Mercury Retrograde and Ripple Exposure

Okay, so I didn’t take the job I described in my last post. It paid much too little and I have decided to be unapologetic about what I know I am worth. Yet — being lost enough to consider it and not take it was very, very important because now I am instead spending my energy on writing, editing and publishing books, and that’s like, kind of sort of what I want to do with my life. That whole boomerang action is another story, but I feel like tripping down into the rabbit hole definitely whizzed me into territory I am glad to be in.

So, here I am, at another rabbit hole. Mercury is in retrograde, once again, and for all the mystics, shamans and seers out there, you know how fucking crazy, confused, unreliable and flaky this makes everyone. Including me. (Don’t like mystic talk and thinks it’s stupid? Then you should probably stop reading, and also, it’s both more fun and logical to experience space and time “beyond the mundane.” And also, now I am aware why sudden lethargy spells sometimes overtake me and rewire my skeleton, so I don’t blame myself so much for these weird times. Knowing how energy affects us is good for everybody!! #endplug)

I’m beginning to think this blog is just a mishmash of my lost thoughts. That’s okay with me. I have so many other things striving to be structured in my life, isn’t that what a personal blog is for? I will warn you, I will not always make sense here. I am a blogger from the original days of Xanga. Yes. Those blogs where you smooshily share your teenage angst with every virtual passerby.

I guess it’s no surprise, then, that here I am, continuing to virtually smear my now-20-something angst all over your Internet face. And you know what. I don’t really care. I know I can structure the hell out of a piece of writing if I want to. And here, I am allowed to not want to. So there.

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I am allowed stream of consciousness. Because everyone is. And there are a lot of weird, tired people out there who would really benefit from thought-dumping today rather than just wandering around like a broken zombie.

Note: I am about to share a journal entry from today, the first day of July, and the first day of the second half of the year. I don’t judge it, so neither should you. Unless you want to, then be my guest. What I encourage doing, dear reader, is taking a similarly hazardous and funkified trip down the tunnels of your mind. All you need is a flowy pen, a few pieces of paper and whatever muck you want to air. It’s the right time and IT WILL FEEL AMAZING. I am posting mine partly because in order to keep writing, I need an audience, and partly just because (note: not because it is a polished, finished piece of writing). Also, who are we writing for if not the one possible reader who might go, hm. I’m okay with #broadcastnation. But, first:

Ripple exposure. I found out about ripple exposure when I was about 12 years old. And I have been experiencing it ever since. Oh, what, you don’t know what it is? That’s probably because I made up the term. But I would be happy to explain.

Ripple exposure is what happens when the fabric of this reality — carpet, desk, table, avocados, breathing, friends, school, work, cats, cat costumes — all peel back to reveal the rippling, pond-like nature of existence. I’m still not sure whether the lake is a pool of time or space or both or whatever is beyond, but it is some mishmash of all of that. The Hindus know this very well. Yoga gets it. Every religion has some version of ripple exposure. You’ve been there.

The universe first revealed itself to me as an infinite lake in which all our actions ripple outward and back as a pre-teen one day when I was reading Animorphs: you know, that amazing series about 5 kids who turn into telepathic animals to fight parasitic, mind-controlling aliens. Therefore, if I had to declare a religion it would surely be Animorphism. Because I believe this pool is where my creativity lives. A few dragons, too, and the greatest bliss possible, and wisdom and maybe even the Loch Ness monster. I’m usually not too afraid of my dark side to go there, but it’s not every day I go scuba diving.

So, logically, today, as the planet Mercury seems to be going backwards, as it does 3-4 times a year, I fell deep back into the pool of ripples and was exposed. I am exposing myself. Because why not? My ego needs a little deflating in order to grow something else. And it feels good.

This is what happened:

It’s like all desire has been stripped from me and I’m watching myself groan, a lumpy frumpy mass of flesh on the floor.

I don’t even have the energy to be obsessed with anything right now, not even whatever this feeling is. I can feel my third eye hovering outside my body but I can’t muster enough interest to care. So there it sits. Still. Just watching me.

There’s a little buzz inside my rib cage, like bees buzzing for a new world, but what is this dullness that shuts them out? It’s been a while since all time left me here in a puddle with only two gooey eyes for looking. My cat is more human than me today.

These are the times when some distant part of me thanks everything for words. What are these little crystals tethering me to this big ball? I somehow remember a time before these words, and now I keep the rope near. The blinds are shut but all movement has vacated to another planet. Is this when I know how foreign I am? Trying to remember all evidence that I am human. Succeeding in forgetting. Tying this rope to my lips just to make some sort of noise because if I stop, if the words stop, some other tribe claims me, and out there I will lose myself. All little dreams become morsels for lunch and everything solid evaporates. My eyeballs expand to cover the blanket of sea and today I am not ready to die, for lack of a better word for this non-place.

So I do care about something after all, I care about these little words, these little saviors from the great beyond that whisper to make me forget how comforting being a non-body feels. I have to funnel these little marbles down the chute I have, otherwise I am pulled effortlessly to eternity where there are no shapes and no lines. Neurons fire in the translator, great neon green and pink squigglies coursing through and beyond skin, transforming non-thought to pen lines in a brilliant display of pure color. To see the world in such a spectrum feels like evolution, and ancient.

I don’t blame you if you don’t believe I can feel the stars move, not everyone is crippled by it, or if you can’t see the clouds ballooning and zigzagging around every life form – there are more colors than the human eye is designed to see. But like there’s a vacuum in my tunnel vision today, I am definitely living fully upside down in crazy town. I don’t even remember rolling off the bed, literally, and this makes me laugh because somehow I scooted my earthly mass toward the floor, and how long have I been lying here.

Started cackling over forgetting my favorite color. What does it even mean to have a favorite color?? I always said a different one when elementary teachers asked, as if that defines your character. How could I cheat on any of them, macaroni orange or lemon yellow or royal purple? I feel like the moon is trying to steal me. No, not yet! My ego hasn’t died enough, it’s still flatulating. I am superglued to the floor. I try to lift my head and just end up in a yoga pose, I forget what but my head is upside down and my butt’s in the air. It’s too early to stand, so I just kind of hover here awkwardly. If I were to live like this as a default, I might be able to run off to a circus and just spout crazy things for money. Or any downtown street. I walked past a woman with the crazy eyes today and I think a little rubbed off. My every morning is already like I’m eating peyote cereal. How many times is it normal to hallucinate a day? My grandmother was a witch, I should probably just ask her. I should also probably never do drugs.

I can’t seem to think and everything is crusty. I do have a filter, though. If I didn’t, I would regret it and people would stare. Not everyone appreciates the sense in nonsense. But this is where the poems come from, this scary immobilizing place where there is nothing left but words scrambled into some negation of order.

And I know my meditation teacher says pain is an outdated way to relate to the madness but I declare today, with help from Rob Brezny, Dare To Be Boring Day, in which all cliches are encouraged and you know what, here’s mine: the pain feeling does make me feel more human. Brings me back. I know. I know. Because this is where the breakdown occurred. This feeling of turmoil and hilarious lunacy is where I met some other soul and I let it out, I let it out big time and I was writing. Secret: this is where all the writing is kept, in this chaotic messy place where no two socks match but they all go together. Where words are the only life jacket. Where metaphors are born because the real things are too… ephemeral. Much more stable to talk about puzzles. Today, my higher self is not as much a unicorn as potatoes. There’s my straight jacket fashion statement for you.

With this person, I had no filter. I lived that way for a while. He said I got tiring. My filterless crazy maybe lost me a would-be love. After that, I shut up. And finally, now, opening again. Maybe it also gained me myself, I know, I know, I’m trying to see the positive side now because if all this is in me and I am made of poetry, or in other words all the muck of lunatics molded into words, it must be too much to have unleashed all upon one person. Poor person. I see now how I Niagara Fallsed him when I thought I was just a tourist, not taking responsibility for leaving my trace or taking the time to organize bullets into compartments.

Because look at all these roaring dust bunnies, who would want to live in that on a regular basis? The only way to manage all the dragons inside — blue, purpose and especially red — is to do it like the stock market. Diversify my options. Spread out. Divide and conquer. For such an unassuming person there is a lot of wonky funk in me. Holy crap. There. It’s settled. The only way to ever really have love is to love publicly and outwardly, just like a fountain, and unleash a billion little craps on the world because somewhere in there is a shit-covered smuggled diamond ring. And that’s a lot of crap, just too much to expect one person to handle, I can barely wade through it myself without sporting the crazy pants. But I’ll do it because I’m fatally attracted to the gleam in the garbage. Say, when is that defining moment in every writer’s life when they realize it is their destiny to go digging in the closet and see what monsters they can snare, when they realize they are a wrangler and even when the lasso arm gets tired, they are still seeking? And to hide would be a crime.

Standing up again feels like I am a little baby deer on acid.

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Thirty Thirty — The Fancifulnance Dance

Thirty Thirty — The Fancifulnance Dance

Hello dear blogworld bloggers! April is National Poetry Writing Month so I’m taking the NaPoWriMo 30/30 Challenge for the first time eva — thirty poems, thirty days. Yep, I’m attempting to write one poem a day all month long.  You can see my circus flips and flat-face tumbles at a special blog devoted to all the poets doin’ the damn thing: Thirtythirty.org.

The link to my site is: http://www.thirtythirty.org/fancifulnance/ 

Just request to be added as a subscriber! And maybe even start the challenge yourself. Day 3 was a good one. 27 more to go.

Rumpelstiltskin Free-Wheelin’

Aha! So I’ve been fairly stuck in the mud, turning my wheels hoping that one of these days I’d find myself writing again. (Of course, I should be used to this routine by now, but what writer, whose utmost soul-expansive joy comes from the “madness, rack and honey” of transforming ether into words, doesn’t sweat a little in the in-between in between the push?) And, of course, I’ve been doing a maddening array of other things, so it rarely seems like I have time to let my braingunk just play — BUT, and this is a big but I can’t deny, BUT I think I’ve had a breakthrough.

And it came in the form of donuts, too much evening-time coffee, toys and Olde English.

For years, I have been wandering through this earthly plane in search of my clan, and in so many serendipitous ways lately I have been Finding. One of these tribes, which perhaps I’ll go into at a later time, is a group of very intentionally conscious, magic-creating people who are giving me the greatest sense of potential into myself. Another has been the group of women I meet with in our feminist circle. A few other realms include simply the brilliant artists and makers and shakers I have been fortunate enough to cross paths with.

And now, another — a poetry workshop. My very first. I know, after all these years, I’ve finally crawled out of my hermit crab shell enough to see where the spark meets the road. I’ve felt that the road has always been out there somewhere, and I’ve even felt myself traveling down it from time to time, my little hunchback inching along with my flickering lantern to light the way. But I think I’ve just come across one of the big forks. And without hesitation, yes I will go forward with gusto!

The object of my newfound amore is The Poetry Lab and it’s held at an innovative co-work space here in Long Beach, CA called WElabs. We had our first meeting on Thursday. Yes, Valentine’s Day. Yes, it has been scientifically proven that Valentine’s Day does make people crazy, but luckily for me this year I have no special lover driving me to the brinks of insanity, so I was able to channel that quota of craziness into a more productive outlet — po-eeeeeems.

The organizer of the group, a refreshingly enthusiastic Danielle Mitchell, gave us a Valentine’s Day writing prompt, which I will readily admit was a trumpet of fun. We were to write a Valentine’s Day poem based on a list of nonsensical-sounding Olde English words, which once had definitions, but now just sound like hodge-podge. (Modeled off of Richard Beban’s “Love Poem to my Wifthing” from Young Girl Eating A Bird, Red Hen Press.) 

Man, what a blast. She has a plethora of other neat-o writing prompts on her blog, should you want to take your poet-brain on a walk through the bark-park. (Seriously, go check them out, you’ll be hooting in no time.)

So, anyway, it’s kind of a big deal that I’ve found some other people who like po-ums, too, and who want to sit around, blow bubbles, drink coffee and spit words around like poetic saliva! I’m not even going to say I don’t want to get too excited, because I’m really excited! There are other weird poet-people out there who might just understand the mush of my brain and I’ve found one real-life little batch of them! GAAAAA

The wheels are turnin’ and I’m not just revving up and running into walls and backing up and running into other walls! I’m like that little motorized toy car that has finally gotten unstuck from the corner! I think! Maybe! Hey why not!

So, anyway, here’s my little ditty. Just for fun. I cleaned it up a little bit from its impromptu version, but it’s basically the same hyper-caffeinated jumble of alien phrases. Like, the thing that convinced me this is where I belonged is that I read it to them and instead of going, UH WHAT, they were like, hey cool. My variety of crazy is finally appreciated!!!! And they’re really awesome, too! GAAAAA AGAIN

To Rumpelstiltskin (an Olde English Valentine’s Day poem)

Enough construpating now,
you hurly-hodge of a whingle wench,
my batterfangled gandermooner of better reason
pinches in my ear.

Not underneath the walming moon
we don’t meet in a twatterlight embranglement,
your garbroiling queaches lusting not unto
my moffled lips to leave me in a puddle of felth,
nearer to me your dreamhole
doesn’t blench,
and when it’s all my darg can do not to clyte upon your wedfellow,
your fardry bouffage leaves me earth-fast.

I find myself eyebiting on any spuddle
slutgate, reduced to unburdening my faburden
with whomever will ablude me
and grubble my drumble into misdelight,
rindling your floit every time.

But, despite all these frike-lusty shab outs,
in the greater cosmotecture —
my evenhood won’t be anyone’s howdy-wife
who doesn’t wear your warp-rascal sweven,
because,
as mally as your melsh-dick makes me,
as much as I want to prangle your crine into geason
and snirp away the Goordy that bedgangs you,
you misdeery Flunge of forgivable character
whose flammic fernitude is enough to girn any good nuddle —

for all this beautrap in my fairhead,
and against my better wofare,
lusty gallant,
the carked truth is,
my loveship was borne in your port.

I will never tell you this, of course,
until you’re ready to winchester-goose your way
back to my light-bed —
and not half-marrow this time,
you lanken hardel —
no, you can’t just wurp your way
back into my sky-parlor ready for some
flaberkin murlimews —
I am not that kind of Flurch!

No matter what gleet I may gowl
in my own burdalane smoor,
or you in yours,
only when you are ready to snoozle away
the ugsome afterclap of the past
and spuddle your kissing-crust into my hearty go-summer
with true amoret,
and stop being such an Assart —
when you are truly plumpers,
my murfle,
when you can care-cloth my bumroll
without a curtain-sermon every time,
when you’re truly fluttersome for my fleshment
and less foot-hot,
when you know —

only then may you please famble your Foad
quietly into the hushed brustle of my eveglom,
commit to me your sleepaway,
purfle me your paranymph,
and if you dwine me to be your bridelope,
if you give yourself to me with wowf
and ask to lay beside me bespawled
with no frims or crisples or smicks,
if — and only if — that time should ever come,
you know what a wifthing I am —

for all my harping devilshine:
my heart-spoon, my belly-friend, my dear leech-finger,
this cumberground hink will have no choice but
to rush-ring you back fulyear,
you and your great brute love.

Now go out and poetry!