six

The great It encouraged chaos magic as I prepped one side for the other. It wasn't logic or some sort of plan. Just an early to-bedder awaiting a red-eye and not in the mood to do what I would have called my way of leaving the house until I gave her back her coping mechanisms. No fanfare there either. Just released with a decision not to keep moving around what doesn't belong to me. My girlfriend took back her furniture (thank you for your generosity and thank you for your timely retrieval) and the metaphor carried to habits assumed in adolescence. Gifted addictions returned to the source. Remember in puberty when your hips hit things? Bruised hips have space to spread further as the stance sturdies.

Still, somatic apathy has me feeling faint. So funny to be binge watching survivalists without the energy to clean the bathrooms before locking the door. Bored with maintaining what's been stacked against me and others in this position.

My lover coaxing ease, so I guess he's worried, or softening into our impermanence, feeling ültra romantic, round four. I don't care about that either. The feminine knows you make a mess to clean up a mess. Can the masculine know this, or think this way? My sons will. Lover brushes my hair and I scratch his spine. My lust only grows here as a sign of the chaos magic efficacy.

Eat or be Eaten runs through my mind as I bring myself to wash the dishes in compromise between now and then. I also rinse the recycling, pouring out the bit of oat milk and discarding the blob of burrata not caprese-d in time, then that amniotic water it lived in.

When the sink was cleared but itself not yet scrubbed, I became aware of my nails poking through my hot pink dishwashing gloves. The grooving began sometime and was eventually grooved into giving way — prodded into accidental fetish. The texture on my fingertips is scale-like. My clawed sea creature is throwing down. Anything is possible.

★

It did predominate

It did make the rest fade out (feel quiet)

It is an apt metaphor

★

Eat or be Easton

>4:44>

>>

4WORD  MOM*NTUM

My Mind
Races
╍
Greener Pastures
Call Me Maybe
but...
... Let Us
Move On
⬤
Let's Ride
Sunny
Wild Horses

To Freedom
,
Then
Drive
"The"
Fast Car
On & On
Down The Road
,
Into the Sun
&
Trailblaze ☆
Giant
New Beginning
Memory Gongs
➸

Ω

--

July 25th, 2022

On the hardest days, motherhood feels like an absolute deviation from my life path.  Like it's the worst thing I could possibly be doing this incarnation and today.

It's summertime. No thousand dollar sports camp this week. I take them out for bagels; three bagels. Two are toasted and one thing of plain cream cheese with one knife. We're wrapping up and this mother exits with her toddler son. She's swollen pregnant with another. She asks her son to get four napkins from the napkin holder. It takes him quite a bit of time, counting and praiseful discussion. The boys watch me watch them. The mom is acting very proud. I want to ask her if she's really proud or if she wants to get in her car and curve into the endless oncoming traffic. They waddle off. Eye contact with my sons. Tremendous patience. It really boils down to tremendous patience. I'm not that patient. Repetition challenges my mental health. I wish I could turn off part of my brain and just be in the patience, the role, somehow turn off enough to find any sense of actual fulfillment in the monotonous drudgery tasked to mothers alone. But all I feel on these, the hardest of days, is the pain of the chasm between what I am doing and what I want to be doing. I feel like I'm wasted.

I tell myself it would help if at least my sons could understand — understand that I am still here even though I've drowned a thousand deaths. I don't know why I think I need them to get IT. So backwards and likely some stratum of —

but,

my throat is swollen like I'm allergic

so hard to breathe

-->

strike while the iron is hot-->

make use of an opportunity immediately

do what you know you need to do ⛳️

 

five

I cleaned to get clear and then I was clear enough to know I couldn’t clean around IT any more — I had to go into It and clean It up.

This It was what I hadn’t even been able to get to, hadn’t even been able to touch and change, and until I had cleaned enough of a clearing, couldn’t even get a visual. I love a visual, but I'm a visual learner. I mean I always felt It, and our feelings are our truth, though I couldn’t know what It was or where It lived. Too big. Blurry in a surrounding fog. What is It that I'm searching for? Chasing or chasing me? Sensing the path continuing to unfurl up and out. I was cold then. I didn't listen. With heart focus, I’m getting hot then hotter. My ears are burning. I'm growing, you can tell me. Let's end this seven year cycle, please.

I know It is here now. And here I am. This is It. I am here looking at It and It’s so in my face I have to taste It. Can't help but get a metallic mouthful. Smells sharp and looks nasty. I know but I want to know more, reaching out. Yeah, icy hot to the touch and taste. Stinging my eyes. It's like I want to — I've spent a lifetime circling this thing — but It's going to be a lot of work — I can already tell you that much. Can I rest till next month, or five more minutes (one sec say the boys) or do I need to strike while the iron is hot? ! Pervasively Icy Hot ! I am absolutely inside of It and It’s not at all comfortable. But I’ve done enough work to know that I can handle It. The big fear doesn’t live inside me any more. He peeps in my windows, but big fear moved out, so there’s room to mess around here. Play, work, whatever.

It's actually always been here now and now I know It. The same lesson served on a loop until you accept the invitation to go inside the nexus; the axel of a wheel; there's a tiny baby door handle spinning around. Looks like a bolt, but I swear to you It's a handle. Like slowing the whirl of a ceiling fan by tracking one blade with your one squinted eye. Now grab and take hold for a ride.

Have you also learned to say you don't know when you do know? That's the hiccup between knowing and going. Stops you. It's annoying and slows your roll.

That’s the spiritual path. The keep going-ness. You think you’re doing It and then you have to laugh because you’re not even close, nowhere close, and you already told everybody how deep into It you are — which way they need to go now. Told them what was up, but hey, at least you're closer than you were before? You got on the ride. Keep riding — don't you have to? Continually working to surrender into curiosity, letting the ride ride you. Another tunnel to another door to enter. Try to get a handle on It, kid. Another room to live within if you crave that structure. Kid or Kali? Aren't we tired of burning shit down?

I'm pretty sure that this is why we are here: to let the ride ride us. Not to be comfortable at any cost, though comfort is as subjective as anything else, and certainly is nice enough. Everything In Moderation is my family's motto, which is actually funny if you know them. A universe of spectrums and languages of duality. How many words are still missing or have been forgotten because they're packed up and hidden away? 

When I love, 
When I clean, I make such a mess because I want to get to the bottom — or the bottom I can get to. I want to find the tiny baby door handle. Twist It and pull It. I disagree. This isn't the distraction. I disagree that we are the roles we are electively forced into per our karma. These roles give the game dimensions. There's truly no "proper". That's your role talking. There is love and there is maintenance. There is gentle modeling of living the dream living through you, staying nimble. Or hiccuping into a hardened nasty, sharp, metallic shell extra hot in the sun poking through the holes in our sky.

Work requires muscle. Build the muscle of doing what you know you need to do — step by step by step. Work as a practice necessary for crafting comfort. No shortage of work available and too many magic pills. I believe we are here to grow. Comfort is excellent, but growth burns as It stretches. Stretch then leisure. Stretch to find the pleasure.

Growing up, always asking questions. Why does this happen? And how come you always act like that? Nothing new patterns perpetuating the cleaning around when I've already seen the gleam of the next tiny baby door handle. If we're talking seven year cycles to the date, I've got just shy of three weeks to work this one out.

x

July 22nd, 2022

The summer between junior and senior year I was the lone intern at Avon's manufacturing facility somewhere outside of Cincinnati, Ohio. I wore red lipstick like Andrea Jung.

I lived on campus. I rented the room of another Meg (a Margaret) who wasn't on campus for the summer, though her housemates, some pals, were. She would later fuck a jerk I was dating. This made me think about beds and energy. Snail Trails.

But then I was dating a sweetheart named Reynold who would head to Starbucks bright and early to get me a cappuccino for my drive to work. Factory hours are six to three. Home again in the afternoon, I would work out every day and we made love every night. I don't know why I ended that one when I did. My body was beautiful.

*

I fear I have been maintaining a broken system that I did not design and may have some say in changing even if through blatant abdication.

:

take it on the chin:

1. US - to be badly damaged or affected by something; 

   to be hit hard by something

   
   British - to accept something difficult or unpleasant without complaining

    

four (2+2)

⚬ 

I came home with only one hoop earring

I checked my handbag, this quilted Hawaiian shoulder bag I've been using

Emptied it completely and no second hoop

And not in the car

It was on when I left this morning

I considered that other hoop lost

My mind was then changed

I knew I would find it

Surprise me, I communicated through thought

Back to work

Popped the bag and coin purse into the machine

Delicate cycle with some lingerie (wash)

Smells so nice

Edited the contents and left the organized pile sitting on the blue chair in the dining room

An air dry overnight and ready again in the morning

Going>>going

I forget

Four days later my lover and I leave his Echo Park Airbnb

The morning is already hot

A glint catches my eye

There in the middle of a sidewalk square is my gold hoop

Two inches in diameter

I bend to pick it up

Not bent, no damage

That’s not yours babe — it's been there for days now

I tell him I knew I would find it, just didn’t know when and where

He presses a bit but it’s an inside deal

We get coffees and split an egg sandwich

Stroll back because it's time for mom mode again

Funneled onto the freeway behind the license plate 2ONEONE

I'd like to take a picture though it's really not safe

Later I remember this happened with my AirPods not long ago

Boarding a plane and then on the plane in a fold of fabric

Where does expectation factor into experience?

Ears and listening

Sensing and looking around

I believe I know the what of what needs to happen

The how has eluded me

Will reveal itself in time

Committed to not effort against

(Cannot be about a clean garage at this stage in the game)

I wipe down the second hoop with rubbing alcohol before I put it away

⚬⚬

★★ four readings of hoopla ★★

three of cups

&

July 12th, 2022

S&M

Sex&Mindset

Sleep&Make food / your bed

Eroticism 

Exercises

Evening stroll and come up to yours to find yourself in what you see & why it makes you feel that way

Fridge & Freezer

Picnic on the floor

Sleep somewhere else @ home 

Could you, would you host a date in the bathtub?

two

Since I began driving, taking out my mother’s metallic brown Taurus station wagon on late night escapes, 15ish and craving at least a Frosty, I have been seeing 12:34 on clocks daily.

And other places too, including so many addresses.

One, two, three, four — step by step by step by step. Keep moving forward — my obsession, and yeah, I do know where it comes from.

Then it just seemed to start, maybe a year ago? Rather than (and many days in addition to, seeing 12:34) I started seeing 11:11 everywhere. I see it even twice a day or more. Eleven:Eleven is a different kind of Twelve:Thirty-Four — steady coasting versus gaining altitude. Strategic endurance is not martyrdom, and factors in success, meaning accomplishment of an established goal. Doesn't a calibration period come after one steep climb and before another? Climb, calibrate, repeat.

4 = 1 + 1 + 1 + 1

3

2

1

Eleven:Eleven must also be about balance, for it is balanced, symmetrical, classically beautiful. How very human to chase balance 11:11, with an emphasis on the chase 12:34. Talk about a chasm between Intentionality and Actuality: we claim to desire balance when we are addicted to the chase. Unconscious autopilot (capitalism) overrides the karmic quest of a lifetime. All that getting takes the space of having.

In my case, I find the double elevens lay an opportunity on the table:

Accept what it is you wish to change.

Change is natural, but make your shifts from a place of acceptance. Pause and hold still. Quiet your mind. With clear, rested eyes, look around and take in the circumstances you have created. Make peace with what is and then sure, from that peaceful stasis, craft plans and go for it. Get to it.

arms out and catch your balance

:

onwards step by step by step by

★

storytime

★

Curious which # patterns you see on the regular,

and how you choose to find meaning in this occurrence,

or not?

2do

decalcify the espresso machine

move the tins of decaf to the front of the
coffee & tea drawer

order a new frothing wand,
for there seems to be a hairline fracture

wash the components in warm, soapy water

dry

reassemble

move the machine to clean under & around

fill the water tank with spring water

fresh pod in the pot

You never tasted such a tasty cappuccino,
did you?

repeat on the first Sunday of each new month