I’ve been hyper-focusing on the mundane recently. Money worries. To the point where I fooled myself into thinking that the whole point of this existential shebang was to have money. It’s not like I am talking savings or a house, I’m talking enough money to pay bills and buy food. I am skimming my grocery list culling the unnecessaries and finding low-cost alternatives to what I need. That’s the kind of money worry I’m talking about. It’s difficult elevating my mind to my spiritual life although it’s always there whether in the “messages” received through synchronicities sent by “the universe” or in the spirit contact awake or in dreams. The other night my hands were seized and shaken hard. My response was a firm, “Fuck off!” … I have other worries right now. But perhaps I need a firm shaking in general. Perhaps all this stress is a form of soul shaking. A friend the other day congratulated me on my “uncomfortable progress”, that I was a “go-getter” she said in her Utah drawl and that I seemed to be moving forward even if it was the progress of a person dragging herself over broken glass.
I don’t know the future outcome. If I did I could digest it, adjust and make plans. It’s the unknowing that jibes. The unknowing calls for that thing I find so hard to do – letting go. It’s such a New Age-ism, “Hey man, just let go and trust in the universe!” Ah, fuck off. I’m neither open to being shaken by spirits or to having my hair stroked by a patchouli scented bro. This shit is hard. This kind of stress accompanies me every moment of the day. Only my dreams have been clear of money worries, instead I have dreamt of blood … a man in black kisses me and gifts me with a silver DNA helix that is melted down one side; a Heathen woman attacks me and steals my blood; a friend slides a silver device into my neck and also starts to take my blood … I am obsessed by blood these days, firstly as I consider my heritage and then secondly because I seem to have secondary hemochromatosis (still under investigation). Blood has spilled even into my art as I am embroidering a red blood cell based piece for exhibiting at a show next year. Anyway, at least my dreams seem to hold onto things other than money and mundane stressors. I’m doing what I can. I was told once that I was “resourceful”. I didn’t know what they meant, but now I know that it’s because I make a little go a long way, I turn situations to my benefit even if it is through death-defying mental gymnastics. That latter is a double-edged sword as it has also made me put up with crap from people for longer than I should have because I rammed on my rose-tinted glasses. Sometimes shit is just shit.
I am a Chicken Licken, always have been. Chicken Licken who had a nut fall on his head and instead of thinking, “Ah, nut!” runs around shouting, “The sky is falling in! The sky is falling in!” Whereas money worries and health worries can indeed bring a sense of celestial Armageddon, ultimately I need to chill my boots and do what I can. After all, the future does not yet exist and my degree of worrying is like facing an opponent in the ring and believing that I can beat him through fantasy alone – my inimitable mental gymnastics won’t stop me from being hit squarely in the face. But it’s up to me whether I get up again or not. Some days I honestly don’t think I will get up. I’m throwing in the towel. Other days I re-find my sense of purpose and it’s not to pay bills – although that has to be done – no, that’s not my PURPOSE. I did not slide from my mother’s belly with a desire for financial stability and money will not keep me warm in the grave. I have never had nor wanted the social standing that comes with money, so it has never been part of what makes me, Seshat.
Yes, I have done magick to help my finances and it worked exactly as I had intended for it to work. But on the same day I had confirmation that all would be well … another fucker arrived and put me back in the same situation as before. So obviously I need to be in this uncomfortable phase for another 6 months or so, which is when it will be resolved one way or another. “Uncomfortable progress” – it just depends on what you choose to see as progress. Another scan? Progress. Another blood test? Progress. Another 25 page form to fill in? Progress is a page at a time … This blog post? Progress, as I slowly pull my head out of my own behind and look around blearily at the world and realise that it’s kind of spring, in spite of the recent bout of snow. Yesterday I saw my first butterfly – large and luminous, lemon yellow, called a “Brimstone” … the devil waving hello. Fucker. After all “uncomfortable progress” is his watchword.
I’m as tall as a cow. I found this out as I walked through the cow fields and one came up and eye-balled me. Cows today must be GM-cows because I’m sure they never used to be that tall, and at 1.75m I’m not short either.
Short. I wish that was the excuse for why I struggle so much with the stiles. Predominantly a British phenomenon:
Doesn’t look too tricky to clamber over, does it? But is it left foot first or right? Which leg do I swing over and when? Usually I get stuck half-way across and sit with a blasé expression, pretending to admire the view while I consider whether to just throw myself off the thing or tackle it limb by limb.
I encountered similar difficulties when getting into the jeeps and pick-up trucks of my family in New Mexico. They live in the mountain desert so it’s high off-roaders only for them. I tried reversing in, but my legs are two short. I tried launching myself in front first and army-crawling my way on elbows over the back seat. Nothing but nothing was elegant. My family found it hilarious. I pursued different options like an alchemist seeking a way to transmute base metal into gold; but my elegance remained tin.
This evening I sat down by the river, watching fish jumping for the evening flies. Four swans floated past, each raising up out of the water to stretch and flap their wings, not together or randomly but one after the other. I saw flowers floating past and thought about garlands of flowers offered on the Ganges. A flock of ravens hiding in a tree was disturbed and raised a great racket as they flew off – I have never seen so many in one group. The pinky-orange sun slipped behind a cloud and I headed home.
On my walk I thought about art group today. There was only me, Woman and Beta Psych, so we just sat and talked. Woman narrowly avoided having her eyes jabbed out with paintbrushes when she TOLD me that I wouldn’t self-harm if I had a boyfriend. I coughed up a fur ball and said, “Cutting is not about being single.” She said other stupid, facile things and contradicted herself, or damned me to hell as irredeemable, by saying that men would be scared off by the intensity of my scars. I’m fucked either way, or not as the case may be. I said, that such people could “jog on” as far as I was concerned, that I didn’t need namby-pamby people who cringed at the sight of my scars around me. Life is too short and there are plenty of people who accept all aspects of me, or who have indeed been there themselves. As an LHP-er I don’t think that I have to surround myself with the twee people to feel good. No I don’t have to be nice about people’s beliefs in angels because that will make me a good person. Angelly-Wangelly stuff does my head in as much as therapy-werapy stuff dressed up under the abhorrent term “life coaching” – both run the triple knife edge of doing nothing, being childish make-believe or doing harm to fragile psyches. In any case you might as well imagine a smurf on your shoulder and listen to what the smurfing hell it has to say to you … you will make just as much progress by channeling your own subconscious that way. You do not invoke an archangel for a cuddle, FFS.
I said, I missed TMIWTM. Woman asked, “What does he give you that you can’t get from us?” I replied, “Everything! I have told him things I haven’t said here, and he knows things about me that no one else here knows or will ever know.” She looked shocked. Beta Psych appeased her with, “One-to-one is very different to a group working environment.” You bet your bejeezes it is. I said that I had never been so emotionally close to a man before. I heard her jaw hit the floor. She doesn’t like TMIWTM. She saw him for a couple of sessions 15 years ago and he told her she needed marriage counselling. 15 years later, she still needs marriage counselling… today she admitted to violence in the marriage on both parts.
Nobody’s perfect. But I do get tired of people trying to heal others when their own lives are fucked; or people in bad relationships telling you that a relationship will sort all your problems; or when people pretend to be open-minded but have surprisingly narrow and sudden limitations. I’m fucked in the head. I know that and admit it freely. You literally read my heart on my sleeve and the state of mind in the scars on my arms; but at least I am honest about it. I don’t bullshit and I don’t play around with other people, pretending to be something I’m not.
If I’m tin, then I’m tin but I keep trying to be gold. And somethings will never change: I will always be as tall as a cow.
I get so fed up of people play-acting a persona or bigging themselves up to be something they only aspire to be. Yes, my cynic may be coming into play here and also my natural English propensity for understatement, but still…!
I hit against a similar frustration when I was on that dating website and I meet it again and again in the pagan/occult world. Perhaps it’s a lack of humour on their part, or an excess of humour on mine… or a lack of humour on mine…
Seshat: Hello, who are you?
Other: I’m a man who walks the paths that others fear to tread.
Seshat: Oh. Really? Sounds lovely. And what do you do when you’re not walking the paths that others fear to tread?
Other: I’m breaking the rules, pushing the boundaries, living life on the edge.
Seshat: Sounds a bit samey to me.
Such stupid, empty statements are the greatest shield against intimacy. So when does a man (or woman) practising detachment become just a man (or woman) with intimacy issues??!
The cooler the man, the sexier he believes himself to be, the more the empty-headed women flock around and believe the myth of stud-ness he weaves around himself, the more I laugh and can’t take him seriously in any respect.
Other: You’re laughing… at least you’re pleased to see me.
Seshat: Trust me, it’s only my top half that’s pleased to see you.
It is impossible to have any kind of meaningful conversation with someone who is more interested in their own appeal than in being appealing to you:
Seshat: I like your accent.
Other: Yes, I do have a nice voice, don’t I? Nice and deep. Sexy, isn’t it?
Seshat: Um. Yes.
Other: I saw you looking at my arse. I have a good arse, don’t I? Loads of people have said that.
Seshat (who had actually been looking at a squirrel): Um. Yes.
Sure, confidence is attractive. Even confidence verging on a quiet arrogance can be sexy. Maybe that’s the key word – quiet. I just wish some of these people would shut up! Yes, I know you are amazing, handsome, sexy, desirable to all of female flesh; I know you are the darkest, darker-of-the-darkest-darkier-dark-darkness I will ever have the pleasure to meet… So cut the crap and get real.
I thought walking the Left-Hand Path was about a brutal self-honesty and a desire to cut through the egotistical bullshit, to pare away the excess and get to the pure white bones of Self. So why does it have to come with the LHP™ commercialised pantomime pony-arsed prancing of a bunch of teenagers high on their first sip of absinthe? But that’s unfair to teenagers, especially as most of the people are older and should know better.
But even apart from the LHP “I’m so dark my own mother couldn’t find me in a coal shed” crew, there are still those, for example, amongst the pagan crowd for whom every floorboard creak is a ghost trying to communicate, and every poorly developed photo is a sign from the other side. I recently had to bite my tongue while I was shown a “ghost photo” which was actually just a “crap photo”. As my friends know, I am not a “social” person. I don’t do airs and graces very well. I once had a very well-heeled boyfriend (son of wealthy family, royal associations) who was just about to embark on a political career in London working for Lord S. We broke up when he moved to London because he couldn’t trust me not to leap on the tables and talk about the redistribution of wealth to his cronies … and yes, he actually said that to me. Prat… although he does have a point.
Oh, I’m just sick of all the bullshitting. I’ve seen women acting the “I’m a sultry whore” who use the adjective “orgasmic” like teenagers use the word “awesome” – and both sound like idiots to me. And I’ve seen men acting the “I’m a dark stud machine”. They are welcome to each other. At a Year 2000 party I attended in Israel, I saw a couple dancing: she stood on the spot twiddling her hands and wiggling her hips looking abashedly at the floor; he circled her making enormous thrusting gestures with his hips. It’s easy to fall into stereotypes, to hide behind the image of being whatever you happen to think is safest… because I do think that this insistence on image is about staying safe and not showing who you really are. As such you do yourself the biggest disservice IF you are actually serious about internal spiritual progress as opposed to group acceptance, getting laid and being cool.
Anyway, that’s some of my rant-urge exorcised tonight. My sub-conscious is bubbling with a restless fury, even though consciously I am feeling quite chilled and amicable (believe it or not!). Might as well end in the vein that I started: