Zeitgeber—Zeitgeist

Mytheme [or possibly, ourtheme]:

Jones had thoughts but didn't count them. Like teeth, she kept most of them out of his head, to be found, on vicarious occasion, in the rose, in the gob of a beast, and, always, so on. She was wary at times of 'animal spirits' or any talk of ancestors and bones. She didn't know what it would mean to doubt himself, betokened 'the world was here before I was born, and will remain after I die,' or, simply, 'this is my right hand.' For that reason, she never spoke of it. She took things into his hands, yet, neither gift nor given, the words in his earthly refrain.

And, with quiet antipathy, she'd kill owls in their sleep, come daybreak. And, to gainsay the sun synonymous with again, she never troubled leaving without a trace, knowing that they would be only indices of him, occluding her, lost in the count of fragments. And, the sun would be the last thing that she would toss, beating the dust out of the rug of his eyes, at dusk.

so now that i have to get up early in the morning

only been up for eighteen hours, but would've been sleeping already. plan to be up for another ten or so, reverse reverse reverse the usual schedule, operate in daylight hours. dizzy, cured of my ability to speak, biding the time. half-drunk, half-mad, stark as winter light, aching to lay down, itchy in my own skin, wearing all of my clothes at once like that'll keep me safe. can't read or can but the words make sounds but don't make sense, buzzing from patch to patch in the same cluster of rooms, waiting for this to pass. a test of will. ignore the cat's mewling, tidy up to come back to neat home and a made bed. the reptile brain wants to sleep because it knows it needs to. the floral brain breathes reset reset reset so our aura can burst forth shining instead of dimmed by vague recollections and verses of old psalms that do more to disturb than salve. dirty cigarette mouth gnawing. dirty chipped nail polish fingers crossing. last man standing nose sniffing buried in the scarf that bears up a very old very tiny crumbled dusting of weed. eyes strange neighbor watching. who are these people? their stringy hair upsets my otherwise unoccupied and addled brain. all i want is to not fall asleep as sun the comes up.

dissonance my enemy
but not my jailer
if i feel enough of it
ill set myself free

Aho.

some of us are water people, some of us earth people, some mountain people
You are forever pure, you are forever true, and the dream of this world will never touch you. So give up your attachments and give up your blah umm blahh he bum bum badadooowopp and fly to that place thats beyond all illuzzzzzeeeeunnn.

Hello: entry into rainbow world. When's the last time I wrote?
well, check it out. I
rode through the desert of northern mexico on the bed of several trucks.
I
camped in Palenque and went waterfall walking, had some sacred mycelium journeys,
and I am in this sweet difficult transitory relationship with Mateo-- the star of three stooges monk style, star of the rainbow kitchen, star of the ballooning ego.
(the most fun thing to do in a rainbow kitchen is feed the workers. ola familia, guacamole and jicama for hardworking hippies!!!)

this morning, after the solstice/full moon journey, I went around the circle serving canteloupe to the family and my appetite disappeared, I was so full of the gratitude of each smile, of each person willing to look into your eyes, to share this experience of--- the unmanifest, pachamama, a reality beyond money, an eternal drum circle by the sacred fire.

(A: hey guys, am I a hippie yet?
M: No way. Your crust punk leanings put big sticks in your hippie wheels)

Phew?
Well, at this moment in my life I am moved by trance parties, drum jams, waterfalls, and medicine ceremonies. Don´t know how long it will last, but I am riding this wave down to Costa Rica to geo-paradise, a six day trance party that ends with a campout on the beach. Electronica mixed with workshops about sustainability and energy work-- hopefully a good place to make connections and find that idyllic jungle yoga farm where I can ground out for a minute.
We've lucked out with a ride to costa rica from a swiss rainbow brother with a golden california van. 5 hippies crossing central america.

I am learning to move slowly. To wait to be moved. To be to let be.

your essence
is vaster than an ocean than a desert than a sigh
you can feel it when you fall in love
when you forget yourself
and when you cry

Thought

There is no 'we' or 'us' in 'pariah'.

wonderbread and wonderboy go for a walk in the woods...

do you know the story of the lupin lady?

also, dwelling in history: http://alitheavenger.blogspot.com/2008/08/recount-decount.html
practicing radical inclusion of past selves....hmhhmmhm oh berlin, oh my heart. one of many.

wanting a cigarette and questioning that desire--replacing it with stretching, yogastic satisfaction

thinking of-
healing?
how have i changed in the past year?
did college make me articulate?
how do i act on my radical politics?
does something matter if i can't articulate it (that is, spread a revolutionary consciousness)?

also geez-o, it's raining like a mofo on this thin-tin roof
& i'm thinking of population decline
(http://www.windward.org/private/articles/population01.htm)
hm bleak--whaddya think?

preparing to leave safan tomorrow morning,
leaving a red-purple-gold palatial shit chamber in my wake
gold seat fit for pillow princes and size queens alike
like the swimming idea of green tomato pies
like boletes, browncapped children of the forest fairies who live in the galls,
like two goats dead in four days and we wonder and we wonder,
like business plans are deep conversations, like
if you weren't raised eating expensive air then you'll never understand the difference
like whatever---

i am not a fountain! i am a jungle-jumble-menagerie-wet-furry-paperback-wonder!

last night i dreamt that my father was elected president (everyone said, "even if he doesn't do anything, it's a great sign. he's the best president we've ever had, and he doesn't have to lift a finger.") and that i was wandering from house to house looking for someone to give me shooting lessons.

also last night, after a day of wine tasting and cheese tasting in sutter creek,
maggie and i constructed a ritual for ourselves--of celebration, gratitude, making-space, becoming-present. drew from the rituals i had done with you folks, under the full moon on the beach before the jammin, at the sky factory under a sacrificed pinata, the queer interfaith ritual at the point this spring quarter, also the masquerade and wedding parties, also more small things of ritual and symbolism...
it was really good. we ate olive-garlic-rosemary-sourdough warm bread and kombocha squash and beans and rice and mustard greens and red wine, danced in the mud under a cloudy sky and screamed and howled and sat and were quiet. i imagined my chest to be like an advent calendar, full of tiny little doors, each door opening onto a field of stars and dark matter and space. i imagined opening each of the doors. we folded pieces of paper in half and wrote-drew "things we are stuck on/that control us" and "things that bring us strength, make us present" and shared some things (our papers looked totally different)--we planned to burn the former one, but decided to hold onto it to keep it conscious, think healing instead of throwing out. ("radical inclusion of past selves" has been a theme in my thoughts since az mentioned it in willits...it's a process.) i made some small commitments to myself, small daily rituals. it left me exhausted and good-feeling last night and quiet today.

drip drop
drip drop
drip drop

babe
let's play this old school
rock'em, sock'em boppers
this world is to be tackled
rattled
understand the build-up
play it til all the strings snap

read the whole thing here

j: posts on identity at le meme temps, mon cherie?

i am a fountain of blood
a slow fall of golden threads down the back
a treasure chest of liquid-pumping pets
i keep them inside, i feed them well

i am a warm fleshed burrow for wind
my heart, a bird
my ribs, her cage
i am a cavern to be filled
an inside and an outside
a hunger and a satisfaction
i am many colors

in the shape of a girl

just a few words

consistencies
feel like failures of to be.
i me justin
this stuff
is not one wieldable self.
when i show up at a dinner, when i wake up
i am not one person, yet am trusted to be

things are not always as they seem

baaaah! [chirp chirrrup] [cluclucluCLLAAA] [phhhhhhhhhhh] [druh druhh druh] [flapflapflap] [breathe--in. breathe--out]
i find myself (over and over though some parts run faster than others crawl)
on a ranch out in fiddletown--
some things same old,
semi-retired corporate giant
turtlenecks and all food names in french or italian and
every story is a one-upper and he knows the best about everything
starts farm on some land with his womanfriend
then she leaves
and he invites wwoofers in to let the goats in and out to graze
to count the sheep
to feed the dogs
to wonder what the garden used to look like
to imagine artists standing on each others' shoulders to make these huge graffiti murals
at times beautiful and at times absurd among blood-vessel-manzanita trees and live oaks.

same old
community of a kind over cardune gratin and oxtail stew
some kind-of-friends over for dinner and
he's hopped up on vicodin
[he pulls me in to dance (/cuddle)]
and asks why such a beautiful girl is trying so hard not to look like a girl
and why i'm hiding my boobs
and why i cut all my hair
when i'm such a beautiful girl,
[he squeezes my knee]
halfway through dinner
he just wants to know, just one question,
do i like cock?
susan drops her fork and
shannon pours her vicodinified lover another glass of wine
trying to restore the thin veil that was pulled away from her lover's mind
and steve apologizes afterward
and swears he'll never have him over again
and i'm bored already

same old
wine-tasting in amador county and
maggie (the other wwoofer, who's a little depressed)
puts on makeup and i my suspenders and we put on our british accents
hailing all the way from sedgewick hop from red wine to red wine
all brewed in our honor
and i say in the car "you know, i find all these people quite boring"
and we're both tipsy with names of thick-skinned grapes floating in our ears

same old
i wake in the middle of the night, pry open my eyes to see if it's light
go back to sleep
start a fire in the morning that gets rained out by noon
surprise steve by trying the oxtail stew
an ox i never met raised and killed by steve's doctor who lives right up the road

same old, i start to think of moving
living on the land i start to think in seasons, years, generations, centuries,
the time it takes a tree to grow, an inch of topsoil to lie down in the forest,
my mind thinking in moments, tiny dramas, eurekas
my travelling body feeling in two- and three-day stints (it's been three here and i'm starting to itch for another life), months at the most

even after so little time here (in the scheme of a tree)
i'm leaning elsewhere, towards laughter and love and spirited vision, a new book of poetry, communities that celebrate and cook together, nourishing our foundations and not just living day-to-day,
wondering too what path i'm on, what the story is of where i'm going with bits of grass and mushroom slime on the back of my hands and a bag of zines and tinctures
when i'll meet up with my kindred (which are to be found in every tree but also today feel rather far away)--

Planninglessly

After the bliss factor of Amma/rainbow family/spreading lovenlight, I decided to jump on that spontaneous mosquito train and hop down to Mexico. We left the farm today, are parking the car in LA tomorrow, and then off to Veracruz for the rainbow gathering. I'm traveling with Mateo...by bus/train/hitching? We'll see. Drift-time