Because what can the myriad of responses to something like that be in response to a desire to not feel the way that “I” do?

No you don’t. You’re great, you’re awesome you’re (insert opposite of I Suck here)

And then if that is the choice of expression I use and that is the response I receive, I then in turn shut it down and then get convinced that that was toxic and attention seeking and pathetic.

This is the first year since I was 21 that on feeling the massive machine of the birthday depression hurtling towards and through and in me in torpid motion that I haven’t been using or scaling up my alcohol usage to deal with it, or also actively engaging going into bed and staying there somewhat helplessly amidst a swarm of critical comments thoughts and weighted adversarial comparisons to come take grip pull under in haze until the energy returns to get out of the bed, and then get to the nearest bar and drink it down until the exhaustion and actual need for sleep come in. And not quite deep restful restorative sleep, but what it may feel like to be a computer with no battery life that must be plugged in in order to run that suddenly gets pulled out of the socket and just turns off--that kind of sleep, not knowing when the plug will go back in and not even knowing when to know when just complete cessation of consciousness and contents therein or lack thereof. Mechanical, cause it’s the brain box part, there’s like bumping electrons or a broken neural highway so the glitches and treaded pathways keep gettin’ Groovier, baby. LOL But on a side tangent, that’s also frequently described as one of the parts of the word/sound/ soundword, sacred speak OM the dreamless sleep state of consciousness too.

There’s a petty part of me that keeps needling needling needle picking to stop talking about not drinking like it’s some narrative device to give meaning to my life. Like stop talking about your recovery, you’re just trying to get attention. that’s what it’s saying, anytime I try to make a peep or talk to someone, or the internet lol or anyone about it, except my therapist. like somehow this fucking voice feels okay and gives full permission to my mouth and the rest of my mind to talk about it on the condition that I’m paying someone else to talk about it. And then the battle ensues, the self enquiry, Am I? Is that what I’m doing? It doesn’t feel like that’s what I’m doing, but never know, maybe I am and just don’t know that I am. Writing from this place, today, right now, for a few minutes, I can laugh about it, as I’ve for this scant moment sublimated the needler, and this, this is one of those minor seeming yet major feelings recent skill.

In being sober, I have realized how relentless and multifaceted this shame-complex is, how fragmented and seemingly intelligent yet monotonously banal in its overall messaging it is, the many forms and voices it has, the guises it takes within. I’ve also taken to trying to tap into the expansive objectivity of dissociative states. Yes, I have them frequently, yes, I dissociate less than when in the midst of ongoing trauma, but have also starting to catch the brief time-warp/doorway/wormhole moment when they come on.

I can describe it something like the lucid dreaming training techniques. Like during the day look at hands and count fingers, turn the light switches on or off during the day with conscious observation to the point it becomes a habit and then the theory, successful for many (including myself) but also not a guarantee for every individual, during a dream hands will appear differently lights wont turn on and YOOO this is a dream! It’s kind of like that. Kind of. In that, for me thanks to therapy and lots of meditation and playing with the feelings and experiences of the passages of time as results, knowing activation stations of my emotional body or etheric body to triggers, can pinpoint when a dissociative wave is about to roll in and waiting for the crest of it before it swallows totally, and riding into it somewhat... lucidly.

There’s also in lucid dreaming sometimes or astral projection that the excitement of the awareness may kick or boot the consciousness out of the dream or awareness state altogether, and I’ve found similar to be correct in dissociations, but it’s not of excitement but of awareness. There’s the awareness of moving into a dissociative state for me that dissipates it altogether, but if I want to enter the state itself and use it as a tool to experience, I have to surrender completely to it with no expectations, and establish the emotional memory of this feeling to invoke it once it’s necessary for this purpose. This to me feels different than being swallowed by it at the full expense of experiencing, but I’ve come to an understanding of naming it of sorts, Like I understand this is a state that was originally installed to protect me (at first, and then later, again once no longer needed, became a bit hindering), and I thank it for its service to that endeavor. Then I ask (it’s not with actual words though, it’s with a feeling) if I have permission to be there to join it in observation. In there is a delightful distance from shame indwelling consciousness creatures, they are able to feast upon an avatar of a self, but are not given the psychic energy with which to continue gathering energy.

I have been able to transform them upon returning from these states. I have recently named them the “shit-eating nibblers” i think of the size of the bites they may be taking from me and then I am filled with some sort of affection at how small their teeth are.Because they’re taking bites, they seem to run away really fast after getting their food, and then come back for more later. They may come with a phrase like “You’re weak-willed and arrogant” and take the form of someone who hurt me before, which is such a shit eating spell-curse that becomes more and more true over time, giving them more and more to feast on the longer I let it drag me into bed or pull me from the world, or pick up a drink, name any of the ways in which I could continue to give that matter, be it brain matter, psychic matter, literal withdrawal of life force (by stopping eating altogether or only eating very very sporadically in voracious states of sheer hunger). To me it’s interesting how the associative dissolution of the boundary translates almost automatically into waking life with the material plane. In not wanting to feed them, I don’t eat. I become malnourished. I end up hurting myself to avoid being hurt by them, which is also either some part of myself that is not integrated, or some external unreal thing that I’ve internalized as my own and don’t know what to do with it. So the solution is there, but it’s applied in an unhealthy way.

So there’s multi-tiered approached to this for me. There’s being with a dissociative state, and then there’s also the experience of a depression,which can also be foretold long before it comes into residence within the body. Depression for me has a similar function to hack into and engage with all of this stuff in a way that’s healing. Say I start to feel the urge to drop into the oblivion of my bed at like 1 p.m. on a day off from work these days. Okay, there’s many ways to deal with it.

1) Don’t yield to the temptation to do so. That works out in its own way, sometimes drinking a glass of water, or going for a run. I have to identify whether it’s a temptation to get pulverized by the mechanical teeth of the shit eaters, maybe time to meditate or process etherc exhaustion from the zillions of inputs passing through at any given moment or

2) Try to understand it as an entryway or point of journeying into seeing what needs the attention and what it’s asking for, or what I’m asking for, or exploring any number of things.

In light of 2, there is a “real world” example

I got a text message saying “The world is passing you by.” I was at first confused by it because I’ve been consumed somewhat joyously enough in the contents of my psychic imagination field, exploring it, and engaging it with the hopes to effectually co-create with the divine experience of life (here emerges like crystalline insect the glorious idealism of my aquarian energies and hopes for the world and everyone in it- that we recognize and be in active relationship with that sacred capacity to love and be and create NOW! TODAY! EVERYDAY! ! HOW Gorgeous! And I’m a complete amateur at it), as opposed to say, huh wow, yeah, be taken in by any number of phantasmagoric meta advertising schemes of the manipulators and oligarchs and internalized messaging at large hellbent on destroying the entire planet. Yes, that world is passing me by but I feel like I’ve given it enough of my time. And for someone who’s been called crazy for their entire life, it’s striking me as odd this year in experiencing the willful engagement with (as opposed to say unconscious experiencer OF the unintegrated run amok aspects of myself) and re-animation of my inner landscape, that I usually let that deter me from knowing myself, and therefore, half-aware and becomin half vulnerable to whatever anyone else would say, living in no place fully at all. Hm.

So, the comment I deflected and asked politely to not say something like that to me (because I’m vulnerable to those kinds of statements or spell casts), but it did pass through. Today I made choice number 2, because that statement manifested internally as basically 5 or 6 shit eaters.

At a gardening center I was looking for biodegradable pots to transplant these artichoke seedlings that sprouted on Imbolc. Artichoke are in the thistle family, and the thistles are associated with the planet Saturn, so I experienced their sprouting as an immense joy and nod to and from Saturn, within and without (I can’t get into Saturn right now, because it will be like... okay so... four years ago and then it will be like 90 pages later and I’m already feeling bad for how long this is...) so I am excited to transplant them. I mean going to all the gardening centers and stores for supplies and talking with people about how to get simple things like soil is in some ways a deep blow to my ego because this kind of stuff would be deemed child’s play, but here I am back at square one, navigating the rigamarole of distributive and oppressive networks trying to siphon off everyone’s connection to the earth unless it’s through $$$$$$ facillitation and I’m feeling like such a failure and the world is passing me by (that’s a shit-eater though!!)

I go to call the agricultural extension because I’m hoping to get a load of compost delivered (because can’t make it here cause the neighbors are scared of raccoons and cats coming to an open air pile, so alas, but maybe I’ll get or build a compost turner or start a worm composter in the spring who knows) and I’m determined to find a way to make this delivery of it free of currency cost because where do all of the leaves go in the fall and I’m anticipating pessimistically that the ag extension is going to be a dead end for this (which is an unhealthy outlook to transfer to them) and hopefully they have a distributive network and if I can get it, I can tell other people about it too so they can also get compost to garden, but the phone lines are only open between 9 and noon everyday and I’m depressed because it must not be that busy if it’s only open for three hours a day and climate change and we’re all gonna die and the world is passing me by (that’s a shit eater though!)

I go to a hardware store and find biodegradable pots of the size I’m looking for and radish seeds that are from 2016 and get to the register and the seeds rings up for 10 dollars and I say but theyre two years old though? Turns out they were actually only 50 cents and suddenly im wondering what happens in this distributive network in place with seeds that are still viable (brassicas are viable up to 8 years in ordinary storage conditions) yet deemed old. Do they go into the garbage which gets mixed up with petroleum products and any number of mismanaged alchemy in this world off its hinges on climate change that goes to a landfill or the ocean and gets wasted. Then I’m like thinking of seeds and ovaries and connections to reproductive cycles and trigger and trigger and dissociate and the form of an infant and all of the children in the world who are hungry and the masses of food that goes to dumpsters because nobody paid enough money for it in time and its so infuriating and i am so useless and ineffectual and sad and the world is passing me by (that’s a shit eater though!)

That’s enough examples.

When I got back, I felt like I could hear my bed singing a lullaby and asking me to sink into it to the tune of “The world can pass you by, come sleep” Hesitantly, I go to the bed and lay down and then say Not going to sleep, but I would like to speak with the shit-eaters. So, some breathing, some reiki at the reproductive and heart areas, and then imagining preparing some delicious foods that arent shame or shit and inviting the shit eaters over for dinner. I go on and on about Saturn with them, and at first the majority of their responses are about the world passing me by and me being crazy and not doing enough, and not loving enough, and x, y, z in all of their permutations and the back and forth and the rabbit holes and winding paths and worlds and worlds within. They’re turning into endeavors I’ve been a part of that didn’t work out, jobs that went wrong, people that I fucked up with, but as the meal was shared around and passed around and the movie reel stopped playing in its exhaustive measure that became more like a tired and worn out advertisement for some product thats not even worth buying and turned into yarn to work into a tapestry of a story that is textured and nuanced and still vague, after a couple of hours of yarning and wrestling, I started writing this. So I’m feeling like today, maybe this is the birthday stuff to work out that I was so scared to work out for a long time because I was scarred that I was crazy and maybe so, but I gotta find the way it grows with me, however that may be. For anyone else who may not enjoy their birthday for any number of reasons, this one’s for you too.

#exploringinternalizedshame #birthday #psyche #wakinglife

Last month I was convinced I was going to go to a cow sanctuary wake up at 4.30 and pray everyday, read scriptures and deeply contemplate monastic life, interrupted by cooking service and farm service to learn the science of devotion, no drugs, no booze drugs, no sex. Lol now I'm going into AA. There's some similarity of yearning, but one was escapist but at least circulating in discipline and reflection, and the other confronting the enormous reality of my own hand in my addiction and its consequences in my life and how it has affected those closest to me. So... Let's see where this goes, but not what it becomes. Ready I guess. I also read somewhere that blogging is considered pathetic now, so add that to a list of shit I internalize too much and quickly. I randomly decided to quit my only job that was taken in financial desperation nine months ago. Strike that it wasn't random, I was planning on leaving, but wanted first to strike out a responsible plan to phase it out for four months. It was a slow going thing. I realized how unhappy I was there, and also how in being unhappy, I also had my hand in contributing to workplace stress. So... After another bullshit day, I just felt I wasn't going back. Haha lo! And just like that, it was done. Feels good, but now I'm on the clock to follow through with still somehow taking care of finances, AND also not just take any old thing. Fun times.

I'm not laughing! I'm not crying! I'm dead inside! LMAO

Yooo tumblr, How’s it been? I realize that in my bag of off gassing personal toxicity and trauma, it may be great to just return to you, and disperse into the verse of sorts the shit that’s cycling through. And cycling through. And cycling through. And cycling through. And cycling through. And cycling through. Haha as if it’s some sort of pattern or something. I’m right back into a very familiar circumstance, almost like there’s this bit of rogue unresolved and strong nonsense that’s got a crazy grip on me, or that I keep holding onto? I don’t know, I guess it depends on where one stands regarding personal accountability with regards to unconscious imprints and triggers and trauma, and yeti yadda etc etceteras.

The curious thing is this is a cycle I’m in, to the month, since…lemme get real introspective here… July 2018- leaving philly after some scaled up tumult, lost my nature job. July 2017-a year of reprieve as the failures curiously compounded and took a break to gather strength, hinged on a trip to learn about hazelnuts, curiously a plant I’ve felt drawn to since 2013! July 2016- leaving a farm after horseshit July/August 2015- left New Orleans July/August/September 2014- crazy beautiful shit went down in Indiana July 2013- my first experience with farming failure!!! July 2011- leaving Germany! July 2010- a terrible trip to Greece! Boom. I’m sure it extends even before then, this is some so far life long shit in here, yeah the good good, like life purpose in perversion buried in there somewhere. In the way back when machine, July yes July 1999 was the year my grandmother came to live with us after we fled from her in philly. Social services almost took my sisters and me from our parents when we lived with her after my parents went bankrupt and lost our first home. Gah! Life you weirdo! I'll figure you out. I keep somehow reliving and rengaging that original wound. It’s insane! Haha, and not being too enveloped in the context of this current go around, I feel a little bit more hardened or sober to it. And I also know I have to make a shift, like a fundamental one. I really can’t believe I went back to NJ. I really hope this isn’t just resetting the clock.

I have 500 dollars in my bank account. I had 6000 when I met my last partner. Damn you restaurants and illusions of togetherness…

Farming used to help me feel useful. And connected, and engaged. Was it worth this? There’s an inherent distortion in there. I think it’s because partially I’m so attached to the desire to belong, which I have yet to fully experience that these half romances happen and then come crashing down. Then sheer self-imposedisolation. Then the sisyphusian ball rolls again. Lol I could change my name?

freewillastrology

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Hahahaha I was not wrong.

This week sucked ass hairs that have had poop stuck on them for days after particular gnarly rounds of diarrhea and uterine hemorrhaging.

Anyway in the suck age, and exhaustion, it was fun to write text messages to strangers who were trying to pick “me” up at a bar.

One night, someone asked me to make sure I texted him back the next day, after listening to him rationalize around #metoo for half an hour, after asking me to take off my hat so he could see my hair, and then asking if I liked having my photo taken. I said sure, I’ll text you. This is what I texted:

hey there “” this is “”. Thank you for the chat and Kenzinger last night. I appreciated the friendly banter. After having some time to reflect on the interaction, I had some observations that I can share. First is, given the current social climate and overall male awkwardness and apprehension, I believe it is most effective and healing to share with candid frankness. First off I think it’s great that you have respect in the forefront of interaction. That’s progress. Second, I can tell you’re probably lonely and going through any breakup, especially if it was long term, is a lot of confusion and reflection going on. That said, I understand as well the urges to get back out there and be vulnerable around other people again in that way. That’s cool. That said, caution warranted. Loneliness and escaping it can oftentimes contribute to projection, or seeing in others that which is wished were true. It is true I am cool and intelligent and all of the things. In a human sense though, not quite open to off the bat receiving requests to take off my hat, being asked about photography, or whether or not I’d like to go back to your place and smoke pot, listen to records, snuggle, be physically intimate or having the polyamory us (culturally synonymous hashtag-wise in. The way you were using the term to what? Open? Forgiving? Not sure) all in the span of a short period. Which technically, emotionally speaking, somehow suggests or implicitly requires of me in some ways to consider your emotional position and what you may need or be seeking in another. And perhaps be asking me to reconsider what I may want for myself in order to offer healing energy to another fellow spirit, which is one of the many central ambiguities surrounding consent at the moment. I got the impression throughout our conversation you were seeking something. That’s okay of course, but when it came to us speaking together or getting to know one another, I knew, felt/intuited there was an inherent proposition involved, which has everything to do with establishing a dynamic.“

Good day sir

#notwrong

Chapter 2 Letter

Aunt Lucy and the Ancient Seed Exchange Dear Old One I’m beginning to suspect that the hardness of my exterior is proportional to the softness of my interior. Exhibit A: these calloused hands. and thank you for the memories, the movements, the functions, the callouses, the hard work and the plants. I pay special attention to them, these fingers, crusty with the day, all. These fingers in the dirt, so that now they speak differently with hands that speak softly and tap softly, feel no fishhooks from a mean, fighting weed hiding just below the soil surface, or wrapped up in some hay like a shit secret. All this air in these lungs, these trees changing colors. What was it like for you, the time you felt Autumn? The, the great cut-off before, the so-long-‘til-later? The wild colors, the impending stomach paunch? What was the large animal you ate, and were you around the fire? Did the flesh ground you more to the soil and the wind and the leaves? Did the nourishment smell like the wet, sweet decay of falling leaves, yet smoked? When did you discover the usefulness of the peppercorn for the belly in digesting the meat? I had salami the other day, coated in ground pepper. It made me think of you. The academics of today like to pretend that all of the discoveries previous to particular consciousness were accidents of observation that later, through making impulse became a controlled craft. Starting with fire of course, but later extending to paint, bread, wine, beer– the alchemy of all the small things. I have a hard time swallowing that story. What’s the smallest thing you carried old one, before satchels? I bet it was a seed, I bet the seed found a way to its own coy scrounges and knew exactly when to detach from the mass of follicles and vitamins, and fell to the soil and waited–peevishly– for winter to pass. Was your son with you by that time? Did they toss the seed , discarding it like an unsavory louse? How long had you missed the sun and the seed and the plant that grew all year all the time, uninterrupted by the decay, the shorter days, the warm gold of the Autumn sun, the cooling dirt? Which stars were you facing when the fire burned? How old was your son that time? My hands pause over squash. I generously dunk a cloth in vinegar water and wash the squash. The sounds of their cleaning are so unique in the morning, it is as if the dew sings through the falling water. Lavish and comforting, and the sting of the vinegar lives in my nose, and cracks my hands into future dried grain. The dirt melts off the squash and slugs its way into the bucket with the falling water, and the sight and feeling of uncovering the gourd from its blanket of soil as it lived and grew and fattened, slowed down, got sleep drunk, slumbered this past season brings dregs of gold and dragonflies into my atrium. I’m preparing them like for someone’s belly or refrigerator. I sing to them in my heart as I lay them in the trailer. They fill up my hands with their roundness, with their vicarious curves and each one is so different. Each one such a delirious expression of their experience and circumstance out in that field and patch of shade, hidden or lying like a sexy goddess on a piece of dried and cracked soil far away from a withering mother vine. They fill my hands with their roundness, and make my palms feel small. So unlike my hands, these squash children. I tap their noggins. I feel their sweetness soothe me under. The trailer fills up with hundreds of them gleaming-glowing, drives away; I say goodbye, I miss them, but am so happy. Were you happy in the transition from warm to cool, in the season of juxtapositions and crossroads of abundance and decay as the fruits squeeze the life juice from the last drops of nurturing sunlight? Were you happy as the seed nestled into the soil and tasted the wane of summer ? Did you massage your hands after you washed your son like an awkwars squash for the first time; did you kiss him on the nose as he smiled like a seed at the sun after a long winter? Goodnight

#letterstoauntlucy

Flare ups

I know theres something kooky going on in the internal miasma of my psyche because i have been feeling very much my old childlike fighting friendly sparring spirit emerge, and the characteristic docility inducing policing psychic police telling me to calm down on all fronts. Asking this inner child what it is she needs recently instead, despite the equally aggressive externally imposed peace peace stuff. I am rambunctious at heart and love a good wrestle, and if suppressed aggressively and nastily silence invokingly so, and if not so firghtened of me, can usually see through many uncomfortable situations with an absurd, fiesty, yet endearing humor. So basically, leave me be please. I just set up an exhaustive plan for an orchard site and have been comfortably transitioning into the fall, ready to fight this war with my green thumb.

Sometimes this ocd is amazing. Leftovers night. Gotta eat leftovers gotta use things. Gotta make sure it doesnt go to waste. gotta not have the fridge fill up with bullshit that sits there forever and gets gross and nobody does anything about it. Gotta not spend money money money on food. Gotta preserve harvests. Gotta pickle things. Gotta can things. Gotta enjoy the pickled and canned things. Gotta pair spicy sweet and salty somehow. Gotta have several dishes in different bowls so i eat more slowly and taste things better. Gotta have nice complementary seasonal variety. Gotta keept ocd at bay and trick it by becoming very very busy. Stewed sweet and spicy collards Lima bean barley tomato soup Lacto fermented watermelon rinds with sesame oil and gomaiso Brined dilly beans Hunk of bread

#dinner #leftovers #farmer #actually ocd

Moving away from the divine feminine as told by men

A couple weeks ago, a good friend of mine raised a question that also oddly crossed my mind a few days prior to his raising the question. Whereas I imagine my formulation of the question was internally postulated as cynical and somewhat bitter, I imagine his was curious and had practical gravity. We had an interesting conversation as a result that gave me a lot to ponder over for some time.

We asked paraphrased: “how is it that sometimes men can be all about the earth and the feminine divine, sacred, and otherwise, and still treat human womxn poorly, even while holding some high value for the feminine?”

The question arose for me amidst a lot of internal frustration, during which my partner and I seemed in a terrible (and to some extent still are because it’s currently unresolved) predicament wherein I was and am experiencing constant states of resentment. There is the agonizing internal prodding and plodding around, trying to innerstand, feel, and integrate where the resentment is coming from, acknowledge and heal the internal initial wound as it were, but at the same time, it is exhausting to constantly be doing so much internal work, vocalizing and communicating when there are inklings of the feeling arising again in permutation, and not seeing many actual results.

And by actual results, ones that signify that effective communication in both parties occured and different patterns or behaviors emerge in the partnership on the account of both parties. Then there is the rabbit hole of what the hell is the point of the partnership anyway if i’m going to feel like this so often? How is this healthy for either of us? Am I toxic? Omg no, anything, anything but that. Gotta represent the divine and sacred feminine and all.

What was causing my resentment is basically a story for my therapist.

I am sharing this because something unconscious is afoot and amock, in both of us humans. My partner loves me, yet it is the task taken of trying to understand what’s wrapped up socially and historically beneath this love that stops us from manifesting more truly that guides these reflections. The above was context that catalyzed in part, these reflections. In the rest of this entry, i will sojourn to another place that in which this situation is an exemplary demonstrative.

“How is it that men can place significant value on the feminine, divine, sacred, and otherwise, and still treat human womxn so poorly?”

I wager that in these instances specifically, that a relationship with nature in today’s society at first is a somewhat private, individual relationship. Sure, a garden or farm can represent the feminine, characteristically has for a long time. And cultivating a space and stewarding can be an expression of love for the feminine, sacred, divine and otherwise. And also completely not have anything to do with the feminine.

And as much as I appreciate it, it is also becoming a really tiresome trope for men to pretend that they actually honor womxn, as if that is evidence. This is not true. Because a garden isn’t a person. There is danger in that poetically gendered personification. And it isn’t a one way relationship because the earth also responds and communicates to us. However, using symbols, the feminine is abstractly characterized as a vessel, to hold, to fill, to carry, to pour into. How many times do you see it, hear it: the earth, the moon, the feminine, these vessels, empty of their own intrinsic essence other than their empty form to be filled with imagination, with love, with all of the other things. And how dare she act so ungrateful of that lofty expression of love and honor?

Stupid human womxm just don’t get it, says every men’s rights activist and covert, unconscious misogynist in varieties of reinforcing ways all of the time. I say unconscious misogynist in the aspect that it is unexamined, one may not even know or understand, unless willfully examined, where it may be, how it affects, resides, expresses, exists, or functions.

White privilege is a very similar thing; it is a willfully unconscious and unexamined inner reality mechanism that allows and encourages the perpetuation of racist ideology. And that is how you can depersonalize it (sneakily bypassing the barriers of defensive white/male fragility that says NOT ME NOT ME NOT ME FLAPPY FLAPPY INNER CHICKEN BRAIN PERCEIVING IMAGINARY THREAT TO EXISTENCE) and open the entryway for examination. Perhaps first the admittance that it is there, and if it helps to bypass the barrier, probably was instilled before you had the chance to give consent for its entrance into your neuronal pathways.

But shit mittens, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, no matter how much you wished it wasn’t. And just because it is there also doesn’t mean that you can’t do anything about it. Quite the opposite, it means now that you know, you have so many ways to do something about it from within first.

Vessels, earth, feminine are amongst the easiest symbols to project oneself onto. And arguably, quite non symbolically as well. And it is very easy to not see the reflection of those projections onto human womxn because they can talk back with human language. Be full of other, independent and w/r/t functional relationships not so independent things. They can disagree, counter, vocalize in ways that can’t be written under the rug in one’s own mind. But they also can because a womxn rejecting notions of unfounded projection or just by disagreeing with abstract symbolism placed upon her can be labelled psychologically and emotionally violently with words like (and usually with the caveat of “just” which conveniently writes off any responsibility on the part of the other in relationship, throw one’s hands up with the word “just”) crazy, disturbed, imbalanced, toxic, maladjusted, etc etc.

These words take the narrative of another perception based in divine feminine who knows how many stereotypes and unconscious yet acted upon expectations, and make it the task of the womxn to internalize it and reflect on it because in the stereotypical trope that womxn are endlessly forgiving, understanding, and nurturing, she must give credence and…validation to the reality and perception of another, particularly and especially of the male variety, particularly and especially if he has something to say or share based on what he “objectively” sees, that will mold her into a more functional creature in this crumbling patriarchy.

It’s not a backward request to treat a womxn as a human foremost before any cultural inlay or responsibility is placed upon them to remain trapped in the unconfronted associations one may have regarding their “innate sacred” or otherwise intrinsically “othered” difference from you. In essence, yes we are returning to a feminine consciousness, and together, but also as together we must learn to be more aware of the filters which separate us from it. I can't step quite away from this paternalistic conception of the feminine because it is still being projected onto womxn, and until they are left alone without these filters...

#divine feminine #emotional labor #relationships #unconscious

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Yummy seasonal dinner

2 cloves garlic sliced ½ lb chanterelles (i found some earlier this week) 2 small, small links lamb sausage decased and chopped up 2 fresh tomatoes diced 9 leaves basil chiffonade (gettin fancy) ½ bag of fat spirally pasta

Mix in a bowl 8 caper fruits sliced Pickled fava beans shelled and halved 3 quarter slips of preserved lemon minced Generously coat with black pepper and mix Let sit

In bowl 1.5 cups vegetable stock 2 tblspoons tomato paste Generous coat of red pepper flakes Generous coat of oregano Heat over low simmer occasionally stirring

Heat water for pasta over low medium

In cast iron, heat some olive oil over low medium heat Add garlic and gently stir until coated and translucent Add lamb and gently stir and fold in garlic until browned on all sides Add mushroom and fold in Add ¼ cup water and cover to simmering boil, stirring, then cover for a bit, up to another boil and then slowly let steam off until a tiny layer of water coats the pan again

Add sauce base to mushroom lamb mixture and simmer for like 40 mins, stirring here and there

Once pasta water comes to a boil, add a tablespoon of preserved lemon salt Add pasta

Add fresh diced tomatoes to mushroom mixture, and with a spoon smash the tomatoes until the sauce is juicy again

Drain pasta Put sauce mixture in pasta pot and bring to a simmering boil, stirring and folding in fava bean caper mixture for about 3 mins Add pasta back in and stir, folding everything together Throw on the basil stir in quickly and cover the pot for minute or so

Serve in bowls with grated cheese

What was so great about it was the richness of the sausage and mushroom with the red pepper flakes made a spicy base, and the acidity of the tomatoes and salt from the pickled and preserved things required no extra added salt and cut the richness to a pleasant base. And barely any oil because of the fat. Grew the garlic, fava beans, tomatoes, basil. Made the veggie stock, and preserved the lemons. When america gives you a racist sexist tweet crazy fuckwad you have to hear about every day somehow, preserve yr lemons and cook with all yr damn heart.

Anyway that was my night. Enjoy

#recipes #gardening #fresh food #pasta #on the fly #veggie stock #grow your own

Trapped animus magic

They pace in search of the next hypothesis to bring them together The masculine inside is stuck. He's angry mostly cause he sees too much, And doesn't help his flesh expression twin when she's wailing in her silent ineffectuality. Each inverted in the cosmic expression, Endlessly frustrated with the riddle: If our reaching, yearning, noodley arms, being so long, How in the hooting hellfire fuckwit mothball stuffy Is the veil keeping from this connection, our energy touching, alert, whole? He asks: is it chakral block? She asks: is it malabsorption of listening? All these kinetic interferences: Bizz, buzz, newz, wirez, spirits on radio wave wizzing into cortex computer pathways whizzy wheezy coughy time for tobacco to push it steong yang down and through, constant cleansing, puff breath out again. The veil between made silky smokescreen scattered with the supple night fire glow of star and firefly Shimmering like fabric in breeze, ripple in water, ripples rolling into hexagonal refracting rainbows passing through helix hexagonals at the bottom of a pool Amazing that water has a shadow made of moving light to mesmerize Maybe we can trick it in cosmic costume, each wearing cloak of the others light regalia, wait for the sun to surf on a ridge of water, and pass through into one another? Even if for a moment to establish the memory of the unfamiliar embrace.

There is justice in eating. If the country where you live produces annually one million apples for one million inhabitants, you will have the right to one apple a year. But if you eat two of them, you take away the quota of your neighbor. And should you have paid for two apples, you would have disguised your theft by the strength of violence, called money

Book of Judgement George Ohsawa

#simple truths

So I was just at the pope eating lunch. My phones been turned off because I don't have the money at the moment to pay the bill. I've been putting everything on credit cards, I lost my debit card and went to get a new replacement and it still hasn't come in the mail, 12 days later. My spending habits are as erratic as my moods. Frugal one day spendthrift the next, whims, etc. I'm wondering when or if the tide will change in this'd part entire at the moment, as it hasn't for almost a year. When I quit my last farm job on someone else's farm. Stood up for myself, and it takes a lot to be like...well you stood up for yourself, where's the follow through?. I went job hunting on the Internet, and came up puffy, like I don't want to do it in what's offered at the moment. Sheesh. I was at the pope, and planned to have lunch. I was sitting and eating and chewing very slowly. A man next to me came in and started talking about how he just got back from a doctors appointment and the bartender remarked how he needed to do that before he lost his health insurance. The man at the bar said where the office was, and also shared that he has high cholesterol. I looked at him and realized he couldn't be much older or younger than myself. Mid chew, I started crying, as slowly as I was chewing. High cholesterol. He got a salad for lunch. I was welling up with heavy sobs threatening. Why does this government want everyone dead? The whole world consumed in heat. Pushing it there. To ignore the Paris agreement, to cut healthcare, they want us to die, along with all of the other creatures marching to extinction. They have the chilliest of the dinosaurs, wrapped up in the fossil fuel blood of rotting plants coursing through their veins. I thought of how looking for a job was so farcical, I don't know if I can get myself in the right frame of mind to effectively rationalize currency accumulation when my peer right next to me has high cholesterol and there's no money being used to help. No priority for life or health itself. Keep telling us we gotta keep competing with each other, gotta keep gobbling everything up. Deep breath. Chew chew chew, swallow. Grateful for food, grateful for energy, grateful for life. Looking at the glasses on the wall, wondering how this all could have been different. Yet, here we are. Here we are.

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It's July, or so something says it is, so it is so, or is it? The noise everywhere, the endlessness of the noise, the lack of vision to bolster its own claim. Talking about the building. The building, the building. I feel ensconced in a sea of blind ego, yearn for the depths of a nuanced explanation to communicate its own so-it-isms. I yearn, yet most of the yearnings are formless, for the whole of previous illusion is breaking up, one jackhammer at a time. What is left is a chimera of anger, many memories flooding in, offering their story. Yet there is a well that seems bottomless, yet it is quite low. How long the plunge this time to encounter water? There is such little peace here, and everywhere, such little reprieve, i cry for our biology and its constant assault. All wonders of all that is connected, vapidly connected in toxic pattern. Oh earth, oh my mother, how desperately and in unknown ways to myself do i love you. I want to know me to know you. All ideology left within me is the emptying well. For this i am grateful, for this i am free, able to morph and dwell within shifting perspectives. My vessel compromised, speaking. I do not want to find a dismal complacency of compass. I do not want to pretend like nothing is wrong just because parts of you are still beautiful, still useful, still worth celebrating and inevitably exploiting for profit for prophet for ego for veil. I want to feel you, in all your current pain. I want no illusions to allow my underdeveloped ego develop yet another ideology. I want to feel you in all your pain, what my vessel can hold. The buildings get taller. I feel your exhaustion. The rhetoric is simpler, I'm stripped of reasoning. Listen. Hurt. Feel. Hurt. Eat. Hurt. Bleed from uterus. Hurt. I need the hurt and pain to speak.

Useful aggression

I went wandering looking for a friends studio with a home depot bucket full of vegetables and flowers. Couldnt find it. Found a stone bench and tried to lay down, anger filling up my eyes. Odd thing was the sky looked pixelated, like shifty like space in the matrix full on glitching. As i felt sleep coming ove,r a bagpipe sounding the ode to joy began. Opposite reaction, grumbling, getting up, having imaginations of puncturing the bag pipe with a twig and running off laughing, giving a personal ode to joy, imagining the bagpipe deflating in some odd tonality like a sad, or irate goose. All the carriages going by, tour guides talking about how the rebel army would have been absolutely slaughtered. Me growling again, sneering at the bagpipe. Folks walking by, noticing my aggression, commenting unsteadily how the bagpipe is their heritage. Me laughing at them. Feeling odd about it, because how odd is it, how unsettling for a person to embody and direct anger. How uncouth for someone to embody and direct their anger. Me angry at this illusion, feeling consumed in a fantasy. Walking to independence mall and someone dressed in colonial uniform having small white children with toy guns following orders, not aware at all that if they werent white, they could be shot in the park. Me standing there, staring, wondering why we place so much value on war on death on that being victory, knowing these children do not know this yet. Wonder if they will, anger writhing, sadness biting, bucket full of vegetables shivering, wriggling out my anger. Theyre having fun, photos being taken. Disney. Obsessed with this dizzinessland. Victory, oh victory, freedom. Me loling. They continue on in their tour, when theres only a rollercoaster in the mind. Head to the liberty bell, stare at the people in line. What are they doing? Do they believe any of this? What is this heritage? Lean on a placard, turn around and read the placard about washington. Washington traveling with those he enslaved. Washington leaving with those he endlaved every 6 mos to subvert the legislation stating if an enslaved person stays in pa for six months they would be free. I read the placard over and over again, begin noticing that some in line begin doing the same. On market street, right beside the line, the white extremist mic is going full blast. "Gays going to hell, everyone going to hell" I stand in front of the person with the mic, stand in front of him, absorbing his waves, staring him down. Practicing facial expressions of bemused detachment, side eyed pseudo interest, confuddlement, my face an ocean of inscrutable emotions, challenging his facade of masculine, thinly veiled white supremacy. He calls "me" out. Yeah you hey you with the bucket, you have no wedding ring on, you look like one of those feminazis, yeah you i bet you cant even cook those vegetables. You cant cook. You cant do anything, you have no man, i bet youre a lesbian. Unphased, ive been through deeper challenges to personal offense. "Wheres your permit to be here sir?" "My permit is the United States Constitution" "You just told me everything i needed to know, brother" "Dont you call me brother, i'm not your brother" "Were in philly, you're my brother... where are you from brother?" I like noticing that he's shifting his weight, changing his stance. Others chime in too. He attacks another person in line who challenges him "I bet she's your girlfriend" "Oh im not gay anymore, brother?" "Youre going to hell" "Youre already in hell" I go to the sidelines, consider lobbing a hard, perfectly grown, red cabbage at his stupid fucking head, stuffing his nostrils with chamomile, pouring cold mint tea over him, covering his eyes with kale leaves, putting summer squash in his hand, spitting chewed up basil at him like a llama. I look to the guards onlooking, knowing that if this escalates, theyll have to put themselves in harms way, protect this fucking fool. I walk away, wondering wondering wondering about all the noise, that noise, that disgusting noise. Sit next to a person with a cardboard sign. Offer him some food. He doesnt want it. "If i had a stove, i would thank you and take it" I have no money to give him that isnt tied up in digital plastic, that isnt tied up in the noise. I give him the chamomile, i smell it, est some squash. He takes the chamomile. I tell him to smell it if he wants a bit of peace. Walk away. Get two powerades at the dunkin donuts, leave, realize how quickly i forgot the man and shouldve gotten him a donut or a sandwich. Fuck. Sit down in front of the roundhouse and think about my grand dad who was there so many times. Bipolar. Perpetually homeless. Pretzel salesman. Dead now. Think im converging on a smile when i feel his spirit somewhere, man walks by, cigarette behind ear "It gets better" "Thank you" Keep walking. Try to cross vine street on the highway entrance. A barrel burning, some mattresses on the corner. Leave all of the vegetables, the taste of fresh food, with all that water and life in it, giving. Keep walking. Cross over spring garden, come up 5th, the buildings the buildings, the dust, the tells, the do not walk heres, the commerce, people moving in. Shouting "hamster cage hamster cage hamster cage" then get to the brick homes "old style hamster cage" Wondering what it must have looked like, felt like, to see the estuary and ecosystem slowly disappear, the tributaries covered in gravel, the people coming in a sewing, smelteries, going back and forth between factory and hamster cage, the slow recession of the scope of imagination. Screaming now "14 New condos? 14 new condos?" See people taking an instagram photo of a scratch of lottery ticket. "Hows your new hamster cage?" They scurry...cant think of another word. They scurry away, and dont answer. Round the corner to the garden, imagine falling in the holes of the 6 new "foundations, see the scorched soil, wonder whats buried in it, being exumed and breathing. Not finally like yes! but this is whats been attempted to bury... and now its convenient to exume it but never no mind everything that comes along with the soil. Oh the soil, the soil that lives, pushed aside to become made dead again, with maybe a plant or two. What a metaphor to misplaced ego, to the vessel which xan create when it manifests its entire self. Build buildinfs. Plant some landscaping. Talk about relationships. I flash to imagining pummeling cabbages again.

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