My mother is calling and I never tried to hear all my life I have lived in fear of fear seeing only red the color of blood watching only for the rain to cleanse everything with mud I have been waiting for so long just to find you here waiting so many years wanting nothing but to torture you- into loving me.... my deepest , darkest fear is that you will not know me that you will pass me by... and then my eyes will cry but not me.... for my heart is not a heart at all it is but a mass of sorrow mixed with blood... and now I am waiting for the filth cleansing mud.
Somebodies old socks have torn and I never meant to be a bag with a hole in it- not the least bit of cares but a worry undutiful to the mind with your beefcake junksters riding in the passenger seat and you hit the gas no movement as you jerk the wheel across the road your dignity ran (at least you know you had it) but as the wind sweeps and the sun goes down a tiny tear is used to wash my cares and I find a rose under the stairs it has my name on it- like a hero from the movies, a none other than comical character I see that I have been born and my mother eats panty hose to keep her warm in the winter my sisters all laugh and my brothers aren't alive (I never had any) so as I cough up integrity I try to close my eyes without shutting them and I chase away the worry and I don't complain....
Tiger Came to me in Dreamtime Last night Such Presence, Will, Intent
I was close to tiger, Yet Aware Of its immense Power It took my right hand Into It's mouth Playfully , gently, with teeth Penetrating gaze To tell me Remind me I had not fed it, in a long time I knew it could rip my arm off If it chose But it was choosing simply To alert me Of my neglect
I remembered then All Of it Wistful that I had let it go hungry Trying to remedy The situation with Meat
And the proximity Of this fabulous beast To me To my knowing The seemingly Tamed Tiger Pacing Hungry A force of nature Being released From my own psyche Awoke My primal Will
It Was so obvious That the Feeding Was Now In progress
A long slow slide into degradation… shuffled into the perfect recipe for biocessation Everything that you have been taught to fear Is backwards The swords of discrimination Are lacking more each year
Prepping you for the greenhouse You’ve been potted In depleted soil For the smart dome that invades Your biome And becomes your home It’s almost here You’ve been prepped and steered Along the abyss The Judas kiss From the many tiered Mirror Of your fears Here … Create panic , hide from the sun Straight into the blue light of the floodlights That mine sight and tie your eyes Too tight To run….
You are a brief elaboration Of a tube That stretches mouth to ass Filled with steller mass There is a light show within Your skin Inside Where life begins to dine On photons And digest the Aeon Trapped in time
biology uses light’s duality to sculpt life What are you being sculpted into In this blue light haze A maze of fading dreams Owned now by the real Estate Agents of Virtual Things That occupy your inner life And nullify your Imaginal Mind Running from the blind Minotaur Hungry inside his circuitry Waiting for the tender feast Prepared Carefully And risen like yeast Inside the meat Suits Who no longer need To bleed.
The ultimate beauty of psyche is that which even Aphrodite does not have and which must come from Persephone, who is queen over the dead souls and whose name means “bringer of destruction." The Box of Beauty which Psyche must fetch as her last task refers to an underworld beauty that can never be seen with the senses. It is the beauty of the knowledge of death and of the effects of death upon all other beauty that does not contain this knowledge. Psyche must “die" herself in order to experience the reality of this beauty, a death different from her suicidal attempts. This would be the ultimate task of soul-making and its beauty: the incorporation of destruction into the flesh and skin, embalmed in life, the visible transfigured by the invisibility of Hades's kingdom, anointing the psyche by the killing experience of its personal mortality. The Platonic upward movement toward aestheticism is tempered by the beauty of Persephone. Destruction, death, and Hades are not left out. Moreover, Aphrodite does not have access to this kind of beauty. She can acquire it only through Psyche, for the soul mediates the beauty of the invisible inner world to the world of outer forms.
When you walk, usually you don't see the white shadow walking beside you who may stray behind a hedgerow or veer away into a dark wood or a tall city full of thrusting agendas different from your own, or into a love bower you left behind, or never made.
Your co-walker may swap places with another white shadow, and another. This is a parallel self who made other choices, who stayed with your former lover, or still works in the old job, or never crossed the sea, or chose pancakes instead of waffles for breakfast. Though the veil between you is thinner than shrink-wrap, you rarely see through it except in your dreams, where you enter the life of an alternate self who has trouble remembering the alternate self you inhabit this side of the dreamlands.
Yet when your paths converge with a parallel self, you feel something, obscurely, a tilt to the day, and may notice you are drawing events and encounters in a different way. People praise you or put you down in ways you can't fathom unless you awaken to how you are loaded now with karma of your white shadow incurred in adventures you can't know about until you follow the dream tracks of your multitudinous self.
Among a cacophony of wild adventures……one that leaves me with much Imaginal wonder….
Amid a group of people, after a young astrologer woman present comes down with a fever, a large bird with large beak comes swooping down and around and looping around; an older man says something about it having an intentional ’target’ ….I watch in curiosity , somehow knowing it was coming for me; it lands upon my head and shoulders and starts to peck hard at my skull, over and over..::::.. I wrestle with it momentarily til I untangle it from my head and it sits on my wrist, before flying off. I was not afraid, nor was it painful, but I was quite literally Struck, at the metaphor of the knocking on my skull. The older man says it is a ‘Malin’ ‘Mallon’ ????? Bird? Something like that: I walk away to start preparing to lay down to sleep, and a young man, swarthy and of South American descent, comes over and hugs me and says he will be back soon to ‘charge me up’. I tell him I believe the bird was a messenger of a hex, and that my friend ( the young astrologer woman) had been struck down by fever from the same hex.
The road from intensity to greatness passes through sacrifice. ~Kassner
For a long time he attained it in looking. Stars would fall to their knees beneath his compelling vision. Or as he looked on, kneeling, his urgency's fragrance tired out a god until it smiled at him in its sleep.
Towers he would gaze at so that they were terrified: building them up again, suddenly, in an instant! But how often the landscape, overburdened by day, came to rest in his silent awareness, at nightfall.
Animals trusted him, stepped into his open look, grazing, and the imprisoned lions stared in as if into an incomprehensible freedom; birds, as it felt them, few headlong through it; and flowers, as enormous as they are to children, gazed back into it, on and on.
And the rumor that there was someone who knew how to look, stirred those less visible creatures: stirred the women. Looking how long? for how long now, deeply deprived, beseeching in the depths of his glance?
When he, whose vocation was Waiting, sat far from home- the hotel's distracted unnoticing bedroom moody around him, and in the avoided mirror once more the room, and later from the tormenting bed once more: then in the air the voices discussed, beyond comprehension, his heart, which could still be felt; debated what through the painfully buried body could somehow be felt- his heart; debated and passed their judgment: that it did not have love.
(And denied him further communions.)
For there is a boundary to looking. And the world that is looked at so deeply wants to flourish in love.
Work of the eyes is done, now go and do heart-work on all the images imprisoned within you; for you overpowered them: but even now you don't know them. Learn, inner man, to look on your inner woman, the one attained from a thousand natures, the merely attained but not yet beloved form.👁❤️👁
👁For the Eskimos, when one falls ill, one takes on a new name, a new diseased personality. To get over a disease, one must quite literally “get over” it by transcending it, that is, by dying. The only hope for cure lies in the death of the ill personality. Health requires death.
Perhaps this is what Socrates meant with his last obscure words about owing a sacrificial cock to Asklepiós. Once the cocky pride of life that crows hopefully at each day’s dawning is sacrificed, the instinct for tomorrow is yielded. Death then is the cure and the salvation and not just a last, worst stage of a disease. The cock crow at dawn also heralds resurrection of the light. But the victory over disease and the new day begins only when the ambition for it has been abandoned upon the altar. The disease which the experience of death cures is the rage to live. .
An analyst often finds himself purposely passing by the symptoms appearing in his practice. Rather than investigate these symptoms, he turns to the person’s life which has fostered the pathology. His premise is that the disease has its meaning in the life of the patient and he tries to understand this meaning. He cannot hold out the usual hope for cure or even relief of symptoms. His analytical experience says that the hope which the patient presents is part of the pathology itself. The patient’s hope arises as an essential part of the constellation of his suffering. It is frequently governed by impossible demands to be free of suffering itself. The same condition that constellated the symptoms is just the condition which these symptoms are interrupting and killing- or curing. Therefore, an analyst does not hope for a return to that condition out of which the symptoms and the hope for relief arose. Because hope has this core of illusion it favors repression. By hoping for the status quo ante, we repress the present state of weakness and suffering and all it can bring. Postures of strength are responsible for many major complaints today–ulcers, vascular and coronary conditions, high blood pressure, stress syndrome, alcoholism, highway and sport accidents, mental breakdown. The will to fall ill, like the suicide impulse, leads patient and physician face to face with morbidity, which stubbornly returns in spite of all hope to the contrary. One might ask if medical hope itself is not partly responsible for recurrent illness; since it never fully allows for weakness and suffering the death experience is not able to produce its meaning. Experiences are cheated of their thorough effect by speedy recovery. Until the soul has got what it wants, it must fall ill again. And another iatrogenic vicious circle of recurrent illness begins. 👁 (James Hillman ,Suicide and the Soul)
As an analysis proceeds, it moves inward from the case history toward the soul history, that is, it explores complexes more for their archetypal meanings and less for their traumatic history. Soul history is recaptured by separating it from obfuscations in case history. The immediate family, for instance, become the real people they are, undistorted by inner meanings which they had been forced to carry. The rediscovery of soul history shows itself in the reawakening of emotion, fantasy, and dream, in a sense of mythological destiny penetrated by the transpersonal, and by spontaneous acausal time. It reflects the “cure” from a chronic identification of the soul with outer events, places, and people. As this separation occurs, one is no longer a case but a person.
James HillmanSoul history emerges as one sheds case history, or, in other words, as one dies to the world as an arena of projection. Soul history is a living obituary, recording life from the point of view of death, giving the uniqueness of a person sub specie acternitatis. As one builds one’s death, so one writes one’s own obituary in one’s soul history.
BlissNinja 