Florific Altars

This world is so traumatic. So full of joy.

The softest, sweetest breeze, cool with an English dusk-blue zero-gravity kind of evening just brushed my neck. Then a man in a house, just down the walk there, laughed loudly in a happy way.

It was a simple and stupid week, but full also of intellectual adventure and fun. I am slowly working on my therapeutic art course. I did 10 minutes of yoga which pissed me off and I hated the whole time, but I felt so good afterward.

I felt my capacity to understand and endure others stretch outward, like a rubber-band – but like, a high-quality NASA rubber so I know its strength without fearing its weakness.

I love paint and color.

I was stressed at not being able to pull together an altar. What are my wishes? Have I no center? Why can’t I pull something together? Where to begin? It was later I accepted it couldn’t be done today, and then…it seems so stupidly overlooked now, but it’s like an epiphany to me. Most places of my home where I have had any say or use of, there is an organized still life (a fucking altar) of…of use and purpose, wishes and organized thinking. A strategy here and there. Everywhere. Behind me, beside me, in the near and far rooms – the bathroom, even. A layout of cards, crystals; a book placed just “so”. Exactly organized, including symbols of the problems. Stacks of things. Unmoved things. Things waiting in a kind of line. The state of my world, represented in both beauty and undusted chaos. Where are the wishes and gratitudes? Absolutely everywhere. Some are sleeping, yes. Some not acknowledged in years, pushed back inside drawers. But opened all shall be; seen, thought about and re-stored (some restored). Like old songs, my stuff has a way of bringing the long-ago to the here-and-now. Rearranging my interiors gives me fresh perspective. Sometimes and Other perspective. It is enriching, highly symbolic. I see a lot and I feel a lot – we all do in our own way and I can’t even imagine what that is really like.

A house full of life and air.

Stream of consciousness. The bit about our bodies being made to be fearful…I really think I’m on to something that hugely matters. Super relevant to human-being.

I think this is good. I think I’m ok to post this.

My friend Dave M., whose lap I’m laying in, sent me this photo. I wonder what year it was?! Maybe 2000? I was so lucky to have this time with these people then. Space and time. Space and time. Being given this photo was a gift. Thank you beloved, sweet David. (I dunno why I’m wearing my coat. Maybe I just got there?)
It’s some kind of pop-mantra. Strangely pretty and comforting.
Jesus, this is good. ❤

Goodnight.

The Color of Shadows

You know what I’ve found to be…possibly important? Therapeutic dance.

This thing, this little watercolor sketchbook of mine? It’s really wonderful to have and use and put myself into.

Precious.
So unusual. So beautiful. I really appreciate the choreography, art direction. Wow. I’m a new fan of Olafur Arnalds. Tickets in San Fran this November for only $60 (for good seats). I may go…

I was home alone the past couple nights. That first night was so freeing. When I came home from work, and realized there was nothing for me to do in regard to another person (even one I love), I was so…free.

I just walked around, looking at the spaces with the colored lights, and just me in there with the space. I was utterly relaxed. I felt the whole world was calm and peaceful. Just me, and anything I wanted to do. I stayed up late, just sort of unraveling, I think. I lit candles. I am reminded of candles being so medicinal. Real fire. Natural light. Colored glass; the healing, comforting power of translucent, colored light.

Next Day. I have had this time alone, all morning, only an hour away from noon. I have unraveled and unwound/unfolded. I have felt like I was a thing broken in shipping, something too broken to stand and I wanted to get back in to bed (I did, where I found myself twice, but each time the rest even for a few minutes was told of a healing action to take, things to act on to keep going in an interesting fashion). I listened to my Good self and wrote down my thoughts – thoughts of jealousy, of past rejection, of exclusion. Old shit. I did not escape. I stayed and finished the work. All the things: tears (fear, anger); music, saddening, maddening, and finally inspiring; reflecting (writing, thinking) and observing (sunrise, Captain). I wrote it down, and planned nothing, emotion-wise, for this damned day.

Adam bought us this beautiful plant called a Sun Star.

I had a good time at the Shamanic Circle. I ran away afterward – I think that will just be my thing. I’m entitled to stay for what serves me, to serve who and how I wish, and then to flee as desired (when tired, when I have that fried feeling – usually about 90-120 minutes is my threshold for cooperation).

This was the altar table (terrible shot, sorry future me, try to use your imagination. It was darker, and nicer than this looks).

I tried not to talk too much. I didn’t want to leave with that feeling that I sounded like a preachy jackass. I checked myself. Still, I felt that unshakable feeling of shame and of feeling like an imposter. I don’t understand. Wonder what the truth is. These are my secret feelings. I have them always with other people. No evidence, just this feeling like I’m too much of a foreigner. I hate needing other people. Why can’t I just hang on to my Self that feels complete and perfect – even in my imperfection? I know this is a rather common feeling amongst people, but I just feel like I could be one who is able to not keep coming back to a space of insecurity with other people. If I reflect, though, I definitely know I have come a long way and that I’m rather amazing when I’m at peak. Lol. Like, I know without a doubt that I am entitled to be here, and I get to leave whenever I want. Still, I worry.

I’m taking a course for Ritualistic Creativity. I’ve promised my dedication and promised self-discipline to do it most days (the only real exceptions are days I may feel extraordinarily horrible for whatever reason, or extremely tired). Ideally, I’d like to post what happens (no idea what’s in store for the activities of the courses. There are meditations, rituals, and then art projects – all designed to psychologically help lost artists). Sometimes I feel I am choosing this blog over my “real” artmaking, but this blog has been a beautiful and wonderful creation. It has been my life-preserver in art and other things. A real connection to self and much more. A reflecting pool. So, with all due respect, this blog is a work of art and it matters to me a lot. It is a complicated, real, truthful, and beautiful work of communication. Always has been.

Language = body of symbolism. Interesting I painted a snake, or eel-type of thing that seems to have wings, or fins. It looks like fins, but felt like I was drawing out fine wings as I painted him. From my course I’m taking. Not allowed to judge anything at all. Only pay attention to it having felt good to do – and it did feel good to do.

Reorganizing my vision of things, both physically (of the psyche) (altars, my creative space, more) and spiritually.

Lots of insecurity going on with me. That’s ok. It’s because – in part = I have really come out of my comfort zone. I have become much healthier for it. Yes, I sometimes feel unsafe; I sometimes feel like I cannot do the new job and the things I should be doing in my me time and sustain. BUT, it is also true that the more that I put in to a day, in to a week, etc., the more momentum I build; the longer and stronger my energy sustains the project. And I’m getting enough rest, too. So, honestly I am doing well. More than just surviving.

Ok, I’m back. I LOT going on today. What a wonderful day it has been. I went from feeling left behind to a feeling of belonging and being important in the lives of a few cherished souls. I cleaned my house so when Adam comes home, he feels Home. I am working on my altar, but all I really did was clean it off and out (important work). I may need to spend a lot of time dealing with this. It’s empty and deep, all at the same time. Preparing for some kind of ceremony, some kind of ritual. It is madness, yet it is so crucial, so critical to my sense of Self. I simply have to keep going.

OMG what a great day this became! MILESTONE HIT!!!! Amazing…omg so incredibly good. Today, Adam passed his last exam with the licensing board and he is MS, LCPC, LADC…Incredible. Such hard work and such a gift to the world. ❤ And he brought home to me, from Eddie World…

New subjects for our kingdom: A leaf, a melon, and a brie:

Charging my bubby.

Today I hated work. So fucking glad I was outta there at 1:30. Can’t the cunts just fucking shut up for one fucking day?

Anyway, coming home was wonderful. Me and Bubz, just enjoying the shit out of our freetime. There’s love and peace here. All of my anxieties are bullshit and stupid and it is a shame I am not a stay at home artist. But I’m on some kind of path, and there is power along the way, and so much beauty. So much to love. It’s all ok. ❤

April 11, 2021

Listen to my heart break. One of my all-time favorite songs. This beautiful version. The strings bring the past into the present and because it is a song about the past (somehow, to me it has always been a song about The Past, though subject is presented present-tense), it feels to me like a memory so striking that it brings it to a place of haunting.

In darkness, when we are lost, it is sometimes the echo – the empty sound of One’s own voice hitting off of faraway heights – that reverberates through the depth of the space we occupy, helping One to orient us back to our center. The emptiness, the echo helps one to even become aware that they need to re-orient. Perhaps move backward or forward to a place where paths are more brightly lit and navigable – even familiar or old paths well-worn. That’s ok, too.

Read this morning: “Clarity honed by grief.” Swords, per Mr. Eads.

Beautiful dawn, coming up from the past, through the veil, rising up through the trees. “Good morning”. Calm beauty to you.

At the corner, there is a house with a lime bush outside next to the sidewalk. Right up against it. It is a a beast of a plant. Plenty old. Has tons of limes on it – I know this from Fall walks of 2020. On my walk tonight (been a long time since walking the ‘hood. I was afraid, still afraid, but I went anyway – promising I could bring myself home whenever I felt nervous and needed to come home. I went maybe a mile or so. It was nice. I listened to Chris Connelly 1991 album, can’t remember the name, it’s amazing. I had a crush on that dirty bastard. Who wouldn’t?) Where…oh yes, the lime bush. Anyway, it has blossomed and there are jasmine-like flowers, only larger, covering it prettily. The scent is incredible. It is a lot like jasmine, but different. No, doesn’t smell like limes, or citrusy in any way.

I love the beginning of this. Then it starts to grate on me. Perhaps, like when certain stages of life go on too long, it is just too long.

I went for a hike to the mountain, after work. I have been feeling numb from Overwhelm. It happens, but it is always hard to remember it is normal and passes like everything else in a cycle. The drive was good, the music was good, but I found it really hard to feel…anything. After the hike, on the way down, I got something in my eye, like mascara, or sunscreen. Eyes watering, and feeling miserable from the curse of it all, I descended back to the car and back onto the road. I didn’t want to get home so soon or at all. I didn’t want to be in my home feeling so …unwell. So, I thought, I’ll just pull over here in this dirt lot that faces another trail going into the desert. The sun was bright and the sky was blue and it was just that perfect time about an hour before sunset and I just burst into tears and let them flow. Dabbing my wrecked face with my gritty t-shirt, I was super-surprised with how significantly better I felt after just a couple minutes. Immediately felt much better. Brightened. Peaceful. Worn-out physically, but Clear-headed. The perfect state to come home to. Home I went.

Tonight before their game I talked to Loretta awhile. It is infrequent we talk for as long as we did. I deeply enjoyed it. Mothers have a sense of fear and responsibility I think the rest of us take for granted not having. It’s a very good place to develop depth of connection and love from, though, I suppose. In that sense, it is a respectably beautiful and deep choice of life to be lived.

Absolutely wonderful to dance to.

Tomorrow, I am going to a women’s shamanic circle. I hope to find it healing and inspiring. It would be nice if I could be helpful, too.

This music heals me tonight. My door is open. I’m eating a chicken burrito from Trader Joe’s. (It’s the details of memory that bring you back to a place. The details are the feelings. Remember everything good you can. (I did listen to this for hours).

Your mom wants you to know that she was born to protect you and she did. She knows you have a better life because she was your mother. She says, “I wouldn’t have had it any other way, my baby son”. She’s always lookin’ out for you. “Who loves ya more?” You were her “life’s purpose. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way”.

‘Gra (Grey)’ by Wardruna

Translation: “Old Grey… I recall the ring before it broke… Your song stirs something deep within Like chords pulling straight from memory I can’t find the words, they still remain veiled Yet I know it is old, I know that it’s forgotten I remember when you roamed freely I remember when we roamed together I remember us before our paths got separated I remember the ring before it broke Always wary about you, and you about me Always wary about me, and I about you You may run to my forests Roam freely in my mountains Lead your pack to my valleys Let us restore the ring I shall sing you safe on your way I shall sing you safely home”. Beautiful.

This world is my cage, and you are in here with me inside it. I am also a cage you sometimes live inside of and you are a cage I sometimes live inside of. When in actuality, we are the same thing and the best of mirrors. Twin flames, entwined yet divided; the One Light we are, made more beautiful and powerful in the darkness; made more useful and powerful in the light.

A Hate breastfed on Grief grows to become a monster. How to change the beast? How to calm and befriend the thing with blood not yet dried on its lips? How many seasons have to have fallen away into the earth? How many warm nights will fool us into thinking winter sadness will not come?

I want a nap. I’m going to go lay down. You know why? Because it pleases me.

I want you to beat that drum. And I want you to think of me. I want you to physically pick up that drum and beat the fucking shit out of it and I want you to think of me, because when I feel the beat you can know I will be dancing.

Hate is not a state of thought or conclusion of logic. It is an emotion, plain and simple. It CANNOT perpetuate through time. ONLY material action can do that. ONLY ACTIONS MATTER – literally. Literally do I use the word matter. As in materialize.

Jesus, I’m going to sleep now.

We need to give ourselves a Better Reality. We have the power and option to do that on a personal level. Same objects; altered understanding of an additional meaning behind and with what we believe to be what is.

Listening to a lot of this stuff past couple of days. Interesting, it is so masculine. I think because I need steadfast strength and focus, additionally. Those are masculine traits, generally speaking. Funny how music can be perceived so differently depending on our mood. Hey that’s like…a kaleidoscope is a good symbol for human perceptions and how we perceive our personal realities. We need words to help us change. Plans of action involving words. Words change our whole belief and concept of truth, etc.! Spells, truly they are. We are too powerful, we don’t even see our capacity to refine. Too large are we, above the clouds of the land and seas and things we are gods of. Surprisingly stupid are we.
I may have already posted this. It’s so beautiful. normally not a huge fan of live versions of songs, but this has such sweetness, sad sweetness, and endurance (?) in it. I dunno. I just love it is all, really. I’m no music critique. This song would be on the soundtrack of my life, for sure.
I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG.

All ghosts are set free by first understanding they are dead. I sense life, or at least consciousness, in every stone I turn in my mind. Therefore, I am utterly haunted. I cannot turn my head from the messages. I’ve just got to exorcise this place or I’ll never have peace. But some of these ghosts are my friends. Some of these ghosts love me in death just as much as they did in life. And so.

This is where I end this post. I intended to give myself a month. To not come back for a full month, not until the 18th exactly. But I just can’t help myself. I have NO fucking self-discipline. I cannot help to be who I am. I know it has ruined everything for me and always will. I am a Wild Person. I am an angel on PCP. And I will ruin everything. But the writers and thinkers I will inspire, eh? What about them? Are they not important? See, my sacrifice was worth it.

I’m glad you came here. It is good to see you here.

How many letters of how many poems has the delete button eaten? Around the world, in the history of type-writers. How many truths nearly revealed have been anihilated (wait…I’m freaking out…anihilated is not a word? There’s only “nihilated”? What?)… Anyway, possibly trillions.

I just want to push this publish button. I don’t want to deleted this. Can’t I keep it? I know it has to live in the bloghouse, but it’s cold and alone and it’s already written and look, it’s really an important time of her life. Can’t we keep her? (Yes, ok, of course I can keep it, but I have to feed and water it and take it out once in a while). It’s actually very low-maintenance, I don’t have to even ever come back here.

(Narrator) (*haha Jen, you narcissist): But she did come back, again and again. To see if she was indeed the person she thought she was; To see if it made better sense, or was she impressed with any changes or insight (or foresight, or fivesight). She would come back again and again, to measure, note, and prescribe to herself whatever it is she felt she needed. For you see, she was a scientist – and ahead of her time but also slightly retarded, so it was hard to see what she was getting at. Surely though there is some future in which she figures it all out. Then we can say, “Ah. Finally”.