Dear figments of my imagination,
nothing is hiding in the fog, no body went down to find me, all alone buried in a forest of bones and endless worlds of me…
of course I’m a egomaniac, we all are- and anyone who says they aren’t is the biggest ego freak of us all. However, there are a few things I really am not- I’m not handicapped, delusional, unstable or starving myself through excessive fasting. I don’t want your money, your soul, your allegiance, your surrender of anything- your “life” is up to you, it’s called free will and I don’t get in the way of that. I am not living near donnor’s pass. I am not so sensitive I can’t manage my slippery version of reality and so fantasize about the things I write as being “real.” I’m not sitting pale and shaky in a corner as I write this with bony hands, barely hanging onto the tick tock of the clock on the wall- and so although I am “sincere” you all accept that I’m just a bit luny and “out there” and so you graciously tolerate my end of the world hysteria or overlook my cryptic premonitions. I don’t have nightmares, I don’t dream the things I write as being promotions the next day- I know my sleeping dreams are always about “me” the people in my dreams are “me” the activities etc also “me.” I’m not a child, I don’t need management or advice on how to hold my flimsy world together. The things I write ARE NOT from dreams- and that’s all I need to say. I was awake in the night I wrote about, not sleeping. I’m not looking for trouble or playing witchcraft, I don’t use a crystal ball and didn’t ask for any of it. I will not talk to dead people- bad idea btw- No, I’m not sleep deprived either- also, I don’t have some jesus complex and think “god” talks to me. I don’t think I myself am the “mother light” or her representative, lofty daughter etc whatever. I don’t really think about anything, I just receive and deliver. I can’t explain to you the system of how this works or how unconcerned I am about your opinion of me, my claims or my insanity- I’m so sane it hurts. If I were worried about being correct or appropriate or “sane” I obviously couldn’t write over 90% of what I write, endless lunatic mind photographs of us materialized on a daily basis. I am a moon walker that’s all, it’s an astral ground where feet cannot touch. I deal with demented planetary stalkers on a regular basis. I deal with really weird supernatural things that you can’t even imagine- you would think I was making it all up- and so I’ll never tell you. BELIEVERS ONLY in the insiders club. I said to Bhagavan Das, “I hope I’m not casting pearls before swine.” (no offense) He said, “probably, but what can you do?” He’s a big believer and our life if fun because we aren’t boring and regulated- running on linear minds that think they’re smart. Haha, too smart for words even- and I keep saying it but I guess you don’t get it, I am emotionally intact despite it all. People want to BE me, live through me, correct me, mold me, possess me, mentor me, go off all over me- it’s a psychedelic mess- but nobody really wants to hear anything from the world of shadows that speak- meaning, who’s even listening? It’s not entertainment. I haven’t gone off at Bhagavan Das’s expense. He’s a big boy. I think people just can’t grasp the concept of no self censoring, I don’t do it. I have NOTHING to lose and if I did, I’d lose it asap. I have nothing to hide or express in a more acceptable way, I don’t aim to please or impress or prove to you that I’m “humble” that’s a big one- me not getting too big for my britches, me and my big head. OH NO, what can I do someone thinks I THINK I’m hot and holy? How can I convince this person I am actually humble and self effacing with my face pasted on the website? Bhagavan Das has helped me with this since I have had a hard time in the past dealing with haters and very jealous women- BD solution: WHO CARES?!!!! His advice is instead of me taking it down a notch or two is to PUMP IT UP- come on even harder. Yes I think I will. My past tendency was to avoid everyone in my face saying, “who do you think you are?” which began in the sandbox because apparently I “wiggled my butt when I walked and so was after her boyfriend” I was 5 she was 7, it’s never ended. It’s been a lifelong struggle, these women who can’t handle my existence and these men who can’t handle that I’m not a helpless giggler. And it’s been hard avoiding everyone trying to shut me down every chance they get. So I’ve grown adept at swaying with the wrath and letting it go, the concern over the conflict and controversy I seem to stir just by existing. NO, it’s not another complex similar to the jesus complex where I imagine my effect as being much greater than it is- you’d be surprised, I always wished I was someone else who people just ignore and let be- but not me, always a stalker, a hater, a critic- it’s intense and it’s my stigma. It’s not a pity party, I’m telling you, this is unusual what I offer- because you’re not going to find many people writing blogs who aren’t self censoring, correcting, changing their words to be more suitable, universal- sound more educated or whatever- I am definitely a paradoxical case of “what you see is what you get” which doesn’t sound like a big deal but it IS. It’s DANGEROUS. It’s THREATENING. It’s the one thing people can’t do- make it up on the spot with total self abandon and honesty. Who will let you into their life like that? No one that’s who. If you doubt yourself so much that you worry about how you’ll be received then you are in some one else’s prison- an imaginary someone who could never put you there, only you can. So it’s baffling and people get pissed and confused because I’m everything that they can’t be and they can’t seem to figure out why…it’s called magic. I am magical and sorry but it’s true, you can’t catch me ever. I’m a bonafide enigma. Look me up.
Stigma, this girl with long hair left her body for the vulture who never came. So when she returned she counted her blessings in the rocks that held her in place, in the petals that covered her laced with his scent. Death touched me here. Stigma, this girl that nobody saw was real, as real as my name for the vulture who never came. Stigma, barely survived on wings as black as these. The morning was white when I found her placid, beneath a solid foot of stone. You’re not going anywhere without me. Stigma, flowers falling…me still light and deep. Holes inside of holes, stigma baring body untouched by human hands…she’s totally invisible now, all you can do is breath her in, memories of me high and yielding, wrapped in white and smoke…who would stand upon this girl and not let morning in? Stigma, full moon over my desert floor, blue footprints in the ash, dark feathers left behind.
Was there really a vulture or a girl with long hair? Late was the sign in the sky, who was waiting and watching for a symbol? The old lady with claws, a beak, and strands of her hair, that’s who. You can’t be me, I left on his back and disguised the whole world as me in the meanwhile, but now she’s home spinning webs and tapestries, holes inside of holes with strings that guide souls into eyes that can’t see anything but her as she made them. Stigma stood there looking down at herself and counting the years until sunrise. His wing span became the night, slipping into sleep, vulture inside of me…turning time into a heap of her flesh left waiting for the girl with long hair to return. Stigma, I have no grief that my mother did not give me, no secret unaccounted for, no stone unturned for you…I am a lover of the swan but alas must seek amends elsewhere, where the big bird eats death until we forget we died, where we must dig holes for ourselves with our name and our year, where we stand looking down and wondering why…flowers thrown onto bodies that didn’t mean a thing and yet how I hunt for you to love me…there is always two faces one looking up and one looking down. She walks alone with a bag full of thorns on her back, laughter would be useless unless you really meant it. The vulture strikes again. Stigmata.
And I bet you love me and you hate me too…🔺🔶🔻
enraptured beyond words,