Twilight of the Gods

It’s hard to tell in the rubble and smoke of a Götterdämmerung who is morally right and who is morally wrong. Hindsight may be 20/20, but sometimes we are looking through a glass very darkly.

I’ve been drawn back to certain stories again and again, archetypal patterns I suppose a Jungian would call them to justify their importance. Something about them that hits a universal chord, a tale whose characters and adventures you start to recognize across cultures and times and geographies.

Like in the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where Richard Dreyfus stares, transfixed, sweat beading on his forehead, at a pile of mashed potatoes and says: THIS MEANS SOMETHING.

Damned if I know what, but it means SOMETHING. Something clicks. Resonates through the ages. And it’s not my imagination (oh that I had such a powerful instrument in my own little head). No–it’s my little brainz connecting with something clearer, purer, more true for the simple fact that it’s not of my own creation but that it’s connected to some universal spirit that includes all of us, all time, all places.

We can quibble over whether that spirit is limited to Earth, to our Solar System, to One God, to Humans, to Cats and certain sensitive humans aligned with the universe (my own preference), or Unlimited, Eternal. Your god versus my god then takes on a sophomoric cast.

Because if there is something essential linking all of us together, then the rest is just details.

Wrapping Up The Play–Giving it Meaning

The G Spot is INSIDE the vagina. She does not realize this when she asks mundy to find it for her

 

Universal lesson: everything you need is INSIDE yourself, you only need to get over the “ick” factor, work up the courage to explore, but oh, once you’ve found it…

 

LOL

By George, (which George? oh, that’s right, CURIOUS) she’s got it!

 

I need to buy cat food before the cats perish of starvation…the fuzzy little dumplings turned their noses up at the FISH I cooked for them special to tide them over…/puzzled.

Have to go to ATT store to pay phone bill (phone is off–I have to make payment in person because they lock your account the stupid twits–all that does is make it harder for them to collect their own bills. I loathe ATT but I’m stuck with them like I’ve been stuck in so many places before..

Committing myself to a long-term plan when I have only short term goals. Like waking up, falling out of bed, dragging a comb across my head…

 

Andrew Cohen Day Seminar on Spiritual Transformation

Too often we think about spiritual transformation in vague terms or only in terms of higher states of consciousness. Imagine how it would change your relationship to the spiritual life if your actual development as a woman or as a man—emotionally, morally, philosophically, and spiritually—was your goal. Spiritual transformation would start to mean something very real, really fast.

 

You mean, it doesn’t already mean something? I did take this webinar and it was excellent—very interesting ideas, and not the usual stuff I’ve heard so many times I don’t hear it anymore.

Not that there’s anything wrong with those other spirituality sites. It’s just for me, at this point on my path, I am full to the eyeballs and flowing out my ears with positive thinking and the Secret and salvation through compassion.

What if I’m wrong? What if God really did set up one way to salvation one way only do this or burn in eternity. Is it worth the cheap thrill of superiority I feel when I mock and make mouths at evangelical Christians when they do or say something ludicrous, if it means I will burn in hell for all eternity because really, they WERE right? I should disown all my gay friends, find a straight man ASAP willing to overlook a few irregularities in my sexual history? I’m 48 but still get a period, I might could even fulfill the woman’s only true purpose for existing and plop out a bundle of muffed-up dna (my eggs by now are so old I imagine them all shriveled up like raisins–how could a healthy baby come from that mess no matter how fresh the boy part is–not that I’m a cougar or anything. I’m not anything at the moment, nor do I care to be anything. But if I were, hmmm…. maybe I would try for a piece of young healthy stallion to rattle my peri-menopausal bluestocking hormonal poetry slam.

 

oh wait, I need to close a paranthesis there, somewhere, don’t I? For all the reading and writing I do, considering I have a BA in English, you’d think I’d be better with grammar and spelling–no. Who can keep track of this ridiculous melting pot of a language with more execptions than there are rules? Please see my blogs suggesting improvements for the English language. Now if only I could remember where I saved those files…)

I have a memoir, a novel, several short stories, a play, a screenplay, and dozens of poems sprawled out over a series of years and tears and rigorously honest and stylistically experimental words words words scrawled sprawled scattered all over the walls and the my journals and notebooks and cocktail napkins with famous author’s phone numbers wadded around chewing gum, never to be retrieved. Written on the scars on my skin, in my heart, my head, why even my fingers give away my sexual orientation. (Both fingers exactly the same length, if you must know)

I am an open book. I’ve been too naive to cover myself up when slashed so you see me bleed and are embarrassed and I am ashamed.

When I got my first period, age 12 I guess, my mother was dying. I couldn’t interrupt that solemn process with silly teenage problems. I was way too shy, excruciatingly shy, pathologically shy, to ask any other woman for help, not even my grandmother. I remember listening to 2 girls talking in the lavatory in 4th or 5th grade, asking, “which teacher would you go to if you got your period at school?” I was horrified by the very thought. “Tell no one,” I thought to myself. Why on earth would they WANT to tell a teacher something like that.

And these were girls who had well mothers at home prepared to handle these things. It didn’t occur to me then I might leak through my pants…this was a terror way beyond any concrete, actual cause. This was a miasma of fear, global, massive, all-enveloping; actual details blurred. I took care of it with toilet paper and scotch tape. I don’t recommend it as a solution.

Yet here I am, 48 years old, and at the other end of the menstrual scale, still fretting about the miasma-like fear enveloping me since I was tossed out of my marriage last year like a used…teabag. I’d thought I was set: my tiny disability check wasn’t enough to live on–I didn’t get much of a working life between school and decrepitude, but I was secure with my husband’s hefty service-connected disability, free medical for life, and the highest social security possible on top of that–he’d worked as a physician before becoming disabled so topped out on retirement benefits, lucky dog. That was supposed to be my legacy, my reward for keeping that vet alive 20 years beyond his life expectancy when he was diagnosed with alpha one anti-tripsyn emphysema twenty-one years ago.

He said so himself, I’m not taking credit where no credit is due. He said it often. How much he owed me. Hah. Hah. Hah. Liar.

 

oh, dear, how did I dig myself into THAT old hole?

Well, every story told is a wound aired and prepared for healing.

Funny, I just blogged about Temple Grandin, wondering if others related to her way of seeing things, feeling things–I was watching the movie and bells went off left and right and at one point I just started bawling (when she is calmed by the fuzzy cow box), so I asked on a blog in Owning Pink if others thought Temple was odd or if they related? I’ve even said, give me a wire covered with fur and a nipple and I’m happy as a clam. I never DID get how one human being can physically comfort another.

 

Nine or ten years ago, when my cat died, the pastor at our MCC  asked if there was anything he could do.

I thought about it.

“Can you bring Fiki back to life?”

No. Well then, no, there was nothing he or anyone could do to lessen the pain.

I can weep now, not for the cat, but for the woman I was, who could not imagine getting comfort from another human being, unless it was to completely reverse the situation so the pain never happened. That’s how I dealt with my mother’s death when I was 13. The night she died I made a conscious decision, alone in my room, to pretend I’d never had a mother at all. I did that so well I was unable to utter the word “mother” or, worse, “mommy” (I couldn’t even THINK ‘mommy’. My heart would collapse.)

And all that sadness, that unimaginable grief was what I carried around in a sack with me for 35 years. Well beyond the time of its usefulness, that radical defense I put up to protect a girl just blossoming into womanhood as her mother was dying in agony from metastesized cancer holds fast in some ways even today. Even after freeing myself from what I hope was the last of the self-inflicted punishments I arranged for myself by throwing a Dakini fit that scared the bejezus out of my spouse, although I know now I was not interested in physical violence at all. It was all smoke and mirrors, theatrics, and I am a theatrical woman–born under the sign of Virgo but with moon in Leo and Sagittarious rising–I will pitch a childish hissy fit but my stern schoolmarm over persona has not (yet) allowed me to cause any real damage. Except to myself, of course. And of course, I deserved it.

 

Of course I did.

 

Wrong. You are WRONG, Virgo schoolmarm. You DO NOT always know what is best for us. (not a royal ‘we’ but a pathological, dissociative, life-saving ‘we’) Chill. Give it a rest. Put the whip down. It didn’t work for Seabiscuit and it won’t work for me.

 

Like Seabiscuit, I WANT to perform like a functional adult. I want to be an asset to society. I want an honorable life. Well, he wanted to win races, to run, but the feeling is the same. If only I knew how–if only I didn’t get THIS close…time and time again, only to fail. It’s hard to rev yourself up for the starting gate time and time again, 48 years of false starts, having the gate crash down on my head, losing my footing and falling on the track, getting pushed into the inner fence by quicker, unkind horses who KNOW how to win,  falling and breaking my neck, my legs, my back, only to go back to my stable and find someone has got my goat…someone stole the only comfort had.

 

The things I chose to comfort me were not very healthy. If only I’d had Temple Grandin’s fuzzy cow box when I was 13, I might not have picked up wine, then brandy, then vodka, then careless sex or radical dieting or diet pills…I might not have acquired a disease that mimics my psyche: my immune system can’t tell friend from foe so it whacks everything in its path. It can’t tell my thyroid from a virus, so it eats them both. I take a veeeery expensive medicine to mute my immune system, which in turn makes me vulnerable to all sorts of opportunistic infecitions. So far I’ve been lucky. Nothing a little Cipro couldn’t knock out in a few weeks. I’m knocking wood here. I may not believe in God, but Woden I appease.

I read nurses are very supersticious, more than average. I think it’s because we face such  massively destructive forces (human disease/intractable bugs in the milieu/M.Dieties) on a daily basis, and are still expected to be Mary Sunshine, bringing positive attitudes and sanitizing hand gel to hold back the onslaught. When we really need silver bullets, stakes and mallets, holy water, and a wreath of garlic.

Now, this was supposed to be a positive blog about how good I’m feeling and how I’ve figured out so much, even if the teaching Buddhist monk who came to town this weekend was not the guru I’ve been holding my breath for.

 

Actually, Dick Sutphen was, and what’s wrong with me that I can’t be grateful for that, continue online with his teachings…because psychic shit scares me, that’s why. And I have psychic skills. That’s been a huge part of my problem. I’m receiving input electronically or however humans and dolphins pass info silently (I didn’t believe it either until I saw SAW in my HEAD a cake, streamers, presents, and a calendar date: Jan 18: correctly guessing my random partner’s birthdate and that she’d had a party. I mean, that’s GOOD, isn’t it? Very first time I ever tried.)

 

But what I realize is, all that bloody commotion in my head is not ALL MINE. Whether it was learned from unripe teachers back when I was a misunderstood girl or it is fresh coming from the guy behind me in line at the grocery story who I know is counting up my items (Express Aisle 15 or less) and judging me…three packs of Pop Tarts counts as one item when they are three-for-one, right? and do you really NEED those Pop Tarts with that waistline…what waistline, fat girl…oh sure, try and make up for it with a bag of pre-peeled carrots (lazy, are we? NO arthritic) and a bunch of celery hearts (splurging? you are too good to eat the whole celery stick, only the tender heart for you, what a waste of good vegetable, I mean, I assume it’s wasted, maybe not, maybe it’s used for soup or salad, dare I presume?)

 

If you start quoting PRUFROCK I AM OUT OF HERE.

 

sigh.

I think I’ll go walk along the beach…perhaps I’ll eat a peach…ooo shudder ick can’t stand the feel of the fuzz…things like that would bother me for hours as a kid, obsessive icky thoughts I just couldn’t get out of my head. (like one time I imagined cinnamon toast, but with globs of butter and a teeny bit of cinnamon and I could not get the sickening thought of how awful that would taste out of my mouth. I think that was during one of my migraine headaches I got in Jr. High School that I’d have to go home for. (in high school I learned to chew aspirin and cowboy up–my mother was dead, my father at work, no one to take me home anyway)

Aspirin is sour. I learned it was an acid that way. Opiates are bitter. They are a different sort of painkiller. They are alkaloid. I wonder why that is? I never got further than first semester freshman Organic chemistry, so I guess I’ll never know. Unless I go back to school. I could teach, live on a campus somewhere dry with a high altitude. My arthritis would get better and the conversation would be as tasty as the coffee. There’s a plan.

 

I’ve got severel tucked up my sleeve. (I have no sleeves I’m typing naked. Ha ha ha. Does that tease you? I’m really a 75 year old 359 pound truck driver from Brighton named Cuntmond. And I’m chomping a cigar. Because sometimes a cigar is NOT just a cigar. wink wink nudge nudge nudge)

off to bed for you…your inner child has run amuck.

 

 

 

lost

lost by my name is D (35mm)
lost, a photo by my name is D (35mm) on Flickr.

reminds me of the picture of the girl running in panic from a bomb, the one where she is on fire herself, that horror of an iconic image. for me, nothing says ‘war is bad’ like that one photo.

this child may be lost, but at least she’s not on fire.

Can we learn? Globally, as a People, can we learn for all the high-minded rhetoric and passionate justifiable anger, war as a solution to our problems comes down to this lowest common denominator:

An anguished child. Twisted. If not dead, so horribly hurt the rest of her life will be spent trying to recover from her wounds, trying to heal from the pain. Sad.

Can we take our fingers off the Panic buttons, put down our Uzi 9 mms, and talk? And more important, LISTEN?

Now if I could only HOLD THAT THOUGHT

Long enough to get to the proper medium…I could fix my life, write my manual about how to fix my life so you can BUY my manual and fix YOUR lives and have a nice time doing so and we will join hands and live in peace and harmony forever.

Is that the wimpian wonderland? the worm, the tick, the flea, the spot here, spot here Spot out spot damned Spot

about my name…they took my “A”; Named me Anna but called me Ann

but that’s a different resentment and I think I have a separate blog for that

so many Anna’s in all languages and all times it seems…Did you know the Once and Future King Arthur had a sister named Anna (in some versions of the legend/story/history). More astonishing, I hear someone cry out “Anna!” and I will stop, only to find the person being addressed is a little girl…when I was born in 1962 the name Anna was impossibly old-fashioned. (I was named for both my grandmothers–does that give you a clue?), but now it’s like RETRO chic?

 

How awesome is that? At 48 perhaps I’ve finally grown into my coolness. At least I’m not afraid to carry an umbrella today. (see prior post)

 

This WordPress thing is wild and I may go out of control or I may finish my memoir on these pages…anyway…is it work or is it play? When the lines blur…and you are getting paid…you know you’ve reached nirvana.

 

Still working on the getting paid part. But a hefty dose of the Law of Attractions and a legal goad to get the assets more fairly distributed by my Once and Past Tense Spouse…who’s choking on money but has so little understanding of prosperity consciousness that he will probably lose it all for the hanging on to it so tightly. I want it before some one can scam it out of him, someone who hasn’t spent the past 20 years at his side…loving, oh, freak, never mind….You’ve heard it ALL BEFORE….

 

Still, we all have our stories to tell and we won’t get better until we get them told and put into perspective by another human being. That’s where I always FAILED. I thought I could do it all MYSELF. Create this train wreck and then fix it, too. Can’t solve a problem from the same level of consciousness on which you created the problem.

 

Albert said that. You know, Hey hey hey…it’s Faaat Albert!

peace