Categories
Astrology Charleston, West Virginia men My Life Story Uncategorized Writings

Terror


(I wrote this around couple weeks ago, I guess. Before the last astrological storm which led to James’s disappearance. I asked him how he would feel about me publishing it and he said it was fine, but that nothing I wrote was true.This made me feel a sense of relief so I went the dignified route of keeping feelings to myself. But in the end they were prescient, so may as well share them now.)

Now I’m scareder than ever. The last storm was as bad as I feared it would be- sluts, crime, violence, financial disasters- and I just realized that another one is upon me when Mars joins Uranus in James’s House of Sex & Death.

I really feel he’s going to leave me and somehow it will be my fault. It will be something I did. Maybe this blog post. But if not this then something else.

The other day I couldn’t take the pain of what was happening. I kicked a door so hard I can’t walk anymore. James says this was me using the threat of violence to control him.

The bad parts of him leaving are two-fold. One, he has been my whole life. When I fell in love with James I thought I had found True Love and that became my religion, my reason for existing. To accept that it wasn’t real would be the worst pain I’ve ever felt.

Secondly, I have no idea how to survive on my own. He always wanted to support me and encouraged me to rely on him for everything. This was fine because it allowed me to pursue my interests, which he supported. But also it makes it harder to set boundaries when you’ve never earned a living, don’t have a drivers license, a bank account, don’t know how to pay bills etc. I have no idea how the world works and doubt I would be able to cut it.

But I know it would be wrong to stay with someone who doesn’t want you. I guess I still believe in love.

Weird things are happening in James’s mind. More and more I seem to be associated with all the pain and frustration inside.. And other people who he could potentially have sexual relations with have come to be associated with relief from pain. And positive feelings.

More and more he sees bad in me. Devious intentions which I don’t believe are there. Nothing I do seems capable of shifting it. Meanwhile other females have become easy targets on which to project his positive feelings. They aren’t a part of his life. They are just blank screens onto which he can project his own needs and desires. How can I compete with that?

Suddenly, after eleven years of marriage, everything about me is wrong. I am too mentally fast. That is his biggest complaint. Also I never listen. But I listen all the time. He says ‘Yeah but you never understand.’ So I try harder to understand. And yet somehow I never succeed. I make him think too much. I don’t wear enough camouflage (I was literally wearing camouflage shorts when he said this.) I don’t like to get muddy. (I don’t know if this is true, because he has never asked me to do anything involving mud.)

He likes the way the online women communicate better. They mostly just say LOL all the time. But they say it with a depth of understanding someone like me can only dream of. I am mental. They hear with the soul.

So what can I do? I have to prepare to stand alone in this world. The upcoming astrological storm is likely to be more traumatic than the last one. But I don’t know how to make a living.

I get tens of thousands of downloads a month and over a thousand readers a day but probably make around 100 dollars a year. I do astrology readings but just on a donation basis. I haven’t had a job since I was a teenager. I don’t drive, so how will I get groceries? I am so scared.

But I can’t stay if he doesn’t love me. That’s what I was here for, not money or security. And I am trapped in this fun house where no matter what I do, no matter how good I try to be, I get a negative projection returned. I can do no right and online women can do no wrong. He calls them his fireflies. He calls me cuntface. I can only assume this means he wants to be rid of me.

Categories
Astrology Charleston, West Virginia My Life Story Writings

The Grapes of Practicality

I can’t even tell you what this last astrological storm has been like. For my husband, who deals- by his own choice- with 100% of life’s practical matters it has been one disaster after another, bordering on the catastrophic. It is a level 6 hurricane and we are still huddled inside the house waiting to see what happens. Will we be crushed alive screaming in pain as the life slowly slips from our eyes? (Channeling my father now.) Time will tell.

For me, however, it has been a time of empowermints as though the threat of ruin has given me wings. I’ve managed to do things I thought I was incapable of doing. And it’s been really fun. Where do I begin? I figured out how to open a bank account. I figured out how to ride a bus. I figured out how to get a library card. I figured out how to put buttons on my site encouraging you to slide me bits of money under the table. I figured out how to fill out government forms. I learned what bills are and some of the things you can do with them. I figured out how to set up an ebay account and sell things. A book has sold, so tomorrow I will figure out how to buy packing supplies and use the post office. It’s almost like I’ve figured out how to figure things. I see a problem and muscles start to move in my head. A lightbulb has gone on.

I’ve always felt so helpless. I don’t know why. I would just stare at practical things unable to comprehend what they were and how I should respond. It made me feel ashamed because I assumed people would believe I was being intentionally pathetic as a way of forcing them to help me. So I never asked for help and lived within my limitations.

Now that has changed. I spent the whole bus ride asking the driver practical questions on how busses work. I asked the librarians practical matters about other buildings located downtown. Every person I meet, I try to extract as much practical info from them as I can without seeming weird.

After about 5 days of pure practicality however today I hit a wall and was unable to move. Do you think the more practical you become, the heavier you get until eventually you can’t move at all? Could this be God’s way of keeping humans from becoming so practical we can interfere with his plans? Can this practicality streak continue, or is it just a temporary spike from which I will once again descend into a pool of helplessness?

I don’t know. My thoughts on practicality are two-fold. On the one hand, it is just practical to be practical. It gives you more options in the practical realms. On the other hand, the weird part is, despite the limitations in my life caused by impracticality, I feel free. Like my life has meaning. I’ve been talking to a lot of people recently. Some seem to go so far as to feel that if you don’t have your own bank account and car you aren’t really alive. I don’t feel that way. I think a person (but hopefully not me) can live just as meaningful an existence from a prison or mental institution as they can driving around in a pickup truck & taking yearly vacations.

It may be that these wings of practicality are paper wings that won’t last forever. After all- at least according to astrology- my life’s purpose is in the House of Imprisonment and Mental Institutions. I like to think that is metaphorical, meaning I find my true wings from looking within myself.

Oh! A practical idea just occurred to me! Would you like to know what your life purpose is and where you can find your wings? If so, slip me some sweet sweet money and I’ll tell you. Money is the first principle of Practicality, the principle upon which all other principles depend. In fact, it will probably be my success or failure in gaining money that will determine if this practical streak continues, or if my library card just sits rotting in my new wallet as the light slowly fades from his eyes….

P.S. My Dad. When I was a kid he loved to tell me about people dying and crying and screaming in agony as the awareness of impending doom entered their mind. He also liked to sing me songs about puppies being ground into sausage as he was putting me to sleep and then he would rock me as I cried in horror.

That is how a person becomes a Scorpio.

Categories
Charleston, West Virginia Purple, Magic & Sorcerers Writings

Where is my Venus?

(Warning. This post may contain gross words.)

I am a female. I am an artiste. Why can’t I can’t relate to Venus, beautiful goddess of women and the arts? Ruler of money, comforts and social graces? Why can I only relate to Aries, god of blood and gore? Why do I turn to him when I have problems? I started wondering about this today and then vomited out the following words. I don’t know if they will shed light on the issue or not.

*

Growing up I wanted to be a boy. Or at least a tomboy. Not because I liked boy things. I didn’t. But I wanted to like boy things. I felt incredibly guilty for not reading the sports page, watching sports games or learning sports statistics. My ultimate dream was to be seen by others as someone who was obsessed with sports. My ultimate ultimate dream was to be the first female professional football player.

I wanted to be a great athlete, but was held back by my dislike for sports. They were smelly, dull, tiring, abrasive, and lacking in color.

Still, the world I grew up in was 90% sports, so even if you disliked them you were playing them anyways. Swimming, t-ball, tennis, gymnastics and ballet when you’re little and later volleyball, basketball, tennis and track. In half of these sports, being tall made up for the fact that I was spaced out and apathetic.

It wasn’t enough to just play sports though. Unless you wanted to be an absolute loser in life you needed to force yourself to do sporty things in between playing sports. Time between sports could be filled with competitive ping pong games, shooting pool, practicing freethrows or going for a bike ride. If there was a time lapse between swim practice and tennis practice, you should arrange to hit balls with a friend. Failing that hit balls against a wall or practice your serve. But do not sit there munching a grilled cheese like a lazy piece of shit.

I knew some people from public schools who would sometimes play sports in a silly way, like hitting ping pong balls against the wall and giggling. This shocked me. My husband grew up in a religion where pure thoughts & sexuality were moralized. In my world, sports were moralized. Sports and exertion. If you chose to relax when you could be playing sports, exercising or doing something strenuous, then you were a bad person. A lazy piece of shit, to be exact.

Also on my shoulders was the weight of needing to save the female species from disgrace. They were a disgrace because they were bad at sports. The superiority of men at sports was a favorite dinner conversation. My dad liked to discuss how one day my younger brothers would surpass me in sports and this filled me with dread and humiliation. I had to stop this from happening. I had to prove that females can do everything a man can do. And so from the beginning, I was at war with nature.

But the possibility of being a worthless piece of shit was not the worst part. On its own, I could have dealt with being a loser. The real problem was that if I did not become a professional football player I would have to become a regular woman. I knew I didn’t want this. Based on everything I heard they were absolutely disgusting. They used only one thing to get through life and that was “sexual wiles.” Whatever they appeared to have achieved it was those wiles that had done it. I didn’t know exactly what wiles were, but I knew they sounded gross like smooshing your body against someone else’s while wearing a silk blouse bulging with boobs.

And since I had three brothers and no sisters, I was the only one who would have to grow up and use sexual wiles. It made me feel humiliated. They would just get to grow up and be normal people. Beating me at sports until eventually my wiles took over. This sucked.


***

Fast forward to when I’m 18 and decide to legally change my first and last name. Of course I chose a man’s name. To me, a man’s name meant I would be the person I was within, not someone who played a role to please others. Males were subjects. Females objects. A man’s value came from his accomplishments. A female’s value came from what men thought of her. Unless she could beat them in sports. But I couldn’t. By this time I was just a series of injuries and could barely walk without pain. Dreams of becoming an athlete were over. Sort of.

Now I’m 19. My first boyfriend/spiritual guru/husband and Jesus have agreed. I should be a stripper. The reasoning has something to with achieving enlightenment. I agree I should do this. Why? Because it is my greatest nightmare. You must do the thing you fear. Or as my dad liked to say “That which does not kill you makes you stronger.” If you do what feels good to you, the ego wins. If you torture yourself, the ego starts to die. Then you will finally become free to fly past the Eagle in the sky and live forever. That is literally how I thought of it.

Some people see stripping as a feminine expression. Dumbasses. It is the most manly thing in the universe. No one with a feminine side goes near those places. I can only compare it to a man working up the courage to stab himself in a nut.

It is about as sexual as a man pulling down his pants to be examined by a doctor who happens to be his uncle. But I was honor bound to do it because it combined all the things I dreaded most- being on stage, dancing, acting ‘sexy’ and worst worst worst of all- not wearing clothes. I can’t really convey in words the extent to which I did not want to be without clothing. Would you like to be naked and carved up in the middle of a Thanksgiving feast? Would you like to be hog tied with your head buried in mud and your bare ass pointing towards the sky as friends walk by pointing and laughing at you? Cause that is how it felt. Disgusting but also like a horror movie. “Guts” was my name. But the disgust and the horror were why I had to do it. Only the ego has those feelings. Unless you kill the ego you will never fly past the Eagle.

This is also the time I decided to become a Professional Body Builder. This was probably a way of trying to turn my body into a suit of armor since I really didn’t want to be naked. I was not looking to become toned. I wanted to become absofreaking ginormous like those men in magazines with veins popping out of their forehead. I wanted to be a three hundred pound monster. I was convinced that if I ate enough canned chicken and spent all day at the gym, I would become just like those men. I didn’t realize this was as unlikely as becoming a professional football player. In the summer I spent all my time pumping iron and packing down protein. When I got back to school the teacher had me stand up for the class as an example of a body type that would never be able to gain muscle mass. I was confused because in my mind I already resembled those giant men.

But that one statement popped my dream. And if I couldn’t be a successful professional male body builder then I wasn’t going to be a stripper either. The two things went together.

***

Always people were breathing down on me, sculpting me. My psychology was built around finding ways to fend others off while also seeking them out for protection. But every new protector would become the one I needed protection from. Normal, healthy people probably steered clear of me, I was so weird. Or maybe I steered clear of them. To this day, I feel very uncomfortable around nice people. When people tell me I am the dumbest person they have ever met, I feel safe, like Briar Rabbit in his briar patch. When people gang up on me I feel at home. Nobody in my family liked me. I was surrounded by invisible cooties and you could see the disgust in their faces.

***


I don’t trust men who try to pretend like men and women are the same. My first husband was like this. He would wear women’s clothing and mascara. He would decorate my room with pictures of women carrying guns and knives. And naked women making weird expressions. To me they looked like men in those unnatural poses, their faces scrunched up as though (trigger warning) they were trying to take a crap. But to the males that came around they were hot and sexy women. I never knew what they were seeing.

Husband would wear my shirts and perfume. He would buy me knives whose handles were carved into skulls. He bought me swords. He gave me a stolen gun and told me to keep it in my backpack as a symbol of female empowerment. He called the cops and told them I was planning to murder someone. A man who had recently crushed my skull but whom I had no plans to murder. It is hard to explain the full extent to which murdering people was not on my mind. It really hit me from left field. The cops took me to get psychiatric evaluation. They looked at my dorm room, the walls covered in collages and posters hung there by my husband. Violence, nudity. The big black pirate flag he had hung in my window. I had thought it was funny and weird the way teenagers think it is funny to turn a sign upside down. It was better than naked women. But when you are a potential murderer these things take on a different glow. The collection of knives on my desk. It made me feel special when he bought these for me. He wanted me to be safe and powerful. At any rate, I hadn’t had much say in the way my room was decorated. Each new piece of decor was hung while I was out and then presented to me as a surprise, a gift filled with complex existential meanings which would be laboriously laid out. Usually something along the line of female empowerment or getting past the Eagle.

Aesthetically I didn’t care for his decorations but it never occurred to me to view them through the eyes of police men. Although this wasn’t the first time police had shown up in my dorm room. Once they came because there was a gigantic naked man handcuffed to the stairwell outside my door. My name was written over his naked body, presumably by my husband. He was rattling his chains and wailing my name. I don’t know why. My roommate and I were pretty scared because this was the middle of the night and we had been sleeping. But it had become normal for my husband to do weird things in the middle of the night, like pulling the fire alarm, sometimes repeatedly forcing everyone in the dorm to evacuate. It was so loud & startling & cold & then the nightmare of having to get out of bed in a panic and be around boys without real clothes or makeup on. But he said I needed to learn to go without sleep to get past the eagle.

So when a naked guy was chained to my room wailing my name it was not totally out of the ordinary. I was usually in a state of semi-horror. The cops came and I was hid from them because I didn’t want them to see me in my nightgown with no makeup. I couldn’t look at them and I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know why he was chained there and why my name was written on his body.

My husband would wear my clothes and give me his. Sheer mesh shirts from International Male that reeked of permanent b.o. He made fun of my clothes, saying I dressed like a gigantic baby. He bought me new ones. He said he needed me to be a classy elegant lady. This had something to do with existentialism and Apollo vs Dionysus. There were always very complicated explanations for things. Classy, elegant ladies wore cutaway tops. Cutaway tops were shirts which covered up one’s entire torso except for the breasts which were left bare and exposed. I said I had never seen a cutaway top and it made no sense that elegant ladies would wear these. But that is when he would start screaming. Really really loud, just like the fire alarm. I guess his pattern was to make a false or absurd statement and then start screaming until I accepted it. He especially liked to scream in public. It seemed as though the more he screamed at me in public the more our friends would come up with psychological theories as to why he was actually a good guy, just someone with problems. Which caused an ever increasing flow of kindness and generosity in his direction.

He liked to humiliate me in public. Screaming at me until I would take off clothes or dance. Taking off his clothes in a fancy restaurant. Telling me I had to say sexual things to people, including family members, or saying sexual things himself. Giving people inappropriate gifts that were supposedly from me or threatening teachers in my name. I became accustomed to living in a state of permanent humiliation. I was horrified to be associated with myself and the dark, perverted, murderous freak I was supposed to be. But this made me cling to him even tighter. He was the only one who could love me.

People say it is your fault if you are in a bad relationship because you didn’t leave. I don’t care. I don’t know what fault means anyway. There were reasons I was with him. For starters, even before him I was very confused. I remember running around outside at night screaming “Help!! I can’t see!!!” I felt there were things in my mind I couldn’t get to. I was confused as to what was real and what wasn’t. I was always looking for people who could help me make sense of things. Nothing ever made sense in my world. My parents would say things that didn’t make any sense either. They would project strange things onto me.

Even moreso I was with him due to fear. I was terrified of my parents. I still am. I preferred being escorted by cops as a potential murderer to being alone with them. And for all his faults, my husband had the virtues of being insanely brave and bold. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He would bite the head right off of a live snake knowing it was poisonous. It was insane.

I suppose my core flaw was not being an independent person. That is my core flaw to this day. Everyone is expected to be an independent person ready to handle life completely on their own at a moment’s notice. But it is hard to be independent when you can’t trust your mind to know what is real and what isn’t. The terror, the confusion & the dependence became this Bermuda triangle, each point playing off the others so there wasn’t any clear way to escape it. He was the only person willing to step into that mess.

Nothing has really changed. I am still confused, still terrified and still dependent. But I try to be a productive person to make up for my flaws. I don’t want to be a net drain on the world.

Categories
Charleston, West Virginia Music & Songs Sky Blue, Ether, Flags, and Fairies

Hands on My Head


There are different types of songs I guess. This is one of those songs that you hear playing in your head which you assume will annoy people, but you write it down anyway, just in case it matters somehow. In general, I try not to judge songs too much since their meaning changes to me over time. Lots of songs which I once thought were dumb started to seem important to me in hindsight.

Hold it together & fight through the mud
You will find him there.
Close your eyes tightly the fingers you feel
A spider through your hair.

Hands on my head will you steady me, steady me
There’s too much I’ve seen.
I only thought things would be wonderful
I didn’t know he could be mean.

I loved a dream.
I loved a dream.

Hands on my head could you steady me, steady me
Show me who I am.
Winds on my mind they are blowing me, blowing me
Blowing me round in circles again.

Sometimes I feel like I could do so many things
Running fast & far.
Finding myself in another place, other place
Who took me here? Who drove the car?

I loved a dream.
I loved a dream.

Hands on my head could you steady me, steady me
Guide me through the dark?
Keep touching me til I’m ready so ready then
Let my mind restart.

Scanning my eyes through another town other town
Always gray and blue
Searching again for the boldest man, oldest man
He will be you.

Forces of air are you trying to speak to me
Why do you blow on my mind?
Help me to be just one person, the same person
All of the time.

I loved a dream.
I loved a dream.

Download MP3:








Categories
Charleston, West Virginia Uncategorized Writings

Sausage Time

This is just a symbolic representation of the problem & not an actual drawing of it.

Well, this is something I have wanted to write about for a while, but it is hard for me to put into words. Also, I question the wisdom of exposing weaknesses in a world where enemies are squirrels and friends are unicorns. Nonetheless, sharing is part of my life’s purpose (I think), and if you don’t fulfill your purpose you will be thrown back into the fire at death. So here we go.

Basically, there is something wrong with my head. I will try to describe the problem through 2 ideas which are probably interrelated.

  1. Sausage Time

    My husband calls this going fugue. I have tried to explain it before. Basically, all the sudden something will switch and it becomes hard to remember and relate to whatever I had been doing in the moments and days prior. It is like one sausage has been pinched off and a new one begun. The beginning of a new sausage coincides with new perspectives, ideas & approaches to life.

    But it isn’t changing ideas that are problematic. The problem lies in the sense of disconnection from who I was previously, as though my memory and identity- rather than running seamlessly like a river- have been pinched like a sausage. Like how you feel when you are waking up from a dream… even if you remember parts of your dream, there is still a feeling of discontinuity, as though you have moved through a veil. The dream self shared the same name and soul but not the same mind or stream of consciousness as your waking self.

2. No Skullcap

I am the normalest person you could ever hope to meet from my toes up to my ears. But from my ears to about six feet above my head, something isn’t right. It feels like my skullcap is missing and where my own head should be there are a million overlapping heads instead. They all belong to different people and sometimes to things that aren’t people.

Which sounds like schizophrenia, but probably isn’t since I don’t experience psychotic breaks from reality. I do experience the air as being filled with the thoughts, feelings and consciousness waves of other beings, but this is a stable part of my reality which never stops me from flossing my teeth. It co-exists with shared social realities but does not override them. And in these days of wireless technology, the idea of air being filled with information shouldn’t be a stretch.

Nonetheless, it feels like some kind of barrier is missing at the top of my head and I am constantly being pelted with endless chaotic inputs. It helps slightly if I wear a hat, sunglasses and ear plugs. But, in general, I try to deal with it by staying busy so my consciousness has a specific thing to focus on. According to my astrology chart, though, my life’s purpose lies in exploring these invisible realms and NOT trying to escape them through work. But that is easier said than done, since if I don’t try to actively avoid that part of myself it feels like flying in a tornado (from my ears up), and I feel despair- knowing that whatever this stuff is is so infinite & complex that ever getting a handle on it must be impossible.

Still, the chaos and overflow of information isn’t the problem. The real problem is the absence of a center point I can identify as myself.

To make matters worse, when I DO occasionally look at it, before long I tend to get sucked into one particular consciousness wave and then BAM! a whole new sausage has begun.



** PS. If you have read my other blog entries, you may have read about ESP journaling which involves looking at the energetic things which are coming from other people. I will also sometimes journal the pieces of this chaos which are emanating from myself (which is easier to do.) But even after removing these 2 factors, tons of STUFF remains which I have absolutely no way to make sense of. I think it comes from realms beyond the human but that is so far outside my scope of knowledge that I have zero idea how approach it. Hence why I prefer to stay busy and never go near the top part of my head.

Categories
Brooklyn Minerals, Mountains, Crystals, Ice, and White Music & Songs Red, Soldiers, & Fire Uncategorized

Cinnamon House

 

The Conquering SpiritI’ve written a lot of songs that involve a character crossing an endless stretch of frozen land, because I feel a lot of my life has been about perseverance and trying to outlast unbearable situations without going insane- or at least without going insane in a way that is irreversible.

So this song is about a soldier/spice salesman, who uses the warmth of spices to help him and others survive (emotionally & spiritually), a hard, barren, and relentless lifestyle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Download MP3: Cinnamon House

 

Categories
Music & Songs Santa Fe Uncategorized

Long Way Home

 

Nude Lady reclining while electric blue eagles dance.I wrote this song in Santa Fe, but it is still following a “rule” I established for myself at some point in Nashville, which is that every song must have the phrase “making love” somewhere in the chorus. Why did I establish this as a rule? I don’t know- it just gave me tickley feelings inside…

The phrase “making love” reminds me of something that in high school we used to call a Jinx-99. A Jinx-99 is a man with oiled hair, a thick mustache, and a tank top who gives you red roses and chocolate body oil on Valentine’s Day. He is just too much man, like having to eat a whole stick of butter with no bread. The phrase “making love” reminds me of that, too sticky & sincere to bear, which is what made it irresistible.

So, anyway, I wrote this song in Santa Fe, where, as I’ve mentioned, I lived in a weekly motel off the side of a highway, a very isolated and unenriched location. Before this, I had lived in Nashville, where I had a car and was constantly going here and there. Now I did not have a car and was stuck in the middle of nowhere. All day long, while my husband worked, I sat in a tiny motel room. It may be hard to understand the effect this has on a person’s mind unless you have experienced it yourself.

Although I had rarely watched tv before, I now spent countless hours being tortured and brainwashed by Country Music Television. It made me nauseous, but I couldn’t turn it off. Eventually, I had to return the television to the front office.

In a desperate effort to not die from lack of stimulation, I began prank calling people everyday as part of my morning routine- 11 people first thing every day before breakfast. I covered all my clothes in rhinestones, sequins, and other reflective surfaces (one of the lies they told on Country Music Television was that you could never be depressed while wearing rhinestones). I hoped that wearing these clothes beneath the bright desert sun would somehow energize me. I started wearing feathered headdresses, hoping that they would draw more energy from the air into my brain. And sometimes, I would walk alongside the highway carrying a red ball so large I could barely hold it, hoping it would draw attention from the people driving by, hoping their psychic energy would somehow keep me from going insane. But it was too late- I already was.

Insane people are like corpses, though, they point to a mystery- what happened to this person, who did it? Generally people do not murder themselves, and generally they do not drive themselves insane.

Download MP3: Long Way Home