7 Disks Jesus (!) Angel

I'm re-reading Freeing the Soul from Fear by Robert Sardello and Your Money or Your Life by J. Dominguez and V. Robin right now. After having finished S.M. Stirling's Change Trilogy, I feel the need to understand how my fears and financial insecurities have been plaguing me of late.

I want to write more poetry on collapse and what-not, but the Otter told me I need to write "from my place of joy" to find more possibility and expansion. In an odd way, facing my fears and freeing myself therefrom and also taking some concrete actions about my debts and worries on the financial front will probably overflow into a place of joy for real.

Sardello's book is particularly helpful right now, because, unbeknownst to me but suspected of late, fear has made its presence felt. Like a lot of people, I too was hypnotized into believing I could put fear into a box and ship it off to Arcturus. No such luck. Sardello reminds me that fear is a potential within human experience. It is something that the soul can either transform into beauty and freedom or allow it to fragment, beat down and deprive me of a sense of liveliness and joy. It's been doing the latter, and like I said, I had no idea. Fear LOVES to work that way, because the entity of Phobos doesn't really like it when we transform it into something useful.

To be fair, I've not worked with Ares' son. (Is Phobos (Fear) older or younger than Deimos (Terror)? Just curious.) Perhaps Phobos does like to be included in different aspects of our lives, a la Hekate, the Star Goddess, Odin et al. To become conscious of my fears has been something I've resisted unsurprisingly. They've come to my attention in all their stark monstrosity just these past 3 weeks, since the show ended.

I hope I have the wisdom to try and post some of this journey. I have a feeling this might be of use to a lot of people. Fear is something we all have to deal with.

10 Wands Dian-y-Glas Deer

Slight change of plans from the last post. Over the weekend, I came more face to face with an awareness that I need to start forgiving others. It's not for them, that I need to forgive, it's for myself. To set mysel free. So here's the first stab at a poem I may need to send to someone.

"I Forgive You _____________"

Barbs of truth's tendrils may be named "Dolores"
or more likley "Trista". But I have held them
fast lo these many years. The "Admin-truth"
is that you played goalkeeper. I've been most
ungrateful! I'll cop to it. You shut the doors
against a most inappropriate placement indeed.

I hate to admit how much I've enjoyed the while,
while I wallowed in bile-colored waters.
All this time, I've pretended you had O So Much
Kraft--Sie hatten ueber mich zersiegten!
Heil _______! and the Horst Wessell song played
underneath your tarantel-dancing feetles.

The actuality's much more ordinary. I gave
you poems to read. You read them. Said "No,
I won't accept you into my class." Clap-clap-clap.
End of story, functionary, fairly automatic.
Perhaps only minor flaking off the rhinus?
Even now, print reporting the facts, I want to die!

Cut to 23 years later. I'm still writing.
I've even returned to poetry and prose,
even after acquiring a Dramatic Writing Mo'-Fo'
Arts Degree from Now You Undertakemassivedebt
University in la Village-Oest and yes!
I now work a legal secretary gig (Hooray Death!)

to pay off the burdensome loans my fat
head on top of my fat ass decided would be
an oh-so-grand investment in my fyoochah!
And I have no one but myself to blame.
Yes, you're pretty much off the old roundpoint.
And today I see I carry this irritant.

A part of me would sort of like to hold
this delicious resentment to my breast.
But I can't justify it cluttering my heartspace.
So much heart-soreness after weight-loss
compels me to dispense with anything that would
interfere with my hardwon sugar-flour freedom.

The time has come that I need to forgive
you for causing me this pain that I took to strange
depths and morbid inside twistie-freeze ties.
Some necrotic tissue must needs be expelled
so that a healing may take place, wherever
the light of the sun might compel it to grow.

On some level, I comprehend you saved me
from some worse fate, had I actually been taken
into the paneled and sterile walls of your web.
Today I embrace the life I have made for myself
so much brighter and joy-prone than ever before.
And I release you from contracts heretofore unknown.

Queen Disks Hermes Beaver - Collapse Poem #1

I think I might be trying to write a series of Collapse Poems, and I'll post them on my olde blogge.

"Collapse Poem #1"

The temptations toward silence catch me up.
I know about the Terrible Triangle--
Easy-access oil easing into history,
impending collapse of all kinds of stocks--
fishery, currency, speculative, whatcha got?--
and of course, global climate changes.
The PErfect Storm buffets the shores
of insular denial belonging to most of us.

I can't help but sense it all amassing,
but there's other craziness to appraise!
Will we be boneheaded thugs and attack
Persia's conttemporary legacy?
What vaporous demons hold our erstwhile
rulers' minds in thrall? Such nuttiness!
Reason would forswear silence? Or perhaps
that would be enabling and fear? Whatever.

America is done! Over! Kaputt!
The ideal of neo-Iroquoisans--
Franklin, Madison and Paine, et al.
whose forebears were as much Hiawatha
as John Locke--that imagined America
exists in many folks, from Vermont
secessionists to the relocalizers
focussed on the earth beneath our feet.

We are all on our own, but together.
Imperative need, to radiate warm smiles
to folks as yet strange to me. Neighborly
affections that lead to knowing, despite
the sadness I feel about my urban landscape,
not knowing how many will see the April 5
three, five, ten years hence. Just how
will ratcheting down expectation proceed?

Will it come through suicide or disease,
murder or starvation? Internecine wars?
Those who love me share their concerns
when I describe myself as optimist facing
today's tricorn concerns. I recognize
hope is a fool's prospect, to foreclose taking
lifegiving actions. O strange Trojans, Albanians,
Schenectatoids! At least I have your backs!

I'm not much, of myself. But let me say this:
No one of us singly, is more intelligent,
more resourceful, reasonable and humane
than all of us together applying to common
purposes. The nation, the state, the counties
as of yet have not yet hit their bottom.
But I do know the deep agony. I'm here--
let me help you through it, as you'll help me.

Twelve years next month I've marinated
in Twelve and Twelved church basements.
I've uncovered my addictions, some most
unreasoning like those Evil White Powders
Sugar and Flour, some oh-so-easy to dispense
such as Codependence. I've awakened now
to larger compulsions than these yet:
Empire seems to be Addicts-as-Rulers-Amok!

I admit I am powerless over Empire--
socialization, domestication, civilization--
and my life has been indeed crashing
itself into Unmanageability's cliffside.
I didn't cause it, I can't cure it,
I most certainly can't control these cancers.
And I seek to find most elegant surrender
to the higher powers that will restore me.

No, I can't, the God can, I shall let her.
God Herself at the center of the cosmos,
with all her emanations and radiances
Assist me that I may offer succor
and testament to local-divine ways.
The middleman meddlesomes of nation-states
and beglobed corporate sterility
they shall fold with your gentle, sweet breath!

I pray humanity's awakening
to the power within and next door. Your bones
and my blood, our skin, brains, gonads--
Sources of power, pride, passion and self
in addition to el sexo dulcissimo!
These will lead us back to the ground beneath
our sensitive feet. Let us all open to love's
difficulties and catch each other in our falls.

6 Disks Odin Chimera

An interesting development is taking place in my personal assembly of guides. The Chimera which I have been including as representative of the mythic 2nd chakra point seems to be choosing to leave me. Our energies haven't really been all that compatible, and the creature is choosing to move on to work with someone else. I'm not sure what mythic creature will come in to take his place. That will be interesting to observe. Chimera was sort of there today, but I actually felt the Goat more this morning in my meditation. Part of that was my own confusion--I sometimes get my animals confused in my head. But part of it too is that the chimera's presence isn't very strong, and truthfully hasn't been for a while.

Another interesting development: I've been dreaming about people of other races. I dreamt two days ago that I was in a reverse "Six Degrees of Separation" (the film/play) situation. I was staying with an upper class black family somewhere in the city. I was doing normal, everyday things like eating breakfast, brushing my teeth, shower/shave, etc. and it seemed every little thing annoyed the bejeesus of the patriarch (interestingly his name was Charles White). I got fed up with him and started to refer to him as "Mr. White". For some reason my getting all formal with him got his attention. I told him I don't make assumptions about whether I can "duzen" vs. "Siezen" with someone, so I always defer to the formal. He seemed impressed and somewhat mollified, but I wasn't having it. Also, someone was in the dream who I'm angry with, and when I woke up, I realized I was effin' furious at this person. I wrote a fun poem about it that I'll include below.

I dreamt last night I had a Latino ex who was in the closet. He was a handsome fellow with green eyes and reddish hair. Wouldn't recognize as Spanish until you started talking to him. There was another woman there, who was not happy to see me, and the ex was sort of ignoring both of us as we all got ready to go to Church, or at least that's what it felt like.

Here's the poem:

There are poems in the grime of my bad
upkeep of living space, skittering about
with the dust mites and the resentments.

Ah, yes, I smile in wistfulness. Such fun
recognitions to be had in say, opeing
my shirt drawer to arrange my tops
and expel the misplaced shorts and socks.

Put them in the drawer above, oh yes,
and wil I'm at it, I see I've amassed
some offpissed feelings at that bitch
sometime friend who flew all the way
out here to help her other friend die.

And oh, wouldn't it be great if we could
see each other again? Hm. Sure. And so
I shelled out preceious geld I wished
elsewhere to spend. Bought the bus ticket
to Port Authority, and left message after

futile message, and not once did we even
speak by phone! And by the way, he died,
her friend, how conveeeeeeeeeeeenient that, the hook
of responsibility she so deftly evades yet again

so she can lift not a fuckin' finger to inquire
as to what was going on with me. Oh! And here's
a solo sock. To the trash with ya, 'longside dead friendships!