I stole the title from a Peter Gabriel Lyric.
I tried posting how I was feeling in real time the other day and it went badly. I just really thought I was having a ridiculous Chicken Little moment and I could use it to look back and see where I was and what not to do.
I wrote a postmortem before death. That’s just weird.
And like the Oracle from the Matrix stated, “would you still have broken it if I hadn’t said anything?”
FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK
Noodle is officially cooked.
Good Karen messaged me after and said I write very well when I am in distress. She was one of 4 people who read if before I pulled it down.
To me its just looked like the same building blocks stacked into a different configuration.
46th verse the same as the first.
The sky fell.
How many times have I fallen apart and how many different ways can I really rearrange the pieces and get back to myself, is myself anything worth rebuilding or do I throw everything out and start over?
I pulled that post and I am mid edit/purge of the entire blog right now. It isn’t easy.
What is really strange, lately I have been talking about everything but what I am to scrub from the web.
I guess I hit the mute button a while ago, until I didn’t.
Maybe I am psychic, but I don’t trust myself as much as I do others.
Talking to my witchy Viking rune girl from Colorado.
I was drowning and called all the witches for help.
They are rallying, slowly. Time and reality have this very thick feeling right now. Like the universe is viscous. Trying to walk through water and there is a wicked undertow. I am fighting the urge to stop fighting. Oh succumbing sounds so good right now. The plane didn’t crash as I had hoped, instead we were locked in our seats for 2+ hours of turbulence. You get to decide if that is a metaphor or not.
All I want to do is sleep.
I am worried about a couple of my best witchy bitches. They just not sleeping, vibrating at some other frequency instead. I am almost jealous, I want to feel connected to the ether again like that, but sleep is my only escape from life right now.
I feel like a ghost. Like I am not real and that is with a good 8 hours a night. I dread being awake. I have said some really fucked up shit when sleep deprived. I have no idea what my excuse is now. Punch drunk?
It is not a good thing for me. Once upon a time sleep deprivation or odd sleep cycles were supposed to make you feel closer to the divine, but whatever god of mine lives there is a screeching angry god of panic.
I trust my tongue more when it is coated with whiskey than I do when I am physically exhausted. But what about mental exhaustion? What about mental exhaustion in a retrograde during a pandemic?
I used to fast to tap into my daemons to write, fun excuse for lingering anorexia. But it worked. It might be what Good Karen said, I write better when I am in distress and my stomach has been rolling too hard for a week to really eat much.
I was trying to eat yesterday and it just felt strange, like I didn’t remember the mechanics of food consumption.
I think that was just a few hundred words of stating I am not okay.
The closest I can get to an explanation is feel like I died at some point and this is just some weird limbo simulator and I am getting punished like Sisyphus, just on this loop and I want off this ride now please. This rock is too heavy and Albert as wrong, I am not happy.
I felt like this in Newfoundland too. I remember saying it out loud and it seems just as ‘real’ right now as it did then, maybe more so. Maybe I got to visit heaven for a minute and was deemed unworthy, so I was cast out back into whatever this is.
Hulk and Giant saw the bat signal that is my Stella Polaris self, flickering in a weakened state but they are both a mess too. I can’t ask for much. But it was nice to know they still care. Still part of the same weird loop though.
I think everyone is struggling now, we are all exhausted. Being held in siege by the media and the dangling fear of what panic button is going to get pushed today. Rehashing the old with a twist or is it going to be some new toxic cocktail of crazy.
I got an email today from a girl who follows my page. She had messaged me last week and asked for help getting a racist fired. She gave me shit for a curt response.
It wasn’t curt.
I was upset that I couldn’t do something, I don’t have that kind of power.
I wish I did.
I wish I had a magic eraser or even some magic words to right all of these wrongs, but I don’t.
How do you convince someone that something they believe isn’t necessarily the truth, or it doesn’t have to be.
How do you undo damage that was done in childhood?
I am still trying to undo my own and that ain’t going so great.
Every example that could have been made, every metaphor, analogy or suggestion has been meme’ed and people are just comfortable and stubborn in their own antiquated beliefs.
And sis? I am just one person. If I had any kind of influence, I would have sold enough books to buy a truck and trailer by now. But I don’t and I haven’t.
Mother Teresa said if you want to save the world start with the people closest to you.
Stabbing Westward said I cannot save you I can’t even save myself.
I thought the full moon and eclipse were last night. I was wrong. But I laid in bed feeling nothing, disconnected and it hurt me. I didn’t want to go through this again, that is why I left that island. The Weigh Station. The void, the nothing, the lack of magic.
At least now I have a shot at redemption.
Tonight I am going to sit in the backyard and give my fears to the moon.
And tomorrow I am going to figure out how to bring the rest of me back from Newfoundland, and start walking into the unknown.
