scorpio moon solitude swoon

my belly aches for change, and there’s a water ballon it contains.  purple tank top and blue underwear.  a full moon swell.  sun singed skin.  a bloody mary at night.  pickled asparagus.  more vegetables.  less sugar.  is meat ok?  i don’t want to eat the corpses of other animals, and yet, i do.  complicity, through and through.  listening to “hunger strike” by temple of the dog, and feeling that too.  feeling the darkness and watching it parade…like when siddhartha sat under the bodhi tree and gently did not react to the arrows being shot at his chest…i watch my own arrows.  the feed of greed and killings in the news.  my own loneliness.  this liminal space that keeps on lasting.  feeling like a ghost of my own life as i rapidly grow a new one in certain areas.  a chrysalis made of buildings.  purpose immediate and constant.  deadlines and mentoring and selling and painting and writing and making sure i get on the mat during the rebellious times, like now, when my sarcasm and defiance against order reigns over a deeper hurt of feeling like a part of me is trapped in a room.  not true.  unwrap that story, and toss it in the recycle bin.  reading about the girl who was photographed for the “people of new york” continuing art project, express how she has nobody at to support her, and living paycheck to paycheck, always afraid.  the way life denies us needs from the base to the skull, from the blood to the soul.  thinking about the way pain manifests into these tales we tell, sewn into our dna, played on repeat, and like clockwork, keep us locked to linear time.  unveiling the meaning with tarot cards, in a circle of people around 12 fool cards, interpreting how to heal the heart…of each other.  the emotional struggle beneath my surface, lurking like a sea monster.  me: watching.  my hedonistic madness simmering down in an earthen pot.  calling upon the sacred rot, to use my story to fertilize new life.  knowing i must move on, for the good of all, for the necessity of my intentions.  the hanged man.  in it.  simmering in that earthen pot.  bone spirals in the ears to remember my connection to all of life, cycling through death and rebirth.  divining magic by reading  “dune” in air conditioned cafes, away from the heat, remembering my truth through the way his story makes me feel.  focusing on my own will.  the only will i can.  as i climb.  same pair of sandals every day.  the mountain goat of the underworld.  almost to the top.  almost to dry land.  repeating a routine that is also like a simmering….among the cam-padres…simmering simmering…season three…not letting on the real feelings…due to knowing what is needed to let go, over-riding my desire for transparency.  there is little closeness with the male persuasion.  stirring in the pot of female.  polarization.  lessons.  eating hummus on kale.