A Letter to The Doc

Photo by Julia Mouru00e3o Missagia on Pexels.com

*This one’s real, folks. I’m a pretty hardy bird, but this back pain is terrifying me. It was all I could do today to cut and paste this little bit of my world here. Thanks for reading and sending some good juju if it feels right!

Hiya Doc

I am wondering

if you can guide me

in how to receive emotional support

for this back/nerve pain issue.

The intense pain is happening again,

and I am finding it difficult to walk

and do my daily activities…

including going to my job.

I am taking Advil and it helps a little,

but I am so afraid.

Especially because these symptoms

have “no visible cause,”

and I don’t seem to be doing anything

to aggravate the issue…

it just comes on unpredictably.

I am waking up more often than not

dreading the day

and dealing with a lot of fear

about how I am going to support myself

if I can’t work,

not to mention

do the things I love.

Any suggestions are welcome,

thank you.

P.S. Could you also try to talk to Hekate?

Tell her it’s a bit much

Crossroads

As of now

Everything is crumbling

Drab, drab, drab

The pieces, dead and gray

Fall through my fingers

No longer enlivened

By my breath

I’ve been here before

When the time has come for change

I now feel it in my bones

Recognize it like a panting dog

In these times

The way

Becomes very, very unclear

Facing

This crossroads

The options cloaked in deep, deep darkness

I must sit here, waiting

Hoping She’ll come

Hoping that Dweller will meet me

Hoping Her light will shine on the Path

These hungry hands

These seeking feet

They ache for the Way

Sitting here

On this stump, in darkness

I know there’s these portals

I can’t see them, but I feel their vacuum

I’ve been here for awhile

Watching people, various creatures passing by

Passionate in their direction

Watching them, swallowed

By the inky black as they stride into their certainty

Not one of them stops as they pass

A few, they glance at my crouching figure

But none hold my gaze

None look deeply into my yearning

It’s all business and purpose

It’s all fame and popularity

It’s all marketing and worth

It’s all just marching forward, staying focused

Avoiding breath

Death

Birth

And other fairytales

Why doesn’t anyone linger here?

Question the choice?

Lay down offerings at the mouth of these gaping portals?

Can they not see?

Or do I

Stare at illusion?

All I know, is that regardless

This place is powerful

And that I

Feel disoriented

Here

Casting aside self-doubt

And those tricksy comparisons

I try to kindle my hope

From weak smoldering into flame

I try to envision Her

Emerging from the mouth of Death

Emerging from the mouth of life

Emerging from the mouth

Of shadowy transformations

I try to hold the image of Her

Staff in one hand, glowing lamp in the other

The image of Her, looking at me

Stopping here

Knowing me

Perhaps just Her, sitting with me

While all others pass

Is enough

But that flame keeps her pointing alive

It keeps Her hand, lamp absorbed

In mine

It keeps Her wise, warm body

Next to mine

Breathing

Then rising

Then walking

We’re walking

Together

Into the darkness

And the clear path of my life

This vision holds it

Greeting us, on the other side

Perhaps, however

It’s just Her

Sitting here, at the Crossroads

On this stump

Surrounded by imagined doorways cloaked in shadow

Watching them all pass by

Her, With me

When no one else wants to stop and say a prayer to the blackness

Perhaps it’s just Her

Sitting here, with me

That smoldering hope, I keep alive

Wishing soon for Her to emerge

Laying down offerings

Being invisible

Feeling the unbearable and stripping confusion

Here

On this stump

At the Crossroads

The Center of Pain

some days i wake up

and it’s dark

inside

so gloomy the prospect

of another day…

with you

while the birds go on chirping

and the chimes go on chiming

here, deep in here

it’s dark

knowing better

I struggle

to keep my breath above the din

swirling and sucking

drawing me in

your throbbing

it greets me

like a lover i’m still confused by

forcing

attention

to the realms below

is it you that provides portal

into new roads of somatic deepening

or you, my captor

drawing off lines

where i can no longer roam

darkness, this darkness

amidst a world of grateful comforts

grabs me and takes hold

brings me to weeping, fearing

of the dance i can no longer have

of the long dreamy imaginal forays

of sessions, pen to page, losing myself in words

of the warm cozy feel of book and couch

of cafe frothers and clanging dishware

of open roads with days before me

of the dance

losing myself

in the dance

will i no longer be able

to lose myself

in the dance?

please…

no…

the edge of grief turns to paranoia

doom-casting into years beyond

wheelchair bound and listless

drugged out on pain killers

alone

by catheter

rageful and bitter

caged by

you

now, luckily

years of toolbox building

has me skilled with a fish hook

and i pull myself present

into this moment, here

into this moment, now

where, when i sink deep into you

deeper than the darkness

deeper than the grieving

deeper than the fear and panic of beyond

choosing, instead, to spiral into you

choosing, instead, to explore you

choosing instead, to accept you, feel you

become you

into this place, as you

everything seems okay

in this breath, in this moment

in the way the sun streams as if holding

it’s empty

and i begin to wonder

if you

are the door

everything’s crazy

and

your throbbing

it greets me

like a lover i’m still confused by

forcing my attention

to the realms below

is it you that provides portal

into new roads of somatic deepening

or my captor,

drawing off lines

where i can no longer roam

Smoke And Flowers

Your vanilla smoke

And your tiny flowers

Your rough tweed against my young cheek

And your pencil etchings

Of imaginary universes

You

Gave me something else

To dream about

Chenery bakery scones, crumbling

Grace Cathedral, sacred echo stained-glass gleaming

The way you made

Those early morning farmers smile

Squawking gulls, Anchor Steam and crunchy croutons

How you turned down the linens

And inspired thespian ventures

You

Gave me something else

To dream about

Your face in lonely bus stations

A writer with grand tales of the Basque country

Your smile, always at the door

The way you looked at each other, that love

You gave me something else

To dream about

I only recently realized your

Crab dinners and

Christmas tree cuttings

Your Chet Baker, Delta Blues and

That Black Dog

About your oysters and champagne

And reverence for silence

And how you almost

Took me

And I wish

I wouldn’t have strayed so far

That I’d come closer, known deeper

And sometimes,

I regret saying no

But I’m glad

I got to be with you

Near the end

For slow walks to the cork tree

And Midsomer Murder Mysteries

And to kiss you out of slumber

Even when you’d forgotten everything else

And even when you shamelessly threw up your tapioca

Balding and rageful from the killing drugs

You

Still remembered me

I will always be grateful

For your open door

For your tough love

For your voice that night, it meant the world to me

And for your ever present light

In my many dark harbors

Thank you

For always giving me

Something else to dream about

Dedicated to my Aunt Martha and Uncle Richard who passed recently. A raucous, peopled celebration of life was held this weekend in their honor.

Not Alone

At least once

In every human life

There is an Initiation

Ripping, tearing, gutting

Leaving us weeping

Empty

Alone

Questioning everything

Our whole world reduced

To ashes

To harrowing silence

To a chest, too heavy

For the next choking breath

This alchemy

This darkening, nigredo

Doesn’t just visit the wicked

Doesn’t simply punish the damned

And it ain’t no precious spiritual knighting

For the martyrs who roam

Nope

This stripping happens

Whether through flesh, spirit or mind

Perhaps, for some of us

All of these, at once

We are killed

All of us

Onetime or many

In a life

But hey! That’s the good news!

Whereas the view is faceted

And each of us chooses how to reassemble

The opportunity

The fresh direction

The wide-open vista

Becomes

Somehow

In the deep, deep darkness

Fumbling, starving, in the Abyss

If we stay with it

If we stay with ourselves

Even if it takes years

Or decades

Or lifetimes

If we but trust the Initiation

We will find a ladder

And rise, rise

Out onto a new world

But

We have to let go

Of that old one

And truly, truly fall

Hopefully, while descending

We remember

That we do not do this, alone

That each time we look over

At that person

Speeding past us

On life’s highway

While we grip the Wheel, screaming

Hopefully, we remember

They too, no matter what

Have, are or will go down

Into that dissolving

That they, too

Will crawl

On their naked, bleeding bellies

Pleading for things to stay the same

Begging for the crumbling to stabilize

Wailing

Curling tightly

Into slobbering ball

Are

Killed

All of us

Onetime, or many

In a life

But hey! That’s the good news!

We are not alone

And there are some of us

Who have been twisted on numerous occasions

Drained and maimed and refilled

Over and over again

Solve et coagula

We almost welcome the next slaying

((But not really, please!))

Because we know we’ll meet you

We wait here

Arms open

We will help you

Re-member

We will call out so loudly

Sounding out

That you are one of us

Human

And that this

This

No matter who you are

Is the Initiation

These Artful Shadows

It doesn’t interest me

How witty,

clever,

stunning

or badass

your creations are

What interests me

Is what terrifies you

What interests me

Is what creation is hiding deep within you

What ideas, images, stories and sounds

You yearn to share, but hesitate

I want to know

The color of the bars

Of the cage that keeps them in

The thoughtforms engraved deeply

Imprints on each of its thick stakes

I want to know

What the lock smiles at

How the key might shape itself in your hand

I want to know

All the creations you fear

How they might outcast you

All the strange and twisted figures lurking

Or perhaps

The sweet, innocent pinkness

Smothered beneath years of leather and smoke

That voice

The voice so very different than what’s known

I want to see, feel, know it

It doesn’t interest me

The skill you’ve built

The followers you’ve amassed

I want to know

The life events you’re hesitant to explore

Your hidden fears and desires

How they’ve shaped your journey

What you hide or gloss over

What parts of you

That you shudder to explore

The personal truths you’re hesitant to confront

The moments in your life you find difficult to revisit

The themes and topics that repeatedly draw you

But that you tell no one about

But perhaps, before,

This intimate splaying

Just that cage

Tell me about it

How I want to share its feeling with you

How I want to hear the precise notes

Of your screams, how they reverberate it’s casing

Show me what my fingers would find

Trailing down the steel

Those words and stories engraved

Rippling beneath the touch

Trapping you, pacing

Hungering

Pleading

It doesn’t interest me

How witty,

clever,

stunning

or badass

your creations are

What interests me

Is what terrifies

That thing

No matter how deep you’ve dug

It’s always something

Waiting

Share that with me

Through your brush

Through your word

Through your song

Through your image

Through your movement, your facepaint, your howl

I am talking to you

And I

Am talking to me

Hoping, someday our craft

Will sing

The Artful

Shadow

That thing

No matter how deep you’ve dug

It’s always something

Waiting

*Credit to Nancy Levin as well as this strangeness by Sleepytime Gorilla Museum for inspiring this thought spiral: https://youtu.be/Dpmf2DNVhy4?si=k9PliprLopvsGJIX

Writing To The Man

An image of the former NOAA building n Pacific Grove, CA. Image originally from The Monterey Herald.

On the waves of elkskin drumbeat,

And circled in cedar’s smoke

Today the letter was sent

A response…

To The Man

He first spoke of democracy

From a distant throne

As if the answer would suffice

But here we are, again

Begging the conversation

Daring for involvement

Pushing

Please oh Mister Man

Oh, once Secretary of Defense

Oh, once Director of the CIA

Oh, once White House Chief of Staff

Now, you are resting as a small town chairman

On these very sands we are fighting for

Do you remember

Your commitment to the Bay

To those waters

To those peoples who first tended

Won’t you

Hear us?

Please Mister Man

Could you pay attention to

The myriad of the unheard

While their land once more gets raped

We wonder if your hands are tied

If, deep in your systemized heart

There is a yearning to connect

Whether the machinery of the System

Has clouded over your eyes

Once more, Mister Man

The treaty of Fort Laramie has been ignored

Decades and decades we spiral

That original promise of democracy and fellowship

Those wide-eyed original creatures

Human and non-human

Trampled underfoot

It’s happening now

Its happening

Again

Unseen complications of the ties that bind

We get that your distance may be necessary

But please, Mister Man

Can you at least

Hold a space for these eyes

These remnants

These sacred bones and artifacts

Threatened with destruction

Can you

Will you

Take them in and hold them

In the depths of your heart?

Please oh Mister Man

Oh, once Secretary of Defense

Oh, once Director of the CIA

Oh, once White House Chief of Staff

Now, you are resting as a small town chairman

On these very sands we are fighting for

Do you remember

Your commitment to the Bay

To those waters

To those peoples who first tended

Won’t you

Hear us?

Trauma

Born in the jaws of the unsuccessful predator

It seeds itself into pulsing flesh of prey

Alive, feeling its purpose

It rushes through, hoping for the release

Propelled across expanses in flee for survival

The quivering host finds soft burrow

And heaves a great sigh

The aliveness activates all flesh into shaking

Shaking, shaking, like a terrible force rippling through the land

Trauma’s mission coming to climax, shouting yes! finally! release!

Where its beingness transforms to, we cannot see

The creature, exhausted

Is resting

Clear and free of the electricity that has bolted through her

She’s woozy

She falls into a deep, healing sleep

And when she wakes

She can remember

The sharp slobbered clench against her thigh

But wiser, she is not frozen

And she can, quite simply

Trust instinct

And begin

Again

It is said that trauma

Seeks to complete itself

To live out its short but powerful existence

And when allowed

There is only peace

Understanding, even

A vast perspective

Broken open from the initiatic blow

Yet so often this temporary lifeform must beg

Beg its host, pleading

Through successive patterns

Through aggressive and harrowing symptoms

Begging for witness, begging to find burrow

Begging to be held by soft earth

While its purpose rips through

Yearning to complete itself

To clear

The way

Years, it takes

This half-life of being buried

Of being judged and only seen in the shadows of others

Wishing only to be given space

And to become what it came to be

This electricity, born so quickly,

Waits in the flesh, simmering

It may be buried

But it is not meek

It will pound harder

It will demand louder

Until, kneeling, its host has no option

No option but to listen

But to feel

But to hold

But to see

Or perhaps die

What might occur

Were the creature to allow

This pulsation, of the power, of this sacred trauma

To live,

To be valued.

To shake,

To breathe.

To be truly, truly seen…

And to finally

Fly

Free

~Imbolc CreationSsssss~

“Wise art thou

If thou knowest

That the subtle serpent of temptation

Is in truth the anointed one

Who bringeth thee

To liberation.”

~Paul Foster Case

The Timing of Milk

Although I’ll never really know

Due to the cinder-based state of the source

I have to wonder how the patterns form

Those deep-seated, dogged patterns

The ones sinking teeth into flesh,

Jaws locked

Aggressively yearning

Aside from chemistry diagnostic flaw

Where do they

Really come from?

Take for instance

This grasping, for dear life, onto handles of measuring cups

Or the desperate need for specific, repetitive meal algorithms

For decades and decades, after exhausting attempts

To normalize

They stand, cemented

Why?

On a walk the other day

I had a vision of my mother

Nervous, pacing

Smoking and staring into a refrigerator

The cold mist icing her kneecaps

Her belly, large…but not too large

(sometimes alcohol keeps you slim you know)

Frozen

She was frozen

Unsure of what to feed herself, me

Terrified that she might kill

(she’d tried many times before)

Her knees grow colder

The ash on her cigarette lengthens

As she stands, unable to move

Finally, she closes the door

And clings to a paper

It is loosely taped to yellowing vinyl

Outlining specific measurements

Specific times

Specific numerical amounts

The doctor god gave them

She felt special to Him somehow in this

She clings to it, Him

Hoping maybe His guidance

Will fight the killing spiral

Outlines, they might ensure that life wins

Against her poisonous, confusing urges

Against the shock-treated mother she learned from

She chooses, flicking the last of the ash to the linoleum

She chooses to follow

As hard

As hard as she wants

To kill

She is ashamed at her instincts

She does not understand

So hard to even keep herself alive

She cannot begin to allow a trust here

She chooses to follow

She chooses these masts of externally proven portions

To keep her steady in these terrifying, decimating winds

I see her, similarly petrified

With my small, fleshy body against hers

My cries, they come at odd hours

They do not ask for measurements

They ask for attunement

They ask for knowing

They ask for intimacy and self-trust

They ask for a breast

And the confidence to trust what comes through them

These cries, innocent

And she, terrified of what her body might deliver

Keeps me at a distance

Keeps me on a schedule

Mixes precise amounts of water

And powdery government-approved sustenance

Like a mad alchemist keeping Nigredo at bay

She does her best to keep me alive

Outlines, they might ensure that life wins

Against her

And the disconnected killing spiral

That has now become me

And my fight to survive

This timing of milk

This weaving, traveling, hollow severance

Although I’ll never really know

Due to the cinder-based state of the source

I have to wonder how the patterns form

How the patterns form

And live on

Within me