disintigrating with Distinction

I used to go out in the world in the morning, braced, like Rocky Balboa on the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps… Chest heaving, head dripping, I was beyond ready for my world.

Too bad I didn’t have this exact attitude at those times in my life. It’d been a lot more fun. But it was pretty good, as it was. Looking over my shoulder didn’t get me any real perspective. There is a Spiritual Review going on here & I’m not sure I remember signing up for it, but like some seminar you do not attend & then receive 68 emails about from every teacher who welcomed your attendance… Intent is the better part of something, but I’m not thinking valor these days.

Again, with Time. I have been dying to use this analogy somewhere & this blog is it: when I was once in Rome, I went to a set of famed hanging gardens. I was wearing cute little comfy flats (nothing to stop the skid.) I set foot upon the charmingly indented steps, slippery with only age, worn smooth meeting smooth shoes & somehow I skied down those steps & remained upright & whole & cute. It’s like my new job.

In my new job, I am required to track time once again after months of paying lip service to clocks & calendars & yet time is implied (get this done timely) instead of appointed (by 3 today.)

After all, the lockdowns were my first time not tracking time & almost nuclear in effect on me. I have always accounted for my time. In return I asked a valuation for that, something with cost-of-living built in. This corporate structure has disappeared into a fluid connective made of cyber-interstitial tissue. That ‘We Are All Connected’ Coke’ commercial takes on a whole new dimension when cyber or meta is looped in to be employed as an end run. (By folks you thought were on your side.)

Because time as I knew it lifelong – at the attention level it once demanded, is no more.

We knew coming in it wasn’t going to be easy. When I’d get that lump in my throat in other times, I recognized it for Original Fear – my original sin. I used to say if I picked up every stone I tripped over, I’d soon be unable to even walk. Wisdom & optimism lurk in fortune cookies.

I’m thinking now I got this. I’m thinking I’ve been doing it pretty well but nowhere else in this God’s Goddess-blessed world would be the place to emerge from whole except bearing truth or consequences equally cheerfully. Turns out life’s in Invitational. RSVP with love.

May 3, 2021 0

Opening To Receive

We know that you have been making the most of a pretty bad situation there on Earth. We also know that you have summoned so much help, so much healing, so many solutions, that there is a sort of logjam of energies that have been coming your way but that not enough people are open to receive. (Arcturian Council)

Decisions are being made for me & I love/fear it. I feel finally in touch with so much more of me than was available before.

Now I have read for years the veils are thinning. At times, different signals were pulled through – inspirations, epiphanies, far too many to be synchronistic – way above & far beyond. I stand in a shaft of sunlight every day. Right after I step free of any shadow of fear. There are more days now when fear doesn’t even crowd the frame of my picture.

My point, since I am goaded/guided to put this into writing & send it, predawn, into the cybersphere, my point is that I notice repetition. Re-petition. Some seer once said (when asked if it was ok to filibuster God), “You don’t mail a letter twice.”

Information & data have been arrowing toward me since childhood. It wasn’t necessarily me they aimed for, just I was there & wide open. I grew up in a relative form of isolation (think lighthouse-keeper in training.) Wisdom keeps elbowing to the front, accosting me most directly. All attaches my attention, engages synapse, repeats again some time-told truth humming in vibrational sympathy. It turns out I know everything. I have heard it all before.

It is now when the databits are coalescing into real information. I am differently attended: paying different attention as perceptions are not just widening, but layering. A sense of jubilation attends. I feel as though I have entered a library while wandering familiar premises. I feel like saying, “Hey, I’m home! Who else is here?”

The information is already codified: written up: reproduced on all media: spoken: unheard: remote. The information dances just around my reach. Sometimes I knock it aside, reaching for to satisfy another appetite. However I removed myself from it, the knowledge is all around now, I walk through a Theatre of Change, constantly pushing up my glasses.

The timeline is bifurcating ahead. Others buy food to have a year’s supply. I buy black-marble-copybooks as a hedge against death. I write. Soon I will write more. One motor that kept me running has wound to a stop. The ones I move forward with now run on this form of Light, as far as I can see. I need to walk in this for awhile.

I’ve run with the Sages, the Seers, the seen, Life is no more than before it would seem

but light lives in spectra we strive to achieve in notice, in knowledge, in all we believe.

April 15, 2021 2

First Person

The lance that pierces my side is not made by anyone out there. I take full-on responsibility for that one. You can accept that as you wish, but my point in putting it out here is a kind of alert.

I recognize putting it all in the first person can come hard; I’m hoping to get there. I’m feeling more … umm … “real” isn’t enough of a word, all watered down with usage. Maybe genuine? (We see that on leather tags but not much else.) It’s an interesting feeling. At a time when I feel most personally powerful, I am relegated to virtual living over being alive.

From the little doors that creaked open when my daughter sent a wedding picture of her parents, some distant dreams have emerged. I see the hope in those eyes; I see the life that still wants to come forward & be lived beloved – by all or none or some and done. With these choices, I cannot lose.

So, while there is an everyday life, it is made to be accelerated through these days. This comes at a time I am ready to slow down & pick it apart.

Or at least that’s my take on events. After this much isolation, I’m more able to pick & choose that with which I crave comfort. More than ready to be the observer, the chronicler, the descriptor. But who am I recording it all for? Isn’t it obviously me? So I wriggle my feet & agree to just do it.

Shapeshifting isn’t for everybody. It is what I’ve been doing on the inside for all my life. I recognize this now that I see old pictures. Please understand I shredded as much of my life as I could when I left Nashville… in fact, the machine burned out a fair bit before I left. There were parts I had to lie to get back, but it wasn’t a Big Lie. It was a Handy Lie involving Xerox copies of my life.

All of life is abroad now. When restrictions are put away, it will burgeon forward as we have never before seen. See? There I go. Rephrase: “as I have never before seen.”

A once-friend said I live on many levels. Once in a while, that observation returns. Am I still interesting? Who do I need to interest besides myself? Yet my favorites are those distractions that catch me in unknowing need so I must respond; this I perceive as childlike. I enjoy to think my child is getting to play aloud. (An example of this is standing in a sunbeam: the sun has reached the level of the windowsill & spills unrestrained into the room. I adjust the blinds & am caught in the light & heat moving up, taking me in & then full upon my face. Light on mountains arising.)

Maybe all these blogs have all along been imaginative etchings done by her.

I’m ever so glad one of us has grown up! The me-in-charge has wanted to sit back & just take notes for a real long time.

Ciao!

January 29, 2021 0

Liberty

No matter how many times we’re told we have to save ourselves, we still go for the, “yeah, but you sure you can’t help?”. It worked with mom and dad.

Americans hold a view of themselves that they’re not panhandlers. In the desert, this can mean you dry up & drift off. We pay attention to one another & to stories.

It’s not the time to drift off, be cast adrift, lose the drift, not right now. It might be the last bike down the hill through a dark town where one woman holds a brief lantern in welcome. (I held that lantern out in a dark street & only heard the bike as it braked.)

Digression runs a close parallel to the ideal. The commentary is overheard on both parleys. Comes a time when the only way to undo a knot is with patience & sourcing. We have reached that time.

We are everyday people. But we can excuse ourselves to keep an eye on excellence should It be in the immediate. I see now how often my expectations of excellence call it forth.

It has always been so, been what this is now which is sheerly your perception of it. As mine is. In practical terms, if I move my winter curtains to put up sheers, I will lose to discomfort in a jiffy. My comfort zone sports blackout curtains with blinds.

There are always changing times. When times need a boost it’s a boot with a bust in the butt oncoming. It used to be mostly individuals, but I have just enough room in my paranoia for one more, should you care to investigate. I might, can you hold on while I check?

*(He’s got a bust of Che Guevarra in his office, for God’s sake. And the curtains have obviously just been unpackaged, you mean to tell me the White House has no iron?)*

January 23, 2021 0

Loose Loosh

The problem is memory, for me. Nah, not that I do not recall, but that what I do recall still carries the same charge. If evil aliens are feeding off my energy loosh, this entitles them to revisit favorite bad or hard times, the best times I cultivated anger or unhappiness. The trauma memories seem revisited more than the joyous ones.

For example, my daughter sent me a wedding photo of me. I did not even recall it. I had to look carefully at the woman – me – at her dress, her smile, her hair. The only feeling I got from it was how young I looked. I didn’t feel me smiling into the camera, or smooching this new husband. I do not recall any feelings or emotions around that marriage other than frustration. I recall no conversations, no encounters, no folded laundry or vacuumed floors. I do recall that we had a boldly patterned blue couch with paisley orange pillows. We had shelves from that Scandinavian store that my husband put up on the wall in my designed pattern which placed them around a painting. I vaguely remember hours of taping music on a reel-to-reel … my hobby.

But the list of memories files down to a single point, that he joked “insanity” ran in my family when our kid was making a “heredity health list” for school years later.

My second marriage brings me to emotional damage for both of us as disagreements grew stronger, as my unhappiness about myself led to physical problems which bled into divorce just a couple of years after the complete hysterectomy the docs said I needed.

I think I snuck in with some protection around me; but I can see where I’ve been short-changed lifelong by inability to think with my head when it came to relationships. I see now I could have counseled out irregularities in these had I had just a bit more tolerance, understanding & maturity. How many mistakes did I make with a careless stroke when paying attention would have mooted out their effects? How many times have I said, “Well, too late now.” about imperfect situations which I was assured would not happen in a “happy marriage.”

My happily ever after soured with each mistake, each error of timing or restraint. I could not tell you much about what happened. But I remember we had an extra-long couch. And he never fixed the cabinets in the kitchen. (What is it with couches?)

I’m not saying I’m possessed. I am saying if I’d had understanding, an education about what might or could happen, an exposure to a parental married couple. Mom divorced Dad early in my life. But I was bright, quick & beautiful. The husbands were flawed – not for real, but for me. The result of which is I am & have been alone a longer time that I was ever married although married three times.

And there’s even emotion tied up around this. To write facts only is so dry & lacking: married seven years, nine years, etc. Lived in Nashville & Upper Darby, etc. I was out of control emotionally. What tripped those triggers?

The consensus I came to as I aged was I was simply too young to handle my own life. Why did I not grow into my whole self? I was redirected towards smoky addictions, to making my way in the work world where I felt “valued.” I was not guided to family values of my own. I simply had no frame of reference. I was not any kind of competent parent for the same reason – I wasn’t “parented,” I was controlled as a child. Few of my own decisions were honored or amusing & were quickly stifled in favor of what Mom thought/knew I should do in the moments. Later, it was the Church in control of all else.

If every memory brings up concomitant emotion & this is a product of DNA tinkering by beings that feed on emotion, they got a lifetime guarantee with me.

So, perhaps aging has brought me to this place where I can consciously consider my feelings about situations. It does not stop the feelings. It has given me a level of experience & some knowledge by observation (which is how humans & other species learn). This allows me discernment about how much attention I pay to these situations.

Each day I have the opportunity to be aware of thoughts & encounter/re-counter these. Daily I can strip away the clingfilm emotions they’re wrapped in. I understand now I am the product of my whole life & that was tilted by so much offered on terms of keeping me straight.

It’s wonderful to have this overview now. I like to think any installed implants are countered by the Light now available to us all. Or maybe they’ve just sputtered to a halt & spin their little gears without engaging the emotional body to spark prior responses. It’s so much calmer! And also less permissive of being totally alive as in experiencing this wonderful world in the ways I might have, had I known this so much earlier.

Be loved, beloved. Examine, don’t react. Consider without overlay of prior “stuff” to gray out the observations.

Bring it on, bring it back, bring it to fruition. But carry on!

Love, Carol

January 9, 2021 0

Unraveling

I have become a third world country. What does that mean? My life is rimmed around a definite high each day & I get to choose what it might be: A morning walk, a sunny place to sit, a terrific book to be lost within… I take my bags to the market to fill & since they are infected with Covid, I get to do this myself. I could probably take the world record in holding my breath in time to grab a few things at the market. (Can’t even get into the only other grocery in town – which is Walmart – with the lines & what not. Thanks, China! In so many ways, thanks! I find it interesting that my bags carry the virus & my face: not my hands sifting among avocados, not my jacket which l has brushed up against all kinds of possible hosts, etc. You know that rant could go on for a couple of days.

I get to choose from my five or six winter outfits – an exciting moment! I am not permitted to buy any other clothing which cannot be acquired from my [Chinese] Walmart; thus supporting the overt providers of Covid. Interestingly, I am not hearing of gigantic death numbers from the virus in China. Did they flatten the curve?

I am singled at work for not wearing a mask. The fact that I find it very difficult to breathe or do quality work while wearing one – that my clients give me permission to not wear one – that they themselves feel put upon forced to wear a mask on a massage table where they must breathe deeply for maximal benefit rendered irrelevant by conflicts of science & con-science.

I am tired of seeing Fauci’s face. His Hitler salute is not a raised arm, but an index finger pointed upward as he calls the shots for my life. I read Switzerland is doing fine, South Dakota is doing fine… Herd immunity is proved out. Statistics are down (even the CDC says so) but for whatever reason, I wear a mask to every store. Which amounts to the few open here in town – Chinese Walmart, Chinese Family Dollar & Chinese Dollar Store plus a couple all-American hardware posts.

I am wearing down. I hate to say it. I dislike admitting defeat. I miss our small businesses. I miss being able to eat a meal I did not prepare myself. Last night I didn’t even have dinner & infrequently in my life have I gone to bed without dinner like some truant. I miss friends, entertainment, the occasional movie, drives to nearby old West towns to spend my dollars on postcards. I have put about 400 miles on my car since March – an invitation to an oil change had me laughing as I tossed it.

I’m done with conflicting news, one source telling me I’m dead so just lie down already, another telling me I live in Jesus, a third assuring me the Pleiadians are en route in answer to my thumb stuck out over the horizon of Earth, a fourth to say the Pleiadians are sitting to one side watching “the show” & unwilling/unable to help. Pleiadian Uber?

I will live as long as I live & no longer. It is up to me to make these days reactive or passive. I think of it as “clapping for Tinkerbell” where she will fade from existence without applause (a cheap crowd participation trick.) I am down to one hand clapping.

I want to get back into gear. I want to tend my volunteer duties, travel at will & with a way, get a definitive reply when I reach out – because it seems as things have slowed down, no one is keeping up.

Nothing is normal & I want some semblance of that back!

January 9, 2021 0

Oaths: Legalities: Legal Ties: Insights

This is the part of my life where I’m allowed to be funny, to be creative, to talk to people using language I’ve spent a lifetime developing. Instead it was “Shut up, it’s The Covid” at all times.

I do not consent. I am literally of a different mind when it comes to all of this talk/script going on/playing out. I am fiercely for health in everyone, for all of us to be mobile, active, determined, forward-facing … (what’s your add to the list?). I want the freedom to be outrageous at times, to wear hats with plumes or belts with bull riding clasps. At this time of wanting these, I am in the mindset of wanting them is having them & not doing them. Did you follow that? Thinking about as doing? My excuse & acceptance…

Anyway, I am an actress who’s quarreled with the Theatre that loved her & this is never done other than with Drama (which is usually an emotional subset of Trauma.)

I am a woman who sees her debts as decisions & perceives debt on levels seers do. There are times when I’ve scattered paths like pennies & been found to round off miracles. That there are people who love me despite the boundaries of love I usually reside beyond, amazes me. And I love back!

I have done Lover as spider woman, creatively exploring & ultimately deciding no one’s mind except mine needs to be present in my present. What I love best about being Present to all of this allows it to interrupt & re-present itself. That can always bifurcate, but I’m quick to categorize & ‘opinionize.’ (The next layer to peel away is that opinionizing. The Lovers of the deck have always been, for me, 1) being alone or 2) being with another. Tumult survives no matter how much oil is poured upon the waters – on the “wanters.” )

I’m a lion in my own world, but a kitten on the screen door for many others…the one with claws dug in so tightly to pry her off is to exercise fearlessness at peak levels. I’m up there hanging on, trusting the view of what I see will be the view when I’m again out there. You know, when I’m older & after I can locate the alleys. When I find a reign to Queen.

Eccentricity is an aura of everyone in Truth or Consequences. The amazing blending of eccentricities is what we feed upon & enjoy its dancing, blending/braiding. If we don’t know you, we do know of you. And are perfectly willing to leave it at that…until we get to know you – which often happens by simple propinquity.

I think this started better than it’s going to end. In an acknowledgement that each of those Present moments made up for the rote of life, that each enforced “rote” is now sustaining me where I in-dwell, in-habit. It’s an admission of being Ok My Way. If I’m okay with me, there’s not much need for all else.

We are all re-solving our Vasanas.

January 2, 2021 2

Returning to Prayer

So, a time or two ago, I was able to tune into prayer as being that tiny generating engine behind my energy. While I’ve been making my changes, it turns out so has Prayer. What I was told was a technology has become solid as such.

I’ve learned “What were you thinking?” is not a rhetorical question. With the thought police increasing every day, it can now be an accusation. But I feel a potential sifting through: Alchemically, a potentiation sifting through, taking root around me, binding me down while nourishing my wings.

I see a “Next Level” sign blinking overhead.

I see big flakes of me, psychic flakes, pulled off & scampering down the sidewalks of other places, more geographic places.

Every once in awhile, I think I am pedaling backwards; slack; no traction. Then I just arrive, because Spirit has already done all the arranging while I was sightseeing. On tour may mean “On To Our” or “onto our”.

The wind that pushed us steadily forward has turned into a gusty go at us, sidling in or full-frontal. We emerge again & again. We arrive at our truest selves repeatedly or our repeated selves more truly. Even (& perhaps most accurately), we get to the ones who started out compliant, but are now rattling the chains back at the gang. The closer we get to ourselves in the Silence draped upon us, the more Powerful we become.

Compliant to Complaint is moving one single letter.

November 14, 2020 0

Schwinn Twin

I’ve always been the bent spoke in the wheel at that violent angle proving vicious to lower limbs, Perhaps this is why I kept distance from others.

I guard my independence fiercely; it has a presence others may find bristling. But nothing is as it once was as I soften. Trouble is, I’ve already driven off hope of merging in polite society.

Expectations brown & fade, providing nutrients for a softer medium. I still hope to grow. I really tried to stay on the beaten path, but being born in wilderness outs too readily. Once I walked city streets, though, blending in.

Now I’m torn between returning to my roots & simply getting comfortable where I am.

Now I understand knowledge to be hollow, “can’t” to be a form of surrealism, certainty to flex, Life to be a wild & untameable event.

October 29, 2020 1

Pre-Post Covid

A long set of poems borne of lonely anger. Covid is not my illness, but it may have bested me – financially, figuratively & finally. Were I suicidal, I would already be dead of it. See my images as your own but don’t dwell here long. Love, Carol

THE DISEASE OF UNEASE

How can I not miss all that I miss?

A body so warm beside me

The wash of the sea

That salt-morning light

A family

So soon it all changes

Once again the more & the less

Will lead me a dance divine:

The motherless child

A fatherless girl

A sister-less life

A brother unknown –

The nights like this:

A season at end; another not begun

A time of silvered stars

The rime of the horizon

A single setting at table

A single serving.

I no longer complain or marvel

I am simply through it

Through with it

I long for a bosom

To weep upon

A tickle to laugh, a limerick rhyme?

I yearn for a life which will never be mine

My nights spent alone on the staircase of time

Not poems that wait till the last word to rhyme.

STEEL MIMICRY

Bold as brass, I steer forth upon my course

Unstayed by wind, by aching hands

By sullen feet

My eyes sore of missing faces

My heart salted by loneliness & faintly sour

Faulted by sinecure of sin

I have climbed over decades

Searching an easier path

Than this, uneven stone & shale.

I have bared my soul a thousand times

Only to redresss it, bringing it home

To sleep beneath my pillow.

NOTES

The music defines the moment

One key on a piano

Tapping against time

The days all lit. I gather change about me

Cashmere in comfort

I see my way clear to home

While night approaches

A feral cat, seeking succor

A black thing with green eyes

A pat upon its head

A sufferance for food.

A narrow bed

I am grateful to rest into

The universe hangs upon my wall

A purple swag of planets to behold

A memory I live at the center.

THE POST-COVID WORLD

A 50-50 chance

Of having a car

A place to live

Food to table

I am no soldier

Yet somehow signed up to march in this lockstep dream

Before the lemming rush

Before the bodies take, wingless, to air

I have my life lived already

Enough to spin in front of me

No matter the height from which I fall.

THE READING

I look to you, my divinations

The round cards before me

Shaping a Celtic Cross

You unfold a fervor of vision only

Dizzying with foresight

My place in the middle

Where spirals emerge

A past with a future

Equally in balance

The to & fro of tidal life

The iron in my blood magnetized

To what I cannot say

By what I will not do.

I am agreed to stand the middle

To straddle lies & truth

To make my unequal way.

I remember the solitude of perfection

Once the pattern

Now tilted all a-side.

HOME ALONE

Now defined by idleness

Not sanity.

I feed a neighborly cat

I water sixteen plants

No expectations left

In polite society

For such an isolate as me

A hermit in the cave of time

Lacking the charcoal to

Slash a day – one day

Upon the wall.

And in this heartless stripping away

A promise is uncovered

A fan of words to hold the heat of hell at bay.

KEENING

I know I am enough for heaven

To gather wings around me

To live in former gravity

My pockets full of sins, like rocks

Will wings be strong enough to carry me?

Is even God enough to forgive the unlived life?

“I AM INNOCENT!”

I supinate my palms

One arm crooked, trembling with effort

“You cannot accuse me!”

But my voice is lost in the courtroom’s

Bloody effulgence of noise

The judge looks away

Shifting papers for dates & times

My wrongdoings rendered evidence

Disappointed to find me

Still sequestered to life

Without parole.

THE YOGINI & THE TWICE-BROKE ARM

The yoga chart behind the door

Bought in faith

The mounted visual aid

My self-improvement swear-in

Dust takes longer to gather there

My twice-broke arm cannot hold the rag

Let alone wield it true.

There was a time

I would have bulled through to be a Hero

To attempt a headstand on eternity

Now? Not even Happy Baby!

I am yet recovering from Shivasana.

IN POINT OF FACT

I have no refills

The pens run dry

Down to pencils

Yellow & thin

Reluctant to record my life

This is what is left of me:

A disembodied voice

A nursery rhyme unremembered

A fool to even care

The last to recall my name

Will end me once for all.

ONCE UPON MY TIME

I only wanted a chance to tell my story

To bare my breast, not beat upon it!

I only needed proof of life

Beyond my departure from it.

I guess coming in without a plan

Except to be here

Was a poor idea

An existential fly

In the non-existent ointment

After all.

GROWING

So this is what it means to age

A pick & choose among the words I’ve swept before me

Blossoms baked & dried in the sun of another’s regard.

I even forgive myself this confessional moment

This bedraggled accounting in want of smiles!

I forgive my independent ways

My chancy decisions

The long dusty distances ventured from home.

I forgive the litter of life

The loitering debts, the trespass of my passing

My feet remain unbound

My vision unhindered

My grim will, undeterred

To live my way

To live light & shadow

In all of it, the only me

The best I know to be.

CHURCHES

I remember when I prayed aloud with many

Rather than alone, on paper

Furtive, a dark morning becoming chill

Soft notes playing.

I remember gathering like minds together

Under a domed roof

“Be still & know”

Where I sit amidst a chorus of cactus

A muted hum accompanying all grace

Needing no permission to sing

(Now all subversive in song

Transmitting death on a holy note…)

I have lived in times when children were ripped

From my arms to die by the sword

I remember when I did not look down

Till the hand on my neck forced me

I knew these words, tho not how to write them

I knew these formulas, results never changing

But I have less to live for now

So I write them with impunity.

Come, cut off my hands

Dissect my heart’s four chambers

Brain me unsensible.

I am impervious to curses

A stalwart divinity of One.

I have lived a life seeking eight noble truths

You cannot harm the God in me

Nor divest the Goddess in every cell.

Come, do your bloody worst

I am a stringy old woman with bad teeth

The perfect victim

My findings will never be that for which you search.

My submission will ever be a taint upon your hands

I will not even hate you tho I’ve left love out of it.

Wherein I dwell – that innermost altar you’re seeking to augur out?

Still intact & whole as a Temple

I am barefoot for I stand on holy ground.

THE DOGS BEGIN TO BARK

Brought outside their bedroom dens

Urged from oval, braided rugs

Where their paws tapped a Braille of dreams

Packs & pacts forsworn

Rudely chained to guard posts

In the chill of Autumn mornings

Barking to fill the spaces you once held.

HABITUAL HUNGER

Humanity stripped from inhuman times

Truthsayers hoarse in accusation

The walls of communication

Lined in silk.

But truth wears sturdy shoes

Stands impervious to false victory.

You cannot have the morning!

You may live in the land of no clocks,

Yet all I hear is ticking.

October 26, 2020 0