there lies a shadow across the sun

i've been having numerous, back-to-back-to-back, negative synchronicities...insomuch as they are synchronous events, they remain beautiful because there is still a harmony, a chaotic sense of order, a reminder that all things are interconnected...but they are negative in how they affect my mood, my state of mind...and negative because, although the connection is felt, i cannot make of it the message, do not yet understand the lesson, for the language of the Universe often cloaks itself in riddles, and while taking it all in, i must also be aware of what I am putting forth out into the air, my energies and such that the Cosmos are picking up and translating, and then I must be wary of the Planets and their rotations and how their gravity shifts are stirring the winds on Earth, shifting things in my life, and then I must take note of the infinite realities being created by, amongst, and with others and how they converge with my own to spawn these mini-worlds of chaos and low atmospheric density, while simutaneously color-coding the energies of other beings who are in my orbit so that i may separate which ones I want to let penetrate me and which ones I should be shielding myself against...i am utterly spent, and here i rest, on the side of the road, dangling my legs over the curb. I wonder how much of this, these things that are bearing down on me, how much of it is merely a reverse wishful thinking, negatively-charged manifestations of my own intentions, a mere self-fulfilling prophecy, something that i spoke into my existence without being conscious of the seeds that were spilling from my tounge, planted into the belly of the stars to gestate, they are now bursting through the womb. spring is beginning late for me this year...this is my period of rebirth, my beginning again, my first day of a new year, the time where i am meant to reinvent...but i am cold still, the sun is hiding, depriving me of its precious breadth of rays to resucitate me and help me breathe again, and i remain here, in this spot, on the curb, frost-bitten, numb.

recycle day

Nothing soothes my disquieted spirit much more than a trip to the thrift store, getting lost between the racks of clothing, having a love-at-first sight affair with some article or object that has been once loved, rejected and long forgotten, adopting and welcoming into my home some thrown away relic and giving it a new life, instilling it with new meaning and memories. When I touch these objects - picture frames, colorful glass bottles, trunks, suitcases, candelabras, dresses, pants, shoes, books, records, VHS tapes - my fingertips vibrate with energy, my brain blossoms with curiosity, imagining where this thing has been, its journey, its story. It is indeed a spiritual experience, a cleansing of sort - I always take some of my own clothing and items to donate before I assume the responsibility of more - a recycling, out with the old, in with the used. It has become ritualistic in every sense - I don my headphones, have my denim shoulder bag slung over, sunglasses to hide my eyes - and as I persue the aisles, I bump into strangers, people from different walks of life, and we share these brief moments of knowing, we become familiars, aware of a common purpose, and the exchange of smiles becomes the consideration for the temporary rental of a peaceful mutual space. I tend to have these random conversations too, where I and another take on differing interpretations of the meaning behind a particular item.

I found this item on a shelf in housewares, and upon laying my eyes on it, a well of feelings bubbled up to the surface. I wanted it, and it appealed to me for many different reasons, the symbolism behind it, the irony behind that symbol - scales of justice. Half filled with sarcastic amusement, half filled with genuine attraction to it, I picked it up, put it in the cart and decided it would have a home in my home, somewhere. Later on, as I went to pay for my items, the lady bagging my purchases came upon it and asked me why I decided to buy it. "Is it because you're a libra?" she inquired. My first response, chuckling, was "No, but I'm in law school, so I thought it fitting." As soon as those words came out my mouth, another thought immediately followed (at times, I speak before I think, leap before looking) - "But I am a Libra ascending, actually." I told her, sharing with her the information I learned a week ago after receiving my natal chart. "Me too!" she exclaimed. "No wonder you were drawn to it, the scales are the Libra's sign, they represent balance" she followed. I had'nt known. "Wow, I just found out about my rising sign. Thats really...interesting." "Yeah, thats why youre such a snazzy dresser!" I found that amusing. We talked a bit more, and I thanked her aloud for the information, but in my mind, was more grateful for the conversation than she knew. It was precisely what I needed in order to connect back and reflect on what I had felt when I first encountered the scales, the state of conflicting emotions. I tell you this - I am a very sentimental in this respect, I buy when I feel an attachment to an object, when I feel drawn, when it invokes a memory or an emotion. This is why I am a pack rat, and it sucks to move so often.
In the thrift store, on every visit, no matter which one I go into or where, there is a pattern in what I come across. Every time I visit, for instance, I will find a different, favorite childhood fictional novel of mine, stories that inspired my very first short stories as child of 6, 7. It is always eerie and in the same instance, it floods me with good feelings. I get giddy, in that moment, as though I were still that child of 7. I pick them up with the dual purposes of having it in my home and wanting my 9-year old daughter to read and enjoy them, with a third purpose of wanting her to have those same feelings of joy that I had when I was reading them at her age, going on adventures in my imagination, getting lost between the folds of the paper. She isnt always interested in them, and although it stings a little bit, I have to remind myself that she isnt me and doesnt like to read the same things that I liked at her age. She is creating her own memories and feelings of joy with those things that she likes. I am trying to live vicariously through her in some ways, to reclaim my own childhood imaginations. I think I would reread these books, if I could do it without feeling silly. I do, from time to time, reread my favorite author from my pre-teen and teen years - Christopher Pike, a sci-fi and horror author. I am never any less awed by his words, his concepts...so mind-blowing, still is...and even when I do, I'm like, should I be reading this as an adult? I dont know...but I want to write. And these books gave me inspiration before, as a child, to create my own fiction. Perhaps I should refresh my memories, I am starting to think. Its like, I have all of these ideas...so many, written on scraps of paper and stickies and tucked away in tattered notebooks...sentences jogged down in the heat of intense thoughts and other-worldy explorations, but I just cannot...make them grow beyond ideas. In some very superficial way, it has much to do with this illusive, illusionary thing called time. "I dont have time to write a story, I need to be reading this assignment and outline this chapter" is what I chastise my self with. "My creative energies have withered," I say, "I have to think logic and law and rationale." Its all just smoke and mirrors, however. The thing is, deep down, I think, I'm afraid of...something. Lacking a bit of confidence, questioning if I'm any good or if I'm just holding on to some childhood fancy. But that cant be true, something that feels so strong must be real. Today, at work, before I gave my presentation and while waiting for the students to appear, I had the most beautiful, affirming conversation with the counselors. We were talking about careers, children, traveling, art, doing what we loved, living our own dreams while still being able to maintain and survive. One of the counselors asked what was my first love, what would I want to do if money wasnt an option. I told her two things, writing or doing something with theater and costume design. She told me I could only pick one. My immediate, gut, pre-thought response was, writing. I'm not sure what that means, if I have unconsciously conditioned myself to give forth that response, but it felt more visceral than that, as love tends to be. I think it is my truth.
She told me I should visit Toronto. I think it will be my next estination - Canada has been calling me for quite some time now. Its about a 20hr bus ride with the cheapest possible ticket, but I've never minded 20hrs of thought, music, and words to read. There is something for me to unearth over there.

"Thus hath the candle singed the moth..."

this orb, this amazing thing set the sky ablaze this eve, spraypainted in bright orange hues...some thing whispered in my ear to grab my camera before i left my home, and the planted thought would later remind me to pull it out as i stepped out into the wind this eve and cast my eyes to the sky, destination The Merchant of Venice playing at Temple. i had the perfect view, given access as i made my way down the concrete, towards the theater, walking between the trees. it were as though the sun were piercing a hole into its back and shining unrelentingly through, or perhaps Mars had accidentally bumped into it, off course for the evening, leaving behind red vapors, burned by fire. have you ever seen a more perfect shape, a more seductive entity? And I am but a moth.


March 21, 2008 - 7:56 PM

...

Peace, come to me soon, I beg of you, but she is an elusive mistress, often hiding like a pin betwixt the haystack of her evil, beautiful, bewitching twin Chaos, and the more I beckon her, the more she evades me, rejects me, whispers seductively in my ear to remind me of those infinite worlds, timelines, dimensions, possibilities and spin-offs where things have turned out differently than they have in my present world, where I am still hand-in-hand, skipping off into the sunbeams. She knows my mind, and knows that there is no truly comfortable place for her to rest within its folds. Perhaps in my dreams there will be brief respite from the harsh winds out here, and in the space of some nights, I will awaken the next day beside my Peace as though she had been there the entirety

the in between

The stars were obscured by a sea of clouds this evening, they sat still in defiance and spite, robbing me of the beauty of the burning suns, the universes eternal night lights, selfish clouds, but you are powerless to mask the splendor of the sea, and though I cannot see beyond the horizon, I know that the waters rage on endlessly - they answer to no one, forever free to be, man cannot control, he may only attempt to navigate it in bits and pieces, give the each ocean a name for we cannot function without labels, but it always flows on, in whatever direction it chooses, as it did, as it always will be when we are long gone. Beautiful ocean, will I ever comprehend your mysteries, or am I destined to live my days loving you, standing beside you, sucking my toes into your cold, uninviting soul, you allow me a taste and then comes a wave, and back to the sand I go, when I havent even had a chance to show you the pieces of me to remember me by, dropping a salty tear into your billions of salty tears, and would you remember me or simply absorb me, allowing my tears to give you strength, to keep you flowing?

I need you to see what I see, put my mental images, life experiences into photographs, snapshots framed in black & white, Im dying to see as you see, your perspective engraved into my irises, printed digitally onto my brain, our melodies echoing, developing, reverberating in a dark room, encased in red lights, tendrils of pearly smoke dancing across a blue pool, rising like dead souls from the bottom, ethereal watery graves from below, to see what I see, to know what I know.

Mind-Speak

As Shakespeare advised us when he spoke poetically through Juliet, words, names are meaningless - you can call something anything and that does not change the property nor the essence of it. But out of necessity we have them.



Words are the most contradictory of things...they are beautiful, communicative, and my personal preferred mode of expression...but at the end of the day, they are inadequate to truly convey all that you mean, they are incredibly limited, in many ways, and after being defined by other words and broken down to their most basic definition, have no real meaning at all. yet we rely on them, depend on them, for without them, how else could we attempt to communicate what is in our minds and our thoughts. it is the part of the politics of experience, i suppose, since you can never see through my eyes, supposedly, never be inside of my mind, and vice versa, we have to create a common language, mode of understanding. But this language, my putting words together to assemble a meaning to vaguely represent the billions of thoughts floating through my head, it is truly inefficient. They are merely symbols, often abstract, and we attempt to give them common meaning, standardization. These symbols are powerful indeed, but they remain beyond our control, we cannot give ownership to them, and they become misinterpreted and mis-communicated, for they exist, and they insist on having a mind, energy, life all their own, they become negatively or positively charged through the vibrations of their speakers. i think we are meant for more than that. i am individual indeed, but i am interconnected with a network of infinite individuals with whom I share a space, and we all come from one, all come from a common Creator or Creation or a field of infinity or however you choose to conceptualize it, so why can we not link our minds together and use telepathy, directly connect? if we all believed in the possibility of it, if we all manifest it, create it, accept it as a part of reality, it will be real – nothing in this world is real until we deem it so. . Impossible doesn't exist if possibilities are unlimited and infinite. And we limit ourselves to what we have been forced into believing is the only possibility. If creativity and its progeny, human advancement, is a reflection of the power of the mind, the imagination with its near infinite potential is an indication of our mental abilities and our limitless possibilities. we do not realize that we have the power because our conscious and reason wont accept it because we buy into this socially-created, commonly accepted reality, we impose and accept our own limitations and live out our lives trapped by them. So, anyone willing to transcend our primitive existences and perform a thought experiment with me, let me know.