sight scythe sigh, the cut reframed, explained to a t. a lee from your name filling my skin. an exoskeleton dance of #sign ature defeat bows to the wind, spins and sheds its memories
I wrote that the morning of May 16, 2022 on the prompt #sign. Big time gap, right? I’ve done many prompts now. Things have gotten so busy for me that I almost have to choose between prompts and other projects during my morning writing time. And I needed space to know what daily prompt writing is accomplishing. Am I learning enough from presenting to this group in lieu of research? And is my writing style being influenced by an exchange of Likes? Or by the short nature of prompts?
I’m working on some new training in addition to adjusting to new work. Will find a balance and pop back in from time to time. I do love many of the people on there–hearts and souls of poetry. I am around many “brand” writers and often wonder what kind of spell people are under that the realm of poetry too has to be reduced to slogans. I like checking back in on Twitter and seeing growth in people’s writing and love that there seem to be deeper themes and bigger words explored. Of course, anyone can write what they please. I am not judging; I am looking for my arena.
My personal site has been filled with spammers who would like me to mark my own emails as spam or buy their product. I have shown myself that I can keep a consistent schedule and will probably move to a new platform while keeping this one as a type of backup to the backup.
3/22/22 The horse and the elephant and the monkey and me, listen to the forest for the trees. To #taboo, meaning sacred, and came to mean unclean. We #mew about while the falcon molts. Our missions, in a widening gyre, receive and emit. #vssdaily#prompt#vss365
This was an honor. I wish it came before I took my hiatus. I’ve done hundreds of these, mostly under vss365, and earned the respect of the community, but they did not respond to my request. I almost wonder if it was a matter of followers, judging by some of the prompt masters. I did get turned off from vss365 by the political right-wing ranting of a prompt master who put their association in their profile name, so that it appeared that the political opinions could have been ties to the group. Or at least been a platform for divisive cocoa puffs. Write a poem about it, faboo flashneck.
noun: 1-a gull 2-meow 3-an enclosure for trained hawks—usually used in plural 4-a place for hiding or retirement verb: 1-to utter a mew; to meow 2-to shut up; confine (used with up)
I’ve done many prompts now. Things have gotten so busy for me that I almost have to choose between prompts and other projects during my morning writing time. And I needed space to know what daily prompt writing is accomplishing. Am I learning enough from presenting to this group in lieu of research? And is my writing style being influenced by an exchange of Likes? Or by the short nature of prompts?
I’m working on some new training in addition to adjusting to new work. Will find a balance and pop back in from time to time. I do love many of the people on there–hearts and souls of poetry. I am around many “brand” writers and often wonder what kind of spell people are under that the realm of poetry too has to be reduced to slogans.
2/19/22 Jon was starting to feel hangry. “What a stupid word. Do we all just pull up language by the roots and salt the earth? It’s like a destructive child making mud castles while lightening #larrups a tower and all comes crumbling down. The child can’t be bothered to look up.” #vss365
It was a war of attrition. Zno babies were raised as slaves. Sae could feel her child #tremble and awaken at the magic age of 7. In harmonia, she absorbed the tacit vibrations, then #thrust, from her bones and throat, dominant waves of calm resolve back to her child.
2/3/22 Lorn and forlorn are words I can get behind. Forlorn is more common nowadays: to lose, forlost to the point of completion; lost or left behind.
The godforsaken creature reeked of deadly sin or revelation—black sun, blood moon, and starlight stripped from the sky.
Aza, she #breathed. I will find you and set you free.
somewhere between poem and stream, for national poetry month
Amus Thal she/her
It was you, Amus Thal, who never got the shirted pall down over your face so they never recognized grace
[Recognize your blame. Understand them. Don’t complain]
while it softly, coolly granted time, met them in familiar halfways, always arriving.
They are broken wavelengths, nerves connecting to their own ends, to avoid certain death and disconnect— how brave the cold. How buried the true dead emotions
They tastemakers never swallow Nothing reaches past the salt lick/ prairie dogs wait out the spitten rain in airy angled pockets just above their level of content
You never wanted to be their dog— rodential underminer of brutal fields— chased out to run among heels and mown meadows; they blink and cross a surface nurturance, in simulations spurred by spire and spite, for fields of rest dere served, by Thal Amus—
As inspiration thunders— emptying buckets of dead-of-night, preparing to treat the roots and dendrites with what serves them just fine
beacon captive hill mountain balk egg duet rain fall devil
January 18, 2022 to January 30, 2022
from the full to the new moon in Capricorn and Aquarius
The realization struck her like a beacon from the moon; held her captive in its lunacy, in the long trance of night. Flushes of rose and gold reached the earth first, outlining Hemlock Hill in amber glow. There. She’d prolong the scatter of violet light with ashes.
I sang up the mountain, arpeggiating up a balkanized cord. Each step echoed its linear thread. Stumbling chromatic contradictions of blue and scarlet duets key the triad to strike at the top of the whole mountain.
This morning I bent a rainbow. Red came out and cured my hardening eyes. You came in focus for the first time in years. The word you didn’t say was “friend.” That has always been a problem with you.
He used to say I’ve saved his life so many times by writing and talking with him. We shared a love of writing, especially poetry. I have a long appreciation of correspondence between writers, and I was just delusional enough to think he thought of me as a writer. We split the cost of a plane ticket so he could come here and we could visit with each other. He got the ticket, snapped to his closeup, and announced his epic tour, where he would visit his esteemed craftsmen and hold them close in grand existential camaraderie of what causes true writers to write. To suffer. To bleed. To keep it real but also not so real that it’s not real, and make it plain, too; because no one can understand complicated blood. Out they came, led by great fanfare and praise wrapped generously around their minds and pens. I wasn’t in there. Odd, I was just trying to visit with my friend and agreed to read here, and drive him to the next city over, where we could visit the International Rooms! I love that place. I helped him figure out who he could contact to try to read with and where.
Our relationship shifted as he got re-involved with his ex and wandered into psychosexual territory. Hmm, what can I safely talk about here and still give some privacy…how about the Oedipal Complex mentioned in his bio? That’s a psychosexual stage of development, and I don’t need to hear about it unless my help is sought solving it. The reminders of his prowess, also widely shared in email; I was embarrassed for this woman when I read it. I won’t go into the one that hit me the most, out of privacy, and the need to keep that dissonance out of my subconscious. By the time he looked at following this love—a big one—while dating others, including one half his age who seemed to need elder energy (martyr), I was unable to process any more. I argued that this was confusing behavior if he wanted to get closer in the relationship he had flip flopped about but was currently in flip mode. That his claims of her jealousy may come from this kind of uncertainty. He practically wears a sign that says: Emotional Instability Coming Soon. And carries a prop sunset he can ride off into, while a broken record plays on the bakabaka jukebox. Whiskey, cigarettes, Camaro or busted pinto; Camus on the corner sneezing from the cold; contagious snot flying through the air to infect anyone who gets close.
That was in early July, one of the last times it felt like we were friends. I wrote the next day and apologized profusely for my intrusiveness and truth-bomb spinout. I shouldn’t have been on the phone that long in the land of dissociation. I didn’t want to relate personal things, but I did and apologized. I don’t like seeing women treated poorly, and even now when he speaks of her, it is with a one-sided view of heartache. But what do I know as a bailing tour partner? A show skipper? A bad Uber? When he writes, he lumps me in with her: the two of you. Except I’m a cited as a stranger, not a former friend. Not sure if that means I am also trash? Class is gonna class.
Back to that phone convo, he didn’t talk to me for about a month. I’m ok with friendships that drop off when things get busy, but I’m very tired of punishing silent treatments. They are destabilizing; I use my mental energy to wonder how I can make things better or get anxious it’s all over. I’ve had so much loss and am trying to work on that grief with therapy. Covid hasn’t helped, except that I’ve outgrown loyalty to relationships that see my time and effort as the actions of a doormat. I accidentally texted him during this long sulking stretch, to which he implied my text was no accident. This took me back to our previous conversation where Romeo got a text from a girl who pretended to accidentally text him, then he went on about how she wanted him, and further how three women at that same reading wanted him. What the actual what.
Tour was October, that was July. I take my close friendships very seriously and this one became confusing and weird. Meanwhile he’s all BADDA-BING online and everyone is his Brotherrrrr. That’s also the last time he acknowledged me on social media, to like a picture. He never once liked any of the writing I was finally starting to post online. I texted him about this and he replied not to send him heavy texts. Our last email was in August and he knew I felt estranged and not into further investing any of my leftover aorta into whatever was happening here. This wasn’t the friend I’d really gelled with and loved. He’d already pooped on the plans I made for us to hang out at the International Rooms—didn’t think any of it sounded like fun…not fun? YOU’RE NOT FUN. The he’s coming at me with “boundaries” he must have discovered while giving a one-sided view of how I figure into his problems. I could have told him, but that was not the game happening here.
Life goes on. I enjoyed being yelled at after I came in from a week-long shoot and was rushing to prepare for a family dinner and birthday party. It wasn’t scary, just another push-and-pull. There was another round of him paying me back for not being available by saying he could pencil me for a talk the following week, while he acted like Mr Popular and Mr-Available-To-Talk-Anytime to others online. He knew I was out on this bad idea long before he came here. He’d traded the ticket I bought him toward a ticket from Portland. And the Athens things he secured through a friend of mine. Acting like he didn’t know I was not participating and stranded him is just annoying. Played me from the start. Now he’s got the t-iii-g-h-t hookup in my town with our mutual friends, he can have them. I have friends but not a lot of time.
I did apologize that it went down that way. I miss him, but he is destabilizing for me, and life has been easier without weird tensions and paradoxes. I’m not a bored person, and giving my time to an important friend is one of the most valuable things I can give. It hurts, but I’ll survive. What I’m not sure about is why he’s writing about me so many months later. He blocked me. Sympathy? Clearing his name? I don’t believe I tarnished it, unless someone needs a talking to. Is this so I’ll be jealous that he’s involving his inner circle into celebrating his book release? Great. Is that the final circle of hell?. Or is there an even closer circle where you get to help him with his aspirations, give pep talks, and send clips of writing and music after he lets you know you’re the trash enemy. I still can’t tell if that was directed at me or the lady he loved.
Last Friday night after work, my husband was cooking dinner and I was checking out the writers on Twitter. Our big plans were to have a nice meal, curl up with the pups, and watch Nobody on HBO Max. It was snowing hard and we were homebound on yet another Friday night, trying not to catch the Omnicron strain of Covid, that every third person we know has caught lately in Columbus, Ohio.
I scrolled Twitter, sorted by vss hashtags, and saw a writer I respect, Helen Laycock, post about a poetry battle, a collaboration between From One Line and the Move Me Poetry groups. Then I saw Arliden The Bard was involved, another very good poet I know of from Twitter. I hadn’t done any battles in years, but had fond memories of hitting various clubs in Chicago like the Green Mill. Problem is that I’m no slam poet and slam poets get people’s adrenaline going on the stage, which, often, makes for livelier entertainment and engagement. I always thought of slam as the air guitar of poetry–hey, I agree that we all need to write, creatively vent, express, rent our garments like suppressed maenads ritually releasing oppression in a bloodthirsty frenzy; this is not dissimilar to endless accounts in folk culture, right up to modern needs to cast out demons, connect with source and spirit, and shake the almost biocentric vent of every person/soul’s emanating tension. But slam is not my way. I never connected to the inner voice that way.
The crowd-pleasing nightlife effect of rant poetry is not too different, to me, from market research showing that enraged social media posts get the most engagement while posts with excitement run second place. This trope may have lessoned now that we understand the extent of interference from a world that understands psychological control. This understanding is required learning for powers of governance and marketing. People hate being manipulated. But just watch an Adam Curtis documentary to understand that this has been driving the world for a long time, and it works. This understanding was the basis for the first public relations firms and the first commercial firm marketing strategies and has only increased in acuity over the last hundred years. Ignoring it and contributing to a prescribed fantasy of give-a-fockless stardom might make for a better socialized day, but doesn’t do much for awareness, breakthrough, and change. Riding the status quo was never the drive of our young idealized hearts. My generation, the groups I grew from anyway, shared active experience—better than reactive—to connect. TO CONNECT.
Shrugging off new contemplative art to gush over trend ignores the profitable machine of art, with its statistical understanding of what moves human hearts, or better, drives human hearts to spend in the search for divine connection. Corporate brands struggle to appear genuinely interested in humanity instead of in their bottom line of profit. With this understanding of what spirit seeks, it is so encouraging to see the younger generations hold brands accountable for standards and sustainability. The youth that do it anyway.
I talk about this with youth I mentor. There is a very natural bucking against parental authority that is often needed to move on to independence, especially when there has been a caretaker with unhugged and untreated mental disability, mood disorder, or a deep unembraced shadow. This can translate to offspring feeling confused. And, notably, in cases where protective parents have not released containment of their child’s free will and individual soul. These understandings happen incrementally and are challenging to reframe, but greatness leads to greatness and it goes both ways. I have explained to my few mentees that understanding the intentions of your elder’s guidance means seeing their soul and forgiving human error, which can set you free to be a forgiving, grateful adult.
One brilliant young mind I mentored railed on about the boomer distraction. Ie, “Ok, boomer.” I get it. Did the same thing at their age, believing that the world would evolve if new voices were to rail against or wait out the outdated mindset and influence of former generations. But a scapegoat is a scapegoat, and early family controls nothing but a seem/seam shadow haunting our independence. Most people are not born with modern idealism. Modern ideas evolve, so there is important history/belonging in acknowledging the struggles of former generations that led to your own enlightenment. Saying “boomer” flippantly can erase past equality efforts, such as the suffragist movement, the civil rights movement, and many others. Not that everyone does this, but my point is that respect is an evolving contagion. As a united humanity, we have to figure out how to be motivated by positive emotions that are stronger and vivider than spite.
I regularly digress, but my tangential point is that life is about minimizing regrets. And while there are many cases where abuse is about a criminal level of sickness, many others are about tracing threads of subtler abuse to free themselves from the knots. See the human faults of caretakers but try to understand and forgive souls.
Wow, what is this post about again? Right, From One Line and Move Me Poetry poetry battles. I got off on the other stuff, but hope it relates a bit of why I love the freeform expression of poetry. And music. These are powerful expressive processors of primal conflict that, for all, may not be covered by the logic of western psychology, the exorcism of religion, nor the slogans of art.
Gosh, back to the poetry post. I was moved by their line: “I have a hunger” and riffed on their one line prompt, noticing that others posted documents and images unlimited by character limits. Character limits have been the biggest twitter challenge and here was a chance to stretch out. I was in. I flowed, uploaded my piece, and went to sleep.
I didn’t understand the difference between quoting a tweet and retweeting, so it wasn’t until the next day that I saw this response video. It was stunning to wake up, in the low light of the morning, to this dose of grace:
This is JD Greyson from Move Me Poetry. She is unbelievably open, unblocked, supportive, and like a rejuvenating springthrough breeze. I have been so tired of tension and the void, in this territorial, non-inclusive arena I landed in, so this was a breath of much-needed oxygen, reminding me of who I want to be despite the Covid- heightened isolation. I want to build here and move others like this…extend lifelines to isolated poetic minds.
A few days later, my husband and I are enjoying the evening in our living room, each with a dog and an instrument on our lap, talking about changing the lead counter melody on a song and wondering what instruments would work best. I checked to see what the Twitter writers wrote that day and stumbled on this poetry battle highlights link, Poetry Battle Highlights: A Special Edition, Medium post by JD Grayson:
I can’t seem to embed it, but will try again. Anyway, my boo and I gaped at each other with big WOW faces. What she wrote about my words was more than I needed to keep going. For years I’ve been telling myself that I only need a few people whose work I respect to respect mine. But everything got so heavy the past couple of years, so it nice to be seen. I took a screenshot of what she said to put in my “Keep Going” folder.
I still have a wow on my face. Then the YouTube audio on the page started playing automatically. It was a narrator reading his entry choices to sound design. The first one he read I’d seen and noted, as it mentioned “ambrosial cup.” My piece mentioned the red-winged blackbird’s first flight being a search for ambrosia, the food of the gods, in that the bird flew. I imagined a great mystical cause evolved into wings and thought of the storytellers who penned the myths that formed our words (I’ve been studying Proto-Indo-European words lately to understand even earlier communication). So I noted this poet’s synchronous use of the word ambrosial to describe a cup and questioned what was in that cup.
The narrator, Ethan McCaffrey, kept reading on and I kept wondering on. On his fourth and final read, he read my piece! My husband and I both did a Home Alone gesture, clapping the sides of our wowed faces. And then? The narrator used an effect on the side line voicing of the piece; it sounded almost like a vocoder speaking the imprint words like one might in the counterpoint of song. We were stunned. It was this interpretation of the kind of reference we use with lyrics on songs! Here was someone we had never met understanding the lyric notes. What?!
This writing group is great. Conductive. I am wanting to sing again, to rosin up my bow, write, and see if I can grow. This is something good to be a part of. And I want to encourage others the way they encouraged me.
I wrote this poem on a prompt of the word midnight and wanted to share some insights on the word choices. Without getting too deeply into it at this time (though I wish this was my job), I’d like to share a short key.
At midnight, the witches gather and abdicate their veils, revel by the sconce of fearless perception on the winged misdivision of the adder and the newt; sing basilisk elegies and play, then fly away when lore gives way to darker hours.
The Witching Hour is from midnight to 1am, and the Devil’s Hour, the darker lore, is from 3am to first light. The 3am time is thought to be an inversion of the 3pm time that Christ was crucified.
Veil refers to both veiled feminine insight, personified by the goddess, and the veil of perception between worlds, most notably the mortal world and the preternatural world. Veil of perception also refers to mystical insight, studied and learned on the quest for transmutation. Females were long kept from study, science, sacral roles, healer roles; and the female alchemist was moreoften referred to as a witch. They don’t explain this well on the CW channel. Popular culture puts a lot of more work to put into fetishizing the feminine and nurturing generations to assume gender roles.
[I hope this explains to a certain friend of mine why I trailed off when he referred to my work as “witchy shit.” I study all kinds of things and have been writing a long time, so it is annoying to hear my efforts dismissed as being some kind of misunderstood mystical lunacy. Many have hemmed me into self-doubt over the years, by implying or directly saying that my work is too opaque–Dense! Confusing! Baffling! Weird for the sake of being weird! Perplexing! Cryptic! A word spell striptease! You have to slooowly arrive at a plain, relatable idea: the arrival!]
It took me many years to realize the gift of outer critics and how their energy frees up my inner critic.
Okay, it feels like a weight is lifted every time I post about the slights that have chipped away at my energy, enthusiasm, and motivation. I will get back to the short & sweet key. … And not go on about how gender is weaponized, consciously or unconsciously (please do wake the fock up), to reduce competition. The gloves fit differently but they are on.
Sconce refers to light, illumination, discovery, revelation. From Abscondere! Abracadabra!
Regarding nadder and ewt, the misdivisionreference is about bracketing, or metanalysis. Nadder lost the ‘n’ from spoken ref to ‘an adder’ and ewt gained an ‘n’ from ref to “an ewt.” Spelling mistakenly recorded. I liked how the imagery conjures the idea of treacherous witches stirring their cauldrons and adding eye of newt or tongue of asp. There’s more on why misdivision is winged, but it is work to clarify, and basilisk is next.
Basilisk, adjective, means spellbinding, and as a noun is a lizard; and as noun in lore, a lizard known for its lethal stare.
Kinda cool, right? Cool to reflect and consider language and poetic reference. I do understand the need to give some context and always read the Norton Anthology notes, etc, especially with James Joyce. How cool! But I don’t have a whipsmart publisher. Yet. I’m standing between critics and breakthroughs to new levels. And I am hungry to spill gold.
Time still for gold to spill: the fleece, the bough, and the ratio All those mysteries alive at your fingertips Above as so below
(from a song I lyricized and sang years ago with a talented artist who hasn’t released it yet, probably due to the pandemic. It refers to the golden fleece, the golden bough, and the goldenratio. Did I need to say that? We’ll never know.)
Lorn and forlorn are words I can get behind. ____Forlorn is more common nowadays: to lose, _________________forlost to the point of completion; ________________________________lost or left behind.
I am solorn lovelorn hopelorn sadlorn greedlorn thricelorn sixpencelorn anxlorn neurolorn sublorn lostlorn hatelorn gherlorn deathlorn lifelorn alorn
A psychic messaged me on Twitter to say there were snakes posing as my friends that would like to see my downfall. How cool is that?
I don’t think so, though. Thanks to two years of Covid, I haven’t spent much time with peripheral friends. I’m at an age where loyalty is no basis for overlooking weird tensions or getting involved in pockets of social hierarchy. Many artists are looking to connect, but you can’t find simpatico vision if you’re maxing out your time/energy with the wrong people. You can tell the wrong people because they will ignore your work. If you work hard at writing, they’ll ignore it. If you sing, they’ll ignore it. If you make a video, they’ll ignore it. Whatever you accomplish, they’ll ignore it.
I had a couple of nut sandwiches barely try to conceal that I was on the menu as they were trying to show off for each other. I almost burned the gymnasium down with my mind but got out of there before my face dropped too far. Can you imagine winding up to be surly with someone the moment they appear? Being so scrambled into caricature that internal reflection is not something your icons would have done? Hawking the scene from within a bad novella? One bumbler actually told me I was not in my place: “Blah blah shiny blah, I was surprised you got that bone of recognition because we didn’t sanction it and also so and so is so much better at what you do, don’t you think?” All I could think about was how they were going to dress up such a lame story when they retold that yawner to their sycophants, while trying to insert themselves as a bold VIP in some weak game of broken thrones for The Great Hierarchy of Mediocrity. #hierarchyofmediocrity.
I had to get out of there fast as well, before my face fully morphed into the wolf-woman who feeds on outdated social roles. I had to get Hel, Baba Yaga, Kali, Keres, Eris, Nox, Scylla, Charybdis, all the Banshees, and some chimeras to talk me down. Why are these two so threatened by me? More accurately, why do so many women behave awfully toward other women?
No thanks! I’ve seen this kind of thing a hundred times and every single time it results in a loss of time. No one cool acts like that. Talent in your arena helps everyone grow to the size of the tank. It is crucial to being in an actual arena. Stand by your vision, keep on with your work, and spend thy limited free time with people who appreciate you authentically, and not because it furthers their brand. You don’t need a train of people as you work on growing and understanding your artistic talents. Artists can determine if something is subjectively good without being told it is or because it is gaining in popularity. Music-poetry-art circles, by the very nature of art, could imply an intimate or transcendent connection, not some self-aggrandizing starfuckery.
Between stars and celestial starfuckers, orbiting weak-on-weak gravity, debris attracts debris. Don’t be shackled to any false hierarchy. Honor yourself. See clearly.
The universe is merely using your organism to watch itself. Alan Watts
Organ-ism. Heh. Who got by with making up that word? Were they paid by the word or hourly? I’d like to make an NFT for the word organ, but rent the ism.
It’s been almost two years of Covid and everyone is losing their shit. Pandemic breakups are at an all-time high as the anxiety levels rise and rise. Hear that sound? It’s a friendship folding.
I already vented about my close friend of nine years sending me a breakup text on New Years Eve. There was not one mention of a problem is our relationship. It is hard to discuss resentments. We got together weekly for smiles, yoga, strength training, and hugs goodbye. Years of walks together and hangouts in what I considered a valued, healthy relationship. Well, I was very wrong, and some of the things she texted me are stuck in my brain and messing up my focus across the board. I decided to make a return sigil using some of the resonant words from her texts. Is that dramatic? Maybe, but let’s look at her words:
I never knew her to be this ugly. None of those things apply to me. I have a healer’s drive with perspective that has reached individuals in the over 2,000 yoga classes I’ve taught, and in talking with highly intelligent minds. This is my truth. I don’t like controversy or relational aggression, and prefer to be known for the quality of my work. That may sound overly positive or naive to someone who doesn’t have to bring in their own work, but my intention is to show respect. Anyway, the level of rage that crosses boundaries this hard might be better reserved for someone who stole your identity, peed on you, talked smack about your pets, or stabbed you. I suspect a bad reaction to medication.
Do I need this? I already struggle with feeling a part of this community due to the cool school headupass antics of 0.0000999999000001 of the community. That’s essentially 0 people, but they are heyday buddies who would rather mark their territory than give a decent welcoming. But this was a relationship I had put a lot of time into and nurtured. It hit me very hard and I can’t seem to shake the malaise. So I made a Return Sigil to release these toxic labels from my subconscious. I have a personalized system with sigil spelling, using swift focused energy and sealing with both logic and melody. Many use frenzied states of release, but I am already talking to the subconscious with a foot in the realm of the unconscious.
Next, I do the standard article and common word strikethrough:
Followed by the repeat letter reduction:
To come up with the remaining condensed sound symbols: narcistlgherfuyopdmg
Ironically, narcistlgherfuyopdmg, jumbles to “unhysterical god mfp” which shall be her new decretive nickname. Oh wait, maybe her shadow name? Hmm, I also see the words “supernormality,” “malnourished,” and “slaughter.” Slaughter gnomic?
The next step is to make a sigil out of those letters:
Separate that from the outer directional sigils. Separation is very important, because you are returning what has been sent. The cast is the return and not related to the contents of what has been sent. It is not some kind of mirror spell, there are no reflections; it is a re-turning of a continuous motion to the intender. Combining them suggests you are placing the sigil on them, but you are turning a container back to its creator. The outer directional sigils say “these words belong to _.”
Funny part is that “these words” becomes “the swords” when you strike the extra e. I went with the sword concept on the name sigil:
Now the tantrum returns to its generating lobe and has no power over me. I emailed my sigil with her contained content through the material world. It has entered into muscle memory. If thoughts stray back to having any charge, I’ll do an emanation meditation using this image.
There you have it. Good luck with your relationships during this pandemic! It’s bringing out some new levels of deep aggression. Shadow work, where one examines their darkness, is an important practice for cognitive coherence–to let yourself honestly know–but shadow work can’t be done while blaming a persecutor. Blame-shifting has to be sorted so it doesn’t lead to a disorder. You can’t hide from either your inner monster or inner therapist.
Next sigil will focus on setting some new goals on track.
prompts: infinity tranquil solar perspicacity pop yawn hugs crisper dollops midnight
January 2, 2022 to January 17, 2022
from the new moon to the full moon in Capricorn
You soar from sky to infinity in Blake’s grain, glisten like snowflake prisms, vapor altered states: ruby bronze azure chartreuse copper violet-rouge; Ephemeral bloodroot mulls on leaf mold and dew—Listen for the tap of bones when the fertile earth is ready for you.
For each harsh word, I gained another tranquil ruffle on the lake, a solar marvel raring from a grayer day. I am the end intended, take in infrared, hug back the rays, appreciate the symbiotic interplay. You are the link that breaks these atoms into different shapes, my blood picks up the relics takes them to the places where they ionate to give my heart and marrow all the strength you could not spare to spare me. Take. Your best aim.
“It’s called perspicacity. You explore, learn, reflect, and create with a comparably divergent drive. You’ll starve there. Actualize who you are and step into the light.” Maena crisply pierced the apple’s skin, tearing into its pulp before eyeing me. “Hungry?”
Honesty grabs one hand, loyalty the other. Vertebral seams pop, the serpentine column dances toward a new center, landing in perse moments of exchange: phosphene stories of love and pain ignite the mind.
The next words are butterflies.
She yawned and threw the message into the icebox. Yowls, crackles, and hisses flooded the moment before she slammed the door. The icebox kept words chilled and sentiments on ice. Hugs from the crisper were non-existent. She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed water over her eyes. From what she’d seen, this one could take some time to cool off.
He felt the dollops of ink release and flow from some great telepathy of the sky; heard the phonological claps of thunder and mortal shock rain fractal words of the weary and fallen onto the page, like tears washing particles from a collective mind’s eye.
At midnight, the witches gather and abdicate their veils, revel by the sconce of fearless perception on the winged misdivision of the adder and the newt; sing basilisk elegies and play, then fly away when lore gives way to darker hours.