tiny geyser from the beast…

been feeling…well, i dunno. the beast is alive and awake inside of me, wanting to wail to the moon. karaoke is taking the place. wanting other outlets too, but not sure how to meet them in today’s modern world. soaking up jung like bread into gravy over a small hot bowl of fries, reading the quote about how the trickster, ancestral self, the unconscious, the collective shadow (all the same thing) may not really fucking like it here in the present, and i know my sarcastic use of the word fuck is coming from the trickster inside me feeling upset, but not like the ego feels upset. not “wounded”. just feeling the raw pain and wanting it to feel right, to feel held, to feel connected. trying to find anything about restitution ceremony on the internet while doing my best to listen about how the poor get money for services. society equals brutal. highlight that with a yellow pen in the back of the room under a fluorescent light. giving him reiki and feeling his trickster inside, totally at sensual peace with the elements man, totally secure and wise, old soul in a young indigenous body that ended too soon. walking through the sunshine feeling tender feelings poke like grass blade spikes. no words. wanting to sing it out, love it out, touch it out, dive into the water, give my shadow what she needs. buying hot pink and black fishnet tights hearing my mother’s voice in my head, “you’re too old for that.” young at heart and in spirit no matter what. blah blah blah. words to cover up like clothing, like costumes, like plays. writing surreal is a way to leave the confines of the cubicle known as this current reality. jung found it in his wife and five kids. i find it in the golden light spreading over white skyscrapers like a morning glaze, drinking coffee before six am. don’t pay much mind to these words, they are only momentary place holders. i promise.

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