For the past couple of weeks I have been exploring and tasting and trying to better understand the stories I tell myself, the logic-parameters within which I go about my daily business. Many of these logic parameters I set up around the age of five years old, in the wake of a sexual assault visited upon me by a shady, rapist neighbor. I was groped and abused then told to never tell anyone, on pain of death. Around the same time (because he apparently didn’t know, or bother to try and find out, how else to deal with the changes in my behavior) my father became psychologically abusive toward me. I was doing poorly in school; I had become overly sensitive to external stimuli (especially deep-voiced men); I was having trouble concentrating in general; and it seems that he thought that by being mean and spiteful toward me he could snap me out of it and somehow fix me. Now, almost 35 years later, I am still trying to fit the pieces of my psyche back together in the aftermath of the Big Shatter - being fed the Fruit of Forbidden Knowledge at too young an age. I gained from these traumatic childhood experiences a number of things, among them a strong empathy toward and desire to protect individuals downtrodden and weak; a nearly photographic memory of conversations and situations; a passionate dislike for and lack of fear of authority figures; the ability to make small children smile, and feel safe; the ability to detect - with a glance - sexual perversion in adult males; the ability to see beyond what the eye can usually see (such as where energies within the body are not flowing smoothly) that borders on the power to read minds. These abilities are of course counter-balanced by appropriate and equal disabilities, most of them existing in the form of the logical parameters I use to interact with the world - especially with women whom I find attractive. I have given myself until the rising of the next full moon on 14 November 2016 to explore and taste of these logical parameters so that I may start to heal myself more fully, and would like to profess my utter thanks and profound gratitude to the Lunar Goddesses of the Many Faiths who have watched over and sheltered me along this path. Mahalo, and om swastiastu.
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥
Long she rises short she rides, she whose face now wax now wanes whom we all hope will sail again through inky even blackness. Here her face deep red does shine, there it sports an orange hue, as her cheeks with steady glowing through the shadows gladly pierce. Crisp the contours of her chin that one can follow with a glass, tracing patterns, mare to mare, from impact spot to ancient sea that surely she once cherished. Bright in day as through the night she trumps in power ocher Sol, shining always down upon us, never resting, never dull. How she does it we know neither, how her surface keeps on shining when her back is to the sun, how she does it in square rhythm, none can fathom, not a one. Cease with vexing thoughts and patterns and lay back to watch her work, spy her ferry shipwrecked souls straight back to harbors whence they came. In her glory she surpasses all the other bodies bright, for her tugging keeps our oceans and our rivers running right, oh elusive mu'untha darling, in your clockwork course of old, shelter with us hopeful mortals, silver-faced and always watching, never late and never due, always shining, always new.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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I bicycle, write, surf, and strive.