dirty hands

August 15, 2012

I can’t. (I can). Not today. (today). All this energy. It is like a cup, spilling at the brim. All this directionlessness thwarts my soul. It is stranger than strange to know freedom as this. As the place where there is no accountability to anyone other than yourself.

That it is this. Purgatory. Okay, I gotta look that up. Been throwing that word around for a month not giving a fuck. But. Umm yea. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. A lot of knowledge. That’s trouble right there.

Purgatory is the condition of purification by which those who die in a state of grace are believed to be made ready for Heaven.

Okay, I’m good. I’m here or there or wherever it is. Getting my purification on. Ohmagosh… with these dirty hands.

Yesterday I was in bed with Mailer. He’s so heavy I can only take so much. I gotta roll that old man up offa me cause he just…

Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. It is a simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write. The point is that you have to maintain trustworthy relations….

This injunction is wholly anti-romantic in spirit. But if you subject yourself to this impost upon yourself, this diktat to be dependable, then after a period of time—it can take weeks, or more—the unconscious, nursing its disappointments, may begin to trust you again.

And this is the thing. My unconscious is cool with me blogging because we’ve made it this way. I’ve put nearly a year into the process of undressing, flaunting, flinging, singing, swinging myself naked upon the page. And the result has been beyond anything I could have ever dreamed, not only as a writer but as me. Me, free of Me. Not totally but damn lighter than I eva thought I could be.

Blogging has done that which no therapy eva could. It has allowed me to face my fears and shame head on, to look them dead in the eye. To read my words over and over again instead of talk in a room where my words vanish into thin air. Writing, that which is free, that is how I know. The best things in life, you don’t pay for them at all. Not with money and not with your soul. The best things in life are mutuality, even if that is something as rare as mutuality with your soul.

I have come to learn this by going toe to toe over and over again. And doing this has allowed me to do something stranger than strange. I been feelinn like I have front row seats to the story of my life. Like I’m both star and audience to this spectacle. It’s this feeling that I am both in and outside of myself, like part of the process of fusion is in creating a distance from myself. Because, once again, Paradox is my God and my King.

I am given this this sense of simultaneity by committing to this blog every single day. It is here that my unconscious and I have established a powerful trust. Perhaps it is simply through my commitment to showing up.

It is here that I fuse and become both star and spectator. Because, believe you me, I don’t believe all of this is mine. I think a lot of it is just channeling. I catch a vibe. It’s a frequency. And when I tune into it, Truth is revealed.


Left brain is the Word. Right brain is the Image. I have been meditating upon these posts as manifestations of my spirit, who I am today, who I would like to be, who I have been, who I love on this planet. Because not all of these posts are exclusively about me. Sometimes I am projecting my heart and my soul all over a screen.


These days there is no screen. There is no projection. There is only me and my constant reflection. Ad nauseum. Except. Isn’t that writing. Isn’t that what has chosen me. The spin cycle of the conscious heated by the core of my being. I’d love to stop spinning. It makes me sick. I need energy conservation. I need line dry. I need no shrinkage. I need a return to the earth, pounding myself out on the rocks then hung in the air damp and limp as the sun rains down upon me, warming my spirit.

I am rambling. There is too much in my head. There is the inability to be coherent because coherence is not for this moment. There is the need to keep a promise that needs to be kept. There is me, here is me, here I am (or not).

There is Day Thirty Eight, with a nod to Miss Shadows: What is the purpose of your blog? What are your goals?

It has been that my purpose was to show up every day. That my blog was all I had because it was The Way. Only today, and yesterday, and the day before I caught the change. The winds of Purgatory ruffling my feathers, clearing my head.

This is my refuge but it is also my crutch and lately I have been leaning heavily upon it because it got me through the worst. It gave me the courage and the strength to set me free of me. But now that I am in Purgatory I must release myself from using it in this way.

I must show up every day for me and what that is I know but I will not say it because today is not the day to make declaration out loud. Today is the day to read between the lines. To commit to all that I am and all that is mine. Which is me. Nothing more, nothing less. And this blog is part of that, but like me, it shape shifts.

The purpose of this blog is to document the reflections of me. Only in that I do not delete the past. I allow them to live as a way to see… Eee. Creepy. But okay, creepy it is. I don’t have the shame to give a fuck.

But goals. Oh that is a good word. I tend to be one without goals. Healing, this is where I am. This is Purgatory. So, yes, my goal for this blog is purification. By any means necessary.

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