This liminal season is odd. Revealing but quiet. The days shorten and the overcast sky hums ancient songs. Truth is billowing through the ether, creeping down sunset boulevard. Weaving its way through the labyrinth of characters. The buildings begin to look a bit uglier when they arent propped up by the sun. I want to recoil back, into that soft place of receptivity. Reflecting. Waiting and waning. Wanting forgiveness and resolution.
I used to think that being fast was more important than anything. I used to race the fastest boys barefoot on grovel, through battersea park, in London. Sporting grazed knees and notted hair in a maroon school uniform. A speedy, unkempt creature. A child of my mothers intermittent neglect and bouts of my fathers excessive wisdom. I liked to draw maps all the time of fairy villages, mermaid coves and pirate ships. I thought that quicksand would be a more common adult problem. I was obsessed with having a family and also with orphans. I had the unrefined knowings and quick tongue of a child forced to seek solace from more suitable imaginary world.
Turns out, being fast isn’t a trait admired in adult women. Quicksand is not a common issue, and no one really wants to see your weird maps. I still prefer my own solitude, enjoy having the leisure and freedom of following spontaneous nudges without being observed. I have mastered the delicate art of becoming my own witness.
I’d prefer, personally, to avoid the petulant impatience that arises when adhering to anyone else’s clock.
Other than a few people.
I am better at conserving resources. I’m approaching my Saturn return, although I think I may have somehow delayed it, through a combination of
Boron
Iron
Good clothes
Magnesium
Salt
Oxcidizers
Moisturizer
Black Walnut
Clove
Wormwood
Celibacy strikes in Gods name
And not celebrating any age.
I have clear knowings about certain things but never the things I really want to know about. I don’t want any credit. These clear knowings are stark, brutal, painful, and immense. They can only be accessed through love. It’s never been about the things I want to know about. It’s never interpersonal or selfish.
You take one piece of this hologram, a microcosm, and if you love it enough, if it fascinates you enough- you get graced with a deeper understanding of the big picture.
I have been right about things I didn’t to be right about- and I’m working on not giving everything away.
Even if I sometimes see things from a place above time. Even if I know it to be true.
Certain people for example- I can never tell if I am presently hated or adored. My capacity for invisible and imaginary correspondence is harrowing and unnerving, even for me. I have never been able to pick logical counterparts. Rich and famous men are devoid of soul, and now even the younger ones are balding. Fragmented. I am finely attuned to people god likes to scatter into my reality like bizzare holographic inserts. The last time I lied was when I said I didn’t care, when I acted too cool to have feelings that have paralyzed me in complicated webs. my insurmountable pride is my biggest character defect.
And I have extracted whatever was lodged in my sacral, that hunger for control.
Avoidant and projecting. I forgive everyone who I hurt myself through. Excorisms and oxcidizers. I am like a vile of truth serum with legs, spurting out deranged, but correct, opinions.
There are only two roads: Power or Love. And you can’t ever maintain both. The power route is a pain path. It tricks you into thinking there's love to be gained from an epoch of status.
The love route- it's harder. Involves communication, vulnerability, swallowing aforementioned pride, patience, restraint,
and of course, adhering to other peoples fucked up janky clocks. Even if you see from a place above time.