so do the ramones, the pogues, and the kinks. punk rock christmas heaven. i'm downloading songs for christmas presents. i'm going the make-your-own route this year. which is the same thing i do every christmas when i'm broke. which, come to think of it, is every christmas.
so on to the entry i lost last night:
i'm fairly sure that there's such a thing as existential boredom. where your life becomes the same thing day after day until the only thing you can do is try to get through another one without screaming. when it feels like life is going to keep on hitting you over the head with a small stick--something less painful than annoying--and hoping you fall over eventually. the most interesting thing i've had lately is a case of pinkeye. and the things that do happen aren't really good news, so i don't feel compelled to write about it. there's one interesting thing to say...
about a year ago i had the chance to learn about shamanic spiritual journeys, and i've been practicing on and off ever since. the general problem i have is that my head doesn't like to let go, and i freak out and snap myself back. last weekend i was feeling sorry for myself because i had nothing to do and no one to hang out with, and even my younger brother hadn't called me back. so by midnight i gave up and decided to take a bath. i ran the water and lit some candles and turned off the overhead lights. there's something really soothing about watching fire when you're surrounded by water.
(i would like to take this opportunity to tell you how much i love smoking in the bathtub. it's quirky and decadent at the same time. it reminds me of jd salinger. when i had my own apartment i used to take baths just so i could smoke in the tub. now that i'm relegated to the back porch, i remember those days fondly.)
so anyway. i decided to try the meditation thing. i invoked everything i could think of, starting with the elements and the four directions and ending with the ancestors of both blood and spirit. i started the visualization, down the stairs and into the room full of doors, which leads to stairs and doors and then a ladder, which goes to a tunnel. generally my tunnel has pictures of hands, like aboriginal australian paintings. this time, they were actual hands. like that scene in the labyrinth, but gentle and not scary. they helped me down the tunnel. from the tunnel i was in a field, with my spirit helper. he's small and fuzzy and named little. i was holding him and watching from outside at the same time, when i felt this horrible crushing black sadness, and i cried.
why am i feeling this way?
because you are still looking in the wrong mirrors. because you don't let the wind on your face.
how do i fix it?
it isn't for you to fix, it is for you to feel.
will i find love?
he is coming. you have seen him coming.
how will i know when i'm ready?
you won't. make the wish, take the risk.
will you take this sadness from me?
i cannot.
i thanked him and started on my way back. on my way, the hands touched me (i have always thought of healing as a laying-on of hands).we will take it. we will bear it, they whispered. i came back. there were tears on my face when i opened my eyes.
sylvia plath said that she didn't know anything that a hot bath couldn't cure. i don't think this is what she was thinking of, but i felt a lot better. it's true that i always think i'm not supposed to feel what i'm feeling, and that i need to fix it. what's funny about this is that the same two boys keep showing up in my dreams for about two weeks. i don't know them, and they show up at odd times in odder dreams, dressed like pimps or rockstars or what have you. so we'll see. maybe they're people i'm supposed to meet.
time to attempt cleaning the beat cave. it's hard trying to dig yourself out of the debris of a month-long depression. if i'm not back in a week, alert the media. -beatpoetgrrl
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